Long Smoothen Poems
Long Smoothen Poems. Below are the most popular long Smoothen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Smoothen poems by poem length and keyword.
In the desolate wasteland of deprivation
Traversed listlessly by my indigent life
I tried so very hard for so long
To smoothen the angularities of our bond.
Swirling in the egregious whirlpool of indignation
Sucked into the abyss of despondent neglect
I searched in vain for the path to your heart
The feeling of dismal denial made me run away.
But had I cultivated the art of patience and stayed on
I would have seen the butterfly of yearning return
Flitting in the changed time on its dreaming wings
In my sensuous sky with the lattice of your charisma.
With the whispering wind it would have created the music
Harmonized with the rhythm of my heart
Where longing would have danced with ripples of rhapsody
Roll between you and me to entwine us forever.
Consecrating the renascent craving called love
You would have weaved the design of desire
On the tapestry of heavenly togetherness
That would have stayed unfurled till the end of time.
_______________
October 31, 2022
Contest : I Chose To Run, But Had I Stayed, Things
Would Have Been Like
Sponsored by : Anoucheka Gangabissoon
238.
Prayer When Anxious
Oh Father God, I am anxious
Trials might get more serious
Burdens might weighten
Strength might lessen
Oh my Creator, diminish my loads
Oh my Creator, smoothen the roads
Oh Jesus Christ, I'm filled with anxiety
Cross might be harder to carry
I might fall along the way
I might get into dismay
Oh my Savior, help me carry on
Oh my Savior, let me move on
Oh Holy Spirit, I am perplexed
My life might have been hexed
It might be harder to manage
It might bring me rage
Oh my Guide, grant me understanding
Oh my Guide, make me withstanding.
-01/03/2014
(Dumarao)
*My Prayer Poems Collection
I have realised shortly that "silence"is one of my
defence mechanism.
At times when sprayed by anger I drape my
outfit silence.
Yes, I veil my emotions with quietude.
There are lot of aggression boiling inside
powerful mind which is compressed in
my conscience.
When somebody don't value my words
I don't argue, instead ignore them and
prefer being silent.
Soundlessness combined with darkness
often impresses me and brings solace.
Life is full of frosty
thorns while you
try adjusting
with irresistible
people and
their place.
The only way
to smoothen
the spines is to
smear them with
your calmness
and patience
only up to
the extent
that you can
bear.If those
don't turn into
petal soft then,
slice and smash
them with single dare
without any care.
23-6-2020
Second Place in the Contest:-)
Note: Written for Reflection in Silence Poetry Contest
Sponsor:
Silence
Is
Like
Elated
Nerves
Tethered..
Over
Nasty
Ears
Mrs. Holloway polishes her poetry dimly,
Regaling herself with the accoutrements of
Selected poetry, cluttered and less jinxed
By way of satanic slamming by famished,
Idle critics who read The New York Times
Just once in a sugared year.
She chooses her stanzas locally.
By that I mean her stanzas nurse patience,
Drifting from gossips to loose, impotent
Talks held when midnights ail.
She digresses from north’s steady arrow
To the rump of the south, where watersheds
Of a nation’s difficult history are published.
Chances are that her poetry would win a
Contest in a fortnight, but the era of romance
Is jaundiced, which is her constituency and
Her background for coloured matters.
Her abbreviations for the names of her old
Suitors are carved from pillars to posts – reposting
Caryatids as common sentinels on a poisoned bank—
Losing the Greekness required of such adornments.
O Holloway, read, read, read,
Her acolytes pressure her.
Time loses sense of time in its own timeness,
They warn.
That, to me, is the commonest blandishment.
I should never have sipped from her potsherd
Such stale beer as she offered on the day her
Poetry was reviewed by a proscribed newspaper.
But her urge for anything dead and horrid,
Egged me on, especially when she narrated
The murder of seven sisters by seven creatures that
Very Sunday morning when the taverns closed
Before they opened.
Holloway shocked me with the gory details.
Oh, I forgot to tell you she hankers after things
Truly, truly hebdomadal.
I call her Mrs. Holloway the Hebdomadalist.
Seven churches, seven trumpets,
Seven seals, seven heads, seven horns... and now
Seven sisters murdered by seven creatures.
That’s why her poetry is cluttered.
Full of nerves and airs of salutes,
Mrs. Holloway’s poetry thunders.
She presumes that time will, like the morning
Dew, settle on the sinews of her poetry.
(And I agree with her) .
And smoothen it —yes, time, the masseur of
All time.
Smoothen it.
Oil it.
Massage it.
And level it.
At least to street level.
(And I agree with her) .
The forlorn wasteland of deprivation traversed
by my indigent life that tried long so very hard
to smoothen the angularities of the obtuse mind.
Swirling in egregious whirlpool of indignation,
sucked into the abyss of despondent delirium,
I searched out for me a path of passion within,
leading through the pulsating portal to my heart,
not yet frosted in the bare winter of desolation.
The spring of desire came with hour of awakening,
soaring on the dreaming wings of the flying time.
In my sky you flittered like an beguiled butterfly,
its fluttering cadence created a silent symphony,
synchronized with the rhythm of my revived heart,
where emotions danced on the ripples of rhapsody
that rolled endlessly between two of us to entice me,
and to consecrate the divine institution called love,
make it diaphanous weaving the delicate tapestry
with motif of belonging for us to unfurl in eternity.
August 28, 2019
Brian Strand's Contest A Brian Strand July 14
Maybe I’m not the standard of the jigsaw puzzles
that fragment your brain.
Surely, I am judged because I take courage—
to smoothen a life
with my roughhewn experience.
Daring, I am, to discard the chauvinistic pigs
that raise an eyebrow, for I carry on.
Honesty is my trademark, and improvising my serve
places me as wanted, not in servitude.
Uniqueness is all you see,
for I am the strength of my responsibilities
— committed and fixed.
Shine I will, as I always do —
not for society, not for the world at large,
but for myself, for God, and for family.
Maybe it’s the pain I carry,
a burden to ensure the world is better for you.
I cradle the blessings for future generations;
my name is written in the winds, rocks, fires, and skies.
“Take time, take self, take your name
into the passion of committed faith.
Not as a penitent, wretched sinner,
but as a last-days’ follower of the coming Christ.
Not because you must, but because your faith
sees the Glory of the coming King.
And He, the Holy Spirit, opens the eyes of your heart
to have the blessed assurance of glory—
To be caught up, or rise—
the rapture.
Are we ready for it?
We aren’t, are we?
Or we are, aren’t we?
You alone know.”
She ‘wanders’ with ‘intent’ that way
Her inside seems to be in turmoil-
Regrets, disappointments, griefs and complaints
Life apparently quite unjust to her
Eyes the still waters of the pond-
Cool, calm and confident
Her very antithesis
Her leisurely pace undisturbed
Picks up some pebbles ‘just like that’
One, two, three----
They fall
Every time with a soft plonk
Trying to unravel
Hidden mysteries of the still waters
While she lets go of
Her pent up feelings
And with every hit
Pond’s unease comes onto the surface
Ripples frantically racing shorewards
One, two, three-----
Trying to find the person
Perhaps to kiss and smoothen the ruffled nerves
But a ‘safe distance’ lies in between
As her uninterrupted walk
Biding the time
Has taken her away
Beyond reach.
The desolate wasteland of deprivation traversed
by my indigent life that tried so long so very hard
to smoothen the angularities of the obtuse mind.
Swirling in the egregious whirlpool of indignation,
sucked into the dark abyss of despondent delirium,
I searched out for myself a path of passion within,
leading through the pulsating portal to my heart,
not yet frosted in the perennial winter of despair.
The spring of yearning came in hour of awakening,
soaring on the dreaming wings of the silenced time,
stalled in my satin sky where you flew like a butterfly,
its fluttering cadence created a surreal symphony,
harmonized with the rhythm of music of my heart,
where emotions danced on the ripples of rhapsody
that rolled between you and me to entwine us forever,
consecrating concealed concept of craving called love.
You made it diaphanous weaving the lattice of desire
on tapestry of longing to stay unfurled till end of time.
August 9, 2020
Contest : Strand Completely New (19)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
The desolate wasteland of trepidation traversed
by my jagged life that strived relentless for so long
to smoothen the innate angularities of serrated mind,
swirling in the egregious whirlpool of sucking indignation.
Siphoned into sordid abyss of despondent delirium,
I searched out for myself a pathway of passion within,
leading through the pulsating portal to my affable heart,
not yet frozen passive in the prolonged winter of desolation.
The spring of longing came with fragrance of fervor,
floated on the dreamful wings of fleeting emotive time
across the flush of my floral heart where you had flittered
like a butterfly creating the cadence of chromatic symphony.
The concert of the mesmeric music of my yearning,
refrained the rhythm of concealed current called love,
that rolled between you and me to interweave us forever,
as engrossed emotions danced with the ripples of rhapsody.
"Point of no Return"
**************************************************************
Death is a "Point of no Return"
Labouring with his flagging wings to fly,
Like lame lark he soars above cotton clouds
During the day and night to reach the sky
As with invisible wings he`s endowed;
It`s his soul quitting his bodily frame
That lying abed for some woeful weeks
With sustained stretch of stinging pains aflame
Now to part away is yearning to seek;
Afflicted to very core with heart ailment
Rescue has reached a point of no return,
With his closest of kin torn with lament
And his spouse expressing deepest concern;
Half alive half dead, gazing at he sky
He appears living in another world,
Silent and speechless with no sigh, his eyes
Dipped in some distant dreams are nearly curled.
Death is implacable and knows no bound,
When knells for us our final divine bell
Like yellow autumn leaves we kiss the ground
And to smoothen its will no tale to tell.
Simple folks or monarchs, vassals or lords
At their journeys` end kneel before its shrine
And to cajole it just cannot afford
Nor to sidestep its smashing sizzling shine
Death, indeed, is a point of no return
It respects neither caste nor creed nor rank
And allows not to make any U- turn
Nor does it permit any playful pranks.