Long Skilful Poems
Long Skilful Poems. Below are the most popular long Skilful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skilful poems by poem length and keyword.
I've wandered many islands,
Seen countless shades of blue.
But none compare, my friends, to where
The glass and lace ring true.
Let me paint you a picture,
Of Murano's fiery art,
And Burano's rainbow houses,
That set these isles apart.
Murano's furnaces blazing,
Glass maestros at their craft.
Molten sand transformed into beauty,
With every skilful draft.
The clink of cooling crystals,
A melody so clear.
Chandeliers and figurines,
Fragile art appears.
In Burano, colours dancing,
On every house and street.
A painter's palette comes to life,
Where sky and water meet.
Lacemakers' fingers flying,
Creating intricate dreams.
Their needles flash like lightning,
Stitching stories at the seams.
The canals reflect the hues,
Of houses standing tall.
A kaleidoscope of wonder,
Enchanting one and all.
Fishermen's boats bob gently,
In waters calm and still.
Their nets full of the day's catch,
The air with salt air fills.
The church tower leans so slightly,
A guardian of time.
Watching over coloured houses,
In this land so sublime.
Tourists wander, cameras clicking,
To capture every sight.
In this magical lagoon world,
Bathed in Venetian light.
As day fades into twilight,
The islands slowly sleep.
But their beauty keeps on glowing,
A memory to keep.
So when you're seeking wonder,
And your heart yearns to roam,
Remember Murano and Burano,
Where art and colour call home.
In glass and lace and painted walls,
These isles have cast their spell.
A testament to human craft,
And nature's beauty as well.
So let the world keep turning,
But pause here for a while,
Where Murano's glass keeps burning,
And Burano's colours smile.
Look out into our wonderful world
see it in its beauty and wonder
what a masterpiece God has created
but man's sin wrecked it, what a blunder
God will always have the final say
He knew that sin would bring disaster
His master plan will do what's required
proving that God alone is the master
This master plan is full of divine love
the Lord of glory will execute in full
bringing righteousness to reign ultimately
paradise will again on the earth rule
What a picture from the master painter
full of colours galore in our minds
so intricate and skilful to the eye
mesmerisingly beautiful divinely signed
This God has created all things
every person made in God's image
the Lord is full of His perfect grace
for He knows everyone in every age
shuffle out 90 degree angle walking blankly between two straight lines come together jump forward onto a harassed sexually more than mentally play mat who’s turned English in structure & outlook suddenly she has a strong dislike or hostility for me
I shake fear step off some big people their faces cutesy cartoon made by animation walking like ducks I find irritating not funny at all it seems their not trying to be the one or the other get jealous of the skilful animation techniques the animator had used in their production fear & jealously gone
dress up as a fellow of the West Germanic tribes actually feel special in dress up not like a fool at all stall sells dress up clothes has gone back in time 5th century AD horrible stole the clothed settlers in Britain tried to stop them hence some scars to heal in a plain blunt rude way in old English a language plain white Protestant complaining about reek of the clothes I can’t smell reek or smell my reek I know my reek smothers the clothes’ reek just wink he steams with ire turns into an appetiser in an Italian dish
waterless water fountain I’m brushing off clothes stinky units of length on level with 10-10 metre purpose of measuring wavelengths people I wish away they stay about some cruel coarse some behave like they’re special with the best voluntary movement with the best two legs like they’ve been born with the most special sense organs There’s no such person you’re physical needs are tricking you I whisper to them ignore me of course don’t even stop I bleat tearlessly
I’m in the close by extension to the central building quite colourful addition have a conversation with a south European plant with liquorice-flavoured seeds about dates on which an occasion for example an honouring wedding happened summertime 1994 until he has to go to union’s annual conference planned to last one year I remind him need to feed on their paper subscriptions in order to finish his life cycle he nods I know
watching agape a brown hardcover book no title give birth to itself every minute play hearts with a joint connecting a leg & foot I educate him the bit of the leg just above the foot wants to make known to the public proclaim fog announces the birth of tea towels he believes me I keep losing but no I’m not bitter yawn thrice should be considered a skill
Oh Muse Wilt Thou Be Replaced
Oh sweet Muse your unrivalled reign
flowed rich with a poet’s theme.
Now in digital glow subpoenaing your dream
Alas cold circuits assert their own gleam,
Oh Digital Medusa, circuit’s fine as hair
How did you lure the Muse into your skilful snare?
In your silent hum through dexterous scripts?
In the crystalline charm of your silicone chips?
What sway does your simulation wear?
Singing soullessly yet beyond compare?
Torn between the eons of yesteryear and hi-tech might
Should we dreamily embrace what sets senses alight?
Disregard the great Bards as they stir in their graves?
Throw to the flame both fiction and fame?
Discount Elliot’s eyes from the heavenly skies?
While Keats curses what gave rise to flight
That burns brightly by day `
Burns brighter by night
Oh Medusa, circuit’s fine as hair,
Your prisoner release from your silent snare.
She who has sipped from Tennyson’s cup
Through Poe’s eerie abyss — where nightmares sup.
Bathed in Shakespeare’s tragic tears of stain.
Lamented with The Nightingale in Keats’s refrain.
She who has soared on Shelly’s genius blaze
And emanated Plath’s curse of fame.
Medusa you might mock the reign you so blatantly steal
Yet the Poets aches reveal in raw vulnerability appeal
Alive in ink no circuitry codes could feel
For art is more than just pain in a poet’s scream
It’s a Hallowed Hook at The Heavenly Seam
Maria Williams©
Victor Hugo once said, “No force on earth can stop an idea whose time has come.” And indeed, the rise of AI is one of those unstoppable forces. Yet, while it may assist, mimic, and even inspire, there are realms it cannot truly enter—like the raw vulnerability of poetry, the soul of a song, or the emotion that bleeds through a painter’s brush.
These arts are born from lived experience, from aching hearts and dreaming minds. Still, there’s joy to be found in what AI can offer—a spark, a tool, a playful collaborator. The key is to use it without losing ourselves in it. To remember that the soul of true art still resides in human hands—and always will.
Point to Ponder– it is Human Intelligence that built it , a result of the best Human minds – so tongue in cheek – should it then be called Artificial Intelligence?
PARROT PAIR
Parrot pair perching on branch,
thinking deep, also taking rest,
where to build a cosy nest,
both being devoted and stanched.
Parrot couple yearn for nestling.
In mating season coming close.
Natural ! Love with lust arose,
through hidden parental feeling.
Twigs, leaves, hay, feral grass to pick
as building blocks, materials ,
collecting all essentials.
Skilful birds to use curvy beaks.
Natural instinct of all species :
To survive through evolution,
caring, nurturing the young ones.
But birds do care for too short sprees.
Not guaranteed in coming year
will meet or mate same parrot pair.
Mating period: Season spring
is sure to greet lovely offsprings.
Our wonderful planet, for millions of years,
was never this inspiring and beautiful...
until God with His skilful, perfect hands
beautified it for the first human couple.
I dispise the whipping wind, somewhat michevious and insolent,
brushing my short and dry hair as if it wanted to rapture me,
when I stand on the top of a majestic mount as the Tibet...
haven't monks lived there for centuries and endured it like me?
Volcanos can be dangerous, but also make the soil fertile when they spout flames;
making lava flow downhill towards the turpid sea, and I could retrace history...
to experience the horror that all Pompeians felt when hot ashes fell on their city,
and without a way of escape, they asphyxiated and died in unimaginable ways.
How can we survive without water? Aren't waterfalls, springs and rivers
the source of our existence? Imagine this Earth resembling the Moon, where no life exists...
a desolate landscape made of craters and vallies so barren and arid.
We discovered it, but then we realized it was extremely unlivable, so we never returned.
I have amply explained the elements for our survival and co-esistence with Nature itself;
it's very important to be aware of them, although they can be as unpredictable as death.
I’m bored with sifting through the trite
to find a poet who can write
with passion that can stimulate
the mind’s of those who take his bait.
I’m bored with titles that don’t tell
of magic written down so well
that had the invite shown appeal
we'd all be hooked on poet’s reel.
So poets when with skill you write,
let titles shine out through the trite
and let your label show with pride
the passions that poor titles hide.
The poetry is never done
however skilful you become
for you will never strike a chord
if your intro’ leaves us bored!
Ivor G Davies
Written for the contest " I AM BORED WITH............ (though I am afraid I will have to
alter the title before I publish it in my next book!)
Twas by sunlit lavender fields they met
in France, each man with bow and with arrow.
On show, skilful eye, for all to place bet
with target moving, freely and narrow
of size no greater than smallish sparrow;
yes, famed Robin Hood of Old English dwell
in rendez-vous with Swiss gent William Tell
Upon olive tree with two spread branches
thereby placed on each, a mouse in scurry
back and forth darting with quick skip and dances
while each mouse in fear, frightened and flurry
Wee John sweats with his deep look of worry
and Marianne, with crossed palms on her breast,
and eyes closed—as bowstrings now drawn in zest.
A silk scarf falls lightly from noble's hand
and to earth it greets ground as launching deed
then by archer's will, in true just command
two arrows fly slicing the air at speed.
Indeed, by all, a true winner decreed
as one rodent spared with his sliced off tail
the other, an arrow through heart did sail.
So to dear Nottingham Robin returned
and William, alone, to Swiss alpine slopes.
One dozen gold coins the winner had earned
the loser had left with dashed empty hopes.
So in timbers where live kind English folks
a feast merry was had by all who could
with mouse-bloodied arrow of Robin Hood!
The wordsmith’s art is a game of chance,
Where meanings dance and ideas trance.
A deft hand wields the pen with grace
A subtle symphony, a nimble chase.
From arcane whispers, and secrets told,
To audacious strokes, both bold and old.
An amiable muse, with a gentle heart,
Inspiring words that tear apart.
A clandestine plot, a cunning scheme,
With boisterous laughs and jovial gleam.
Words ebb and flow, a vibrant tide,
Capricious, and whimsical, they cannot hide.
Some dance with flair, with eloquent might,
While others fade, ephemeral in the light.
An egregious error, a poignant plea,
An insidious plot, a symphony.
We seek the luminous, the serendipitous find,
A moment of joy, to soothe the mind.
With cunning wit and a sly remark,
A raucous laugh, a playful spark.
Through boisterous humdingers, and shenanigans,
A wistful sigh, or a sweet, mawkish stance.
The playwright’s art, a dance so grand,
A poignant twist, with a skilful hand.
Let us savour this exquisite game,
Where words intertwine, an artful flame.
So open your heart, let language soar,
The play of words, forever!
Picasso's hand, a sculptor's art,
Carved Dora Marr`s lines with his heart,
With strokes of genius, richly bound
To hold the world ever spellbound.
The vibrant hues, a dance untold,
Paint passion fierce and spirit bold,
A woman caught in moments bright,
Bathed in the artist's knowing light.
Her hands display a prying gleam,
Fingernails painted like in dreams,
A vibrant touch, a greenish hue,
A secret language, fresh and new.
Perhaps they reveal defiance,
Against the state of reliance
On the world`s order and its woe,
A bright spark, an artistic glow.
Her profile bears a fractured grace
Each angle finds its rightful place,
A cubist soul, a shattered view,
Yet in her essence, shining through.
The oils blend, an ornate embrace,
Capturing time and fleeting space,
A moment frozen, on display,
Dora Marr comes alive, what may.
In the strokes, a story does lie
Underneath her left piercing eye,
A moment held, forever bright,
Bathed in artistic golden light.
Her lips a curve, a hidden smile,
Lingering on for quite a while,
Captured by the artistic will,
Up to now remains sovereign still.
The canvas breathes with life's own fire,
Fulfilling the artist`s desire,
A portrait painted, bold and true,
Reflecting the vibrant bright hue.
A legacy of lines and shade,
A masterpiece, forever made,
In every stroke, a soul laid bare,
A lady`s feels, beyond compare.
Picasso's vision, sharp and keen,
Saw more than what was often seen;
He painted feelings, painted thought,
The essence of the soul he sought.
Dora Marr, a muse bright and grand,
Held captive by his skilful hand,
Her image etched, for all to see,
A marvel for eternity.