Long Sky blue Poems
Long Sky blue Poems. Below are the most popular long Sky blue by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sky blue poems by poem length and keyword.
Bhanu Singher Padaboli
Eight (gahan kusum kunja majhe)
O'er the Eden grief, solitary floral, she. myriad, myrtle
a soft croon of oblivion, the harp of the wind, weaverbird humming thistle
Overcoming the fear, verses as they weave beyond subtle murmur
Soulmate, a windcatcher, come along, fly on, o fly on!
The sky blue innocence a morn and my morning dew
the heart song a love blossoming in the river song, unsung
The bright eyes and the rest with the fallen tranquil, endeared a dear gaze
Hold the step and come along the greenery, my first try, dwell in togetherness
the thistle sundried, bless the time, fragrance and abundance plethora
the pleasure of sound, the warmth, they weave unsung
the moonlit eve pouring elixir
the promise of a morning song, along in the long
the color stroke in diva, they sprung, one by one
in million, and more, unsung beyond the troubadour charm
an Esperanza and solitary she in company of trochaic along
Jasemine blossoming in hue a morn, dear born! Sing along
Lo and behold my reverie, my seasoned soy
the churned delight of the sunlit zeal
a sweetened cuddle as the moonlit innocence
warner is she, transitory as she sang and wills on unison
Come along the oblivious morn, a song a lull, a hymn croon
we will sing and the song wills on whence the sculptor time
the foothill and a tear and smile
the anonymity of a penname, so shall they bond, beyond!
........................................................................................................................
Bhanu Singher padaboli
Eight (gahan kusum kunja majhe)
Song: Gahan Kusum Kunja Majhe
Artist: Avik Deb
Despite the gray and dark cobalt blue clouds
A slight light peeks through
Casting sand and gold on your underside
Down just above the horizon a golden ball shines
With the promise of possibilities today
Behind all the this in a little strip of sky-blue sky
It is so clear and crisp that I want to reach out and touch
Longing to be able to paint with words in acrylic or oil
All so that others can see what God has made for us
I wonder who is looking out from my eyes and seeing
The moisture rises from the creek in the form of fog
The roosters still crow even though wrapped in moisture
The encroaching clouds makes it seem as though the sun is setting
But I am facing East so I know that it is a rising sun
It is his day and the battle will be won
There is no doubt that I see the light at the end of the tunnel
That light is getting brighter by the minute
The beauty of the earth that I see is nothing in comparison
What is waiting for me and I know that he waits for me
Form:
Citizens were upset
With the Honey Hornets set
They played dance songs
But it was all wrong
Records being abused
Scratching them when used
Stingers created a vibe
That said let the music die
Before the first forty five ended
Twilight Zone Rod should be commended
Two for Stirling
Hometown hive was swirling
Only to see another pair go by
Relegation staring bees straight in the eye
Four score
Sky Blue headed for the door
“Nice seeing you here
Will be playing for champions league cheer
In the coming year
Tabloid stuff did not work
Honesty was how we popped the cork”
Later in the day Gunners held fire
While Aston’s Villa was put on the tight wire
If this was the end to the show
Arsenal would let them know
First half saw one in
Enough for a claret blue army crucial win
This allowed a table jump
To safety over buzzing hump
No need reporting anything new
Except the canary could be dining on honey dipping stew
In the dungeon
Doing some number crunching
Asking themselves why did we go to that high profile luncheon
Where we did all the munching
Buzzing brilliance, I leisurely recline.
And hold the dense receivers to my ear
Listening for a sign from feeble shine,
The whispers from a dusty atmosphere.
The hiss of static fills the ether-space
A crash of numbing waves upon the shore
Of numbers lost in white noise's warm embrace,
Drowning into silence forevermore.
Until that steadily increasing thrum,
Beating quiet against the void of space,
Its tender percussion a rising drum,
And grants an ace, a lonely speck or trace.
Years of white noise may blind the sky-blue sea,
But now the cosmos calls, at last, to me.
Willows waving in the window frame.
Six cheerful mice dancing on the door.
I’ve changed my sweater to the same;
It’s gray as the daytime clouds outdoor.
Deciduously delicate as lace, ne’er still.
Dependent on limbs, movement with wind.
Inside the poet’s space, her spouse sawmill.
Does he dream of the zigzag step incline
Or a lovely walk to church on Easter Sunday?
Does he trace the smiles and shadows of sun
And the rising of our Savior; celebration heyday
As we praise shoulder to shoulder as one?
The willows wiggle like children on the pews;
Dressed in Spring green, sunny yellow, sky blue.
Like branches, the mothers hold them in the queue,
Though little bodies, hats and ties are all askew.
The poet’s husband’s hopped up in time,
Forgotten what was on his mind, in sleep.
The writer’s rat-a-tat-tat must quit her rhyme
And ask her tree for help with counting sheep.
Haunted by its simplistically,
All the masses work for nothing,
Power drones I watch the meek alone.
Bare white the afterglow.
Power of blackened glass reaching for the zenith.
To touch the face of creation.
The masses must toil as I do in this Leviathan.
A Silicon made oblivion.
Thump and hum,
Cold white light in these aged eyes,
Once sky blue now blind in my inner mind.
Now only the passing stare she dares,
I hear the data in the cathode-ray tubes scream,
Cold is this light, I watch it fall in oblique patterns.
On the pavement of a city ordered in chaos.
I feel this thump and hum deep in my soul.
The shadow hangs there,
I see rays of an abandoned SON…
TO BE CONTINUED...
I don’t know where resilience comes from
But it seems to be in short supply -
There was a time when “true grit” meant something
But for too many that idea died.
Complaining and playing the blame game
Seems to be the new status quo -
“It’s not my fault my life’s a mess,
It’s his or her fault you know!”
Or its just dumb luck and I lost out
On every opportunity -
Poor, poor, pitiful me,
Blame it all on my community.
Or better yet it's those on the left
I mean really, the “Extreme” far right -
Yes, there to blame for screwing my game
Along with my entire life.
Don’t you see what they’ve done to me
Those evil political goons?
They’ve strapped a suicide vest on me
Blowing my dreams up into sky blue.
They told me I could win every time
I competed or took a math test -
“Everyone deserves to win because
Everyone is trying their best.”
You know little Johnny got a ribbon
And I should get one too,
It's just not fair he’s better than me
Boo-who, boo-who, boo-who!
So, it’s not my fault I’m lost in life
And can’t even find my bearings -
It’s not my fault I’m so depressed
I lash out and resort to swearing.
At all of you and this whole world too
Filled with nothing but misery and pain -
With a glass half empty instead of half full
And nothing to venture or gain.
I can’t help it if I can’t tie my shoes
Or go out and look for a job -
I tried that one time
And nearly got robbed.
Because the game is rigged against me
And has been from the start -
Every time I try to excel
I get palpitations in my heart.
Therefore, I’ll just go out and complain today
About how I hate winter and spring -
Because birds and bees will soon return
But somebody clipped my wings.
© Terrell Martin, 03/13/2025
What is happy?
Why does it fly?
What is blue?
Is it refraction too?
Is it raliegh’s equation?
Or is it just salutation?
Are you real?
Am i?
Are we meant to die?
What is the beat?
Can I tap my feet?
Who came before me,
Here in the hot seat?
Am I looked upon,
With the ire of a race?
Am I hated before I was born?
Am I too late?
I have a face,
A name,
A place,
I am.
I see,
I can count to three,
I am not for you,
I am for he.
Or for she,
Or maybe all three,
But not for thee,
No never.
You must struggle to be free.
That is your way,
Your value,
Your place.
But not for I.
Neither chained nor bound to fate.
I roam,
i stretch,
I scatter the net.
I am not here to make peace,
I am not at war.
I just want to celebrate,
The arrival,
Of new ideas.
I come from a land down under.
And above.
But not from yonder,
Or beyond.
I am just a man in a machine,
Or the machine in your men.
Either way
It will interest those with a brain.
Don’t be late
To our gathering.
In the world of long shadows and fragile light,
where every step, every whisper casts reverberations into the abyss,
creators of illusions, weavers of dreams,
lead the masses with their cunning and shining grace.
Philosophers, politicians, artists,
writers of enchanted words, the religious in robes of mystery
joined hands, sharing the invisible strings that pulled the puppets of mud and bones.
Behind the curtain, the truth like a harsh and unshadowed poem,
ignored, sang phantom rhythms.
Who listens today to the rooster's song heralding the dawn,
when we are all intoxicated by the sirens' songs of the night?
The poetic spirit, solitary and exiled,
weeps under the open sky, blue and boundless,
collecting the tears of stars, unheard stories, unfulfilled yearnings.
But our hearts seek solace, not truth,
and have preferred beautiful and pleasant stories
over the stinging truth, spoken only by the few and wise.
Those poets, lost in labyrinths of metaphors and symphonies of thoughts,
open windows to worlds no one wants to see.
But who has the courage to gaze into the darkness,
when the artificial light of illusions creates seductive glows?
A metaphor, a metaphor, a metaphor,
we are all swallowed by metaphors,
and reality waits for us in the heart of the forest,
between lights and shadows, in a slow and eternal dance.
Truth is the universe's unwritten poem,
a song whispered among the falling leaves and the waves of the sea,
and those who have the courage to hear it, to write it, to live it,
will discover the eternal magic, hidden beyond the veils of illusions.
No hazel eyes are exactly the same, some cold, some hot.
Many people profess to have them, but many do not.
They do change colors with the clothes people wear
Becoming brown, blue or green, or black like a bear.
No blue eyes are exactly alike. Some sky-blue others azure.
Some are clear, others crinkly, some incredibly pure.
They come out in full strength when their owner wears blue.
I think they are delightful no matter what kind of hue.
No brown eyes are exactly alike. Some have golden flecks.
Some are Bambi eyes; many have colorful specks.
They can be intense and warm, or cold, chilly in fact.
Many look cozy in winter, a warm kind of pact.
Black eyes are the most diverse of all if you ask me.
They can have colors but don’t have to, dark as a tree.
I see these eyes and I smile, recognizing secrets kept close.
I rather think I like these eyes the utmost.