Long Still life Poems
Long Still life Poems. Below are the most popular long Still life by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Still life poems by poem length and keyword.
Down in the meadows the sound of a calling lark
is filling my ears with melodious sounds of beauty
He heralds Autumn's arrival with his brave chirps
and as his tinkling notes summon up the sunrise,
he sings this mellifluous song of old for me ;
The hour changes everything from hue to hue
as I sit on that log that once held our beating hearts;
As a butterfly lands on a maple tree I am suddenly
reminded, of your Autumn gait;
I could almost see your face again
as each hour melts into a contemplative musing.
There in the cross horizon of that beautiful meadow,
the lark quietly flies away leaving me with
indescribable thoughts of you.
December 22, 2022
Sponsor Eve Roper
Contest Name Still-Life Autumn Scene
Thrown together
by circumstances
outside our realm
of control-
as in a bowl
our varied shells
create a still-life
a study in contrasts
of creative coverings
devised so well
Some like smooth pebbles
all polished and shiny
or rough and scarred
all coarse and craggy
Some barely masked like
peanuts, thin and papery
others heavily armored
walled off, impenetrable
Light and dark
bitter and sweet
mere tender morsels
in our shells
vulnerability itself
delicately raw
ever so fragile
and flimsy-frail
Need for these shells
protective coverings
begs the question-
Who hurt you?
which echoes back
over and over
to you
and you
and you
and you-
Who hurt you?
Was it your mother
father, brother?
Sister, cousin, uncle
aunt?
Can't we figure out who
hurt who?
Can't we stop this
question chant?
Who hurt you?
Who hurt you?
Who hurt who?
Some would like to
crack the shells
open every one
up wide-
But, for me
I'd have to take
quite a different side
For shells are Nature's
loving way
of protecting
what is good
so shells are not
the enemy
they're doing
what they should!
I do not exist among the butterflies
Their fragile beauty idolized
I float unseen past long necked swans
A-glide upon life’s still-life pond
I am not seen on city streets
As hardened silence never seeks
I do not exist yet here I am
In a world that tells me that I don’t
Claims I am an afterthought
Of dreams that no one ever sought
And when I shout “you’re wrong, you’ll see”
My shadow bravely smiles at me
Perhaps this whole damn situation’s
A figment of my imagination
In a world where only I exist
And you do not…now there’s a twist
But wait, that’s wrong, it would be hell
For who would hear ME when I yell
I start my afternoon hike up a mountain trail.
October’s sunlight, the vestige of Indian Summer,
dapples my exposed skin with welcomed warmth.
Sun’s rays are gilded tendrils cutting through pines
whose needles’ sweet scent
I breathe deeply in.
I can almost taste the breeze as it rushes past,
waltzing through the many trees.
The sky, immersed in azure, is heavenly!
I imagine its clouds having been swirled by the wind
with which I wish I too were dancing.
Bright foliage surrounds me.
I am bedazzled by them as they ostensibly flaunt
hues of scarlet, rich amber honey, russet, and tangerine -
an ocean of windswept trees!
My destination is a pristine lake where new trees
shimmer - mirrored in its crystal blue.
One oak is so tall it seems like a steeple reaching upward.
Its limbs have formed an arbor which beautifies
the view that greets my eyes.
Acquiescing to enthrallment, I linger there
where tranquility’s quintessence abides,
inhaling October’s unique potpourri.
Dusk will soon swallow up the day,
so I begin my descent. Birds twitter; leaves whisper.
Seeing me, a timid rabbit scampers behind a bush.
Heaven seems fused with the terrain,
igniting my world with iridescence
as against a splash of persimmon, seagulls soar.
How I would love to glide home like those glorious birds.
Intoxicated by the rhapsody of colors,
I come to the bottom of the trail with just enough time
to reach my home’s comfort before night’s chill
envelops all.
Dec. 16, 2022
For Eve Roper's Still-Life Autumn Scene Poetry Contest
Memories on the wall
and in the hall,
yesterday's dreams faded
recollections
what I was and we were
now are no more,
reside in photohgraphs
and lie in drawers
with country walks for miles
and children's smiles;
Landscapes of broken hearts
are now still life,
of everyday joys,
when girl met boy,
what-might-have-been and
if only we had....
and yet no other way
could it have been
We had no manual with life's sweet dream.
waltz blazing sirens from shores of the frosted tomorrow
just look around and behold everything that makes our souls distant
l’existence est ailleurs! my negatively dear Clementine
in this omnipotent Babylon of boredom whoredom
where our shapes slowly turn shadowless
turning in their dreamless sleep
glide around our glacier home
and we follow the fireflies among the languorous joshua trees
into the land of dandy lions and burning monks
into the tinfoil country of cowboys riding the giant amoebas
feverish orchids on the horizon where the fire alarm is always on
so run & hop on the railroad to false paradise
where we will dance alone and leave footprints in the garden
leave footprints on every rooftop
then walk up the clock tower to the ghost of a friendly lamp-lighter
who will help us from within to banish the darkening
and light up our own dungeons of blood candy splendour
as multiple painted phantoms of Van Gogh’s ear
listen to the foghorn music of pallid depths
in our much adored papier-maché sea shell mansion
our lovely cul-de-sac, stellar and crystalline, vanishing on a rota basis
standing in still life as a crescent groom, as graves on the Moon
opening the frontiers for a cosmis octopus, a zealot, a hypocrite
headless and worshipping the order of the howling iris
which makes our nosebleed grow longer like shadows do at dusk
and that’s when I love to unwind that brass hair
of your golden-haired psyche
Wind breathes her song, a symphony
Calling me home, restoring my heