Long Smoulders Poems
Long Smoulders Poems. Below are the most popular long Smoulders by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Smoulders poems by poem length and keyword.
Her hair, her beautiful blonde curls,
Her hair drapes to her butterfly shoulders.
And I stand beside her, a quiver,
As my love, my lion hearted love, smoulders.
Her lines, her wine glass curves, intoxicate,
Get me drunk with anticipation.
Waiting for her wave to break,
And surf our love in synchronization.
Then the real opera, the perform and show,
Her dark red lips reach, eating within.
They kiss the dark red rose, devouring each petal,
Devouring with a dark red grin.
Her body’s my shiraz, her lips splash a red carefree laugh,
Her figure’s a French divine.
I am drunk on her love, punched with her warmth,
She’s my unadulterated red wine.
Drawn to the graves
Unbeknown clarity develops like root canal treatment
festering wounds and scull bones loom on the route
In reason and feeling I have no choice but to venture
an ancient drill grinds away carbon in my father’s grave
Gravity certainty narrative German post war collective
guilt betrayal crimes against humanity ‘we only followed’
Orders commands yet propagated propaganda and demise
a generation later my prerogative to look away falls by
The wayside on the path to Auschwitz the stench the cries
train tracks total war extinction ‘Lebensraum’ final solution
My officer dad a cog in the wheel just a soldier or willing
perpetrator and I too am getting longer in the tooth of time
‘What did you do what did you not’ and on a map in the
cellar times and postings little flags of when and where
I cannot avoid the void any longer and my atrocious search
for atrocities smoulders at boiling point and the search is
On for the roots which must be exposed from gold fillings
extracted to knowledge before cavities lie filled with pain
Might be covered with exposure of who I am as my father’s child
There stands a blackened tower
Shrouded in a ghostly white
The tomb of seventy two
From a day that drags on hour by dreadful hour
As we reflect upon that ghastly night
A day so many live to rue.
From a simple kitchen fire
There grew a flesh eating blaze
That built into a funeral pyre
Covering London in its darkening haze.
Onlookers helplessly looked on
At windows registering silent screams
Of friends and relatives soon to be gone
The stuff of nightmares ,not of dreams.
Too late did the firefighters come
As the flames did the victims consume
In the furnace they once called home
Daily life no longer theirs to resume
An inquiry now picks over the remains and rubble
Searching for what went so badly wrong
Many will be called to account for this trouble
For those commemorated in my dirge of a song.
Grenfell's holocaust is burned into the national mind
Memories shredded and ripped sadly asunder
While every attempt was made for blame evasion
By those who to customer safety were blind
Our bitter grief smoulders on from this costly blunder
Such a parcel of hypocritical rogues in our nation!
The sun rises,
Yet my heart wanes in yestereve.
Sleep the wont;
My eyes are yet transfixed
Upon her sadness,
And silent moan—
My eyes deliver my heart
In rosy red fathoms
Of surmise
As we watch her move
And drag a heaviness
Behind her
That bid me
Rush to her,
Lift it away from her,
And free her
From it.
If but she knew
We yet live to bear
Her burden!
Yet silence mocks
Our purpose.
Would that I were
That strength,
That ear alight,
That relief,
Would I could
But gather
My courage,
Fallen all about
Her feet
In smoulders.
Fear smote
Before my tongue
Could reveal ourselves
And love's close
Proximity.
Why should love
Cause us to feel shame?
Because it is a nakedness
That is truth unadorned;
It is a defenseless purity,
Frail and small,
Till joined,
And so stronger
Than any fear of God
In heaven
Or hell's reprisal.
Or am I fearful of
The principal:
We versus the familiar
Loneliness of I?
Am I to be of such high vantages
And deemed so worthy?
And whosoever is so?
Do we not make ourselves worthy?
Perhaps fear self-kindles
The dunn smoke
Of indecision
And doubt,
Blinding the sense,
Issuing forth foul whispers
And trite crackles that dissuade,
And dismantle the heart;
“who could love thee?”
“She is too high a shot for e’en Cupid’s dart,
Look thou midst the lower of thy means”,
And such self scorn
Till we are consumed 'n it:
Our belief, or inability,
To accept that we are worthy
To be loved
And to love beside
Rather than not, or from afar—
And that tomorrow
Never comes.
As we wait for
The right moment
To speak ourselves
And loudly proclaim
Our love,
And we, its champion
Unsurpassed!
The sun is risen.
Let us toward
And wait no more.
Fear and shame,
Thy spell is broken.
Let our future, uncertain,
Lay in waste of love’s
Wholesome Endeavor.
[Flourish, Exeunt]
What If There Was No Tomorrow? - The Polar Ice ‘Cap’
- this time it’s burnt and curled upon a new head. The
sweet smoke of his sugarloaf effigy black as night,
surrounded by a material red trim, below Parliament houses
blows political greed into fiery smouldering smithereens –
then it floated and landed after years, drifting, onto
the crown of a man: a business man portraying
wealth and class; here it sat above suit and below sun. The
American dream swirled with scotch and the tip of a bowler,
only for the same piece (restyled of coursed) to later sell for
pounds to make the pupils of any impoverished person pop:
his Hamburg with a knowing dent in back, how it span and
spun from black to grey and back again around Hill’s peak
to be dyed again and tilted just so. Now it’s pillbox pink and a knitted
O of a name/shape-sake that covers her head where her husband
had a target upon his. Watermelon-pink colour dye actually: the very
same fruit palette of brain cradled in her hands at high speed.
This latest star attraction of Burgdorf’s no doubt was, decades
prior, nothing but a mix of lifeless green and sludge brown from
grass and cud - metallic dead daises ducking over No Man’s
Land. A Brodie: styled on a not-yet-pulled pin grenade atop
beads of sparkling sweat, dripping slipping salt where now
a pedal controlled sewing machine stabs and pins sequins into
veils that hide brides with (it must be said) the same success
that protected Fawkes’ Plot or Churchill’s reputation or
Jackie’s husband and the slaughtered soldiers’ skulls - but
still the accessories twist into fascinators fancy enough for
mothers to weep below, only to find the box dish or bow
to be knocked akilter during the traditional bouquet mad
dash - then up – up – up! into the air before landing anew,
refreshed as a Gatsby or Hijab, perhaps a Trilby or Zucchetto;
better yet, the Boater or Sailor we’ll need when the hat that covers
all our heads smoulders and peaks when next dented and melted: a
loose grenade we can’t be veiled from, nor refashioned nor restyled
when the next season’s must have
will be a copper and bolt
protective Diving Mask
for the drowning tomorrow
from The Polar Ice 'Cap'.
A spark ignited when our paths first crossed,
Your knowledge kindled, my ignorance tossed.
From a timid flicker to a steady glow,
Our bond, like embers, began to grow.
Your wisdom blazed, a guiding light so bright,
Illuminating truths are once hidden from sight.
In learning's heart, our spirits intertwined,
A sacred fire of mentor and mind.
But time, relentless, feeds on mortal flame,
And even the wisest cannot remain.
Your light now fades, yet lingers in the air,
A warmth remembered, beyond compare.
The pyre of knowledge you so proudly built,
Now, it smoulders low, leaving me with guilt.
For lessons missed and questions left unasked,
As twilight falls on your final task.
In ashen whispers, your teachings persist,
Through smoky memories, too precious to resist.
Though you are gone, your spark lives on in me,
A flame of wisdom, burning ceaselessly.
Your absence chills, yet warms me all the same,
For in my heart, you're an eternal flame.
I tend this ember, with reverence and care,
Honouring the light we used to share
Victor Von Doom is looking for trouble,
he wants to turn the world into rubble.
He begins to unleash his evil wrath,
causing carnage to buildings in his path.
Inflamed with hate for the Fantastic Four,
he wants to smash Reed Richards to the floor.
The army is no match for his sharp skills,
his technopathy controls their free wills.
He arrives at the Statue of Liberty,
with a few hostages in captivity.
He is joined by the sly Puppet Master
and Galactus to cause extreme disaster.
Only the family of super heroes can save the day,
with cosmic powers to protect from those who prey.
Mister Fantastic with his elastic limbs and intellect.
Storm the invisible queen with a shield to protect.
The Thing a mountain of might with strength to praise.
The Human Torch a fireball with flames ablaze
Mister Fantastic distracts DR Doom,
the Thing punches him with a big boom!
Storm takes hostages into a room,
her invisibility saving them from gloom.
Human Torch scorches Galactus's face,
defeated, he scurries back into space.
Puppet Master is held down by The Thing,
as Torch smoulders his cerebral strings.
Dr Doom tries to escape Mister Fantastic,
but he captures him with his arms of elastic.
Storm removes his battery power pack,
the Thing drains him further with a big smack!
Villains thrown into a protected jail,
world is safe again to tell a heroic tale..
Another victory as superheroes rise.
Job well done conquering evil's guise!
may her flames never burn out
whilst I can rekindle active embers
all that lies beneath
fullness of beauty
this form, this aura
smoulders
though she lies sleeping
she lights the room
every aspect of her shining
I gaze upon fabric that drapes -
in awe that nothing that touches her skin
can fail to become beautiful also
she falls artfully into slumber
the very representation of a dream
shimmering as if a thousand sunsets
shroud and surround her
comfort she finds in her own frame
equilibrium, stillness -
breath may or may not disrupt
so I dare not breathe
for I do not wish to disturb this beauty
may she exist forevermore
resplendent as evening sun
for she transcends
what it is to be mortal
Fire in the Blood
How we love your warming glow
Yet know that we must fear you so
For you would set our hearts ablaze
With your subtle creeping ways
The warming glow the heart desires
Not roaring anger of your fires
Somewhere between we must control
For either side would steal our soul
First the flicker of your flame
Smoulders artery and vein
Finds the fibre to combust
Maybe love, more often lust
How you make us volatile
When we meet deceptions smile
How your heat does dissipate
As your ashes cool to hate
Without you our blood runs cold
To hot, and angers hard to hold
But we love that place between
Hot passion and comfort serene
If only we could bring confines
Have you never cross those lines
But we love that which excites
And so accept the blood ignites
R D Seal 23 Feb 13
Written: September 20, 2026, for a contest sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: Heaven is dawn, light, last waking, and eternal refuge—a permanent peace beyond life cycles.
The dying light dissolves in crimson tears,
gilded gates shimmer through the haze of years.
A life carried afar torment that raged through
still smoulders under my name—a mute scar too.
The soul’s eternity, a star for weary eyes—
A mystery that binds our mortal ties.
What waits, when mortal breath may cease?
Some swear nothing waits—just dreamless peace.
One glimpse alone could set me to my knees
upon circassian ground, where radiance flees.
Face to face with the Source, the soul of all—
a hand that shaped my rise and charted my fall.
The purest water blesses cheek and tongue
and cleanses every stain of all I've swung.
My past, littered with dirt, is fully unseen
In large rooms—hyacinth gems pulse lean.
No honeyed halls, no redeeming grace,
just flesh returned to dust, all souls embrace.
We view majestic xanadu, lilies ablaze in silver hush
where naiad airs tunes drift as starlight, no blush.
Still awestruck, bathed in seraphic light,
I hear creation thunder—dulcet, bright.
No night, no pain—what once was torn souls;
flowers bloom—kindred spirits cleave us whole.
When every wrong is answered at the last,
Our severed spirits join and hold steadfast.
There waits a house for me on golden shore,
Exquisite, undeserved—yet mine evermore.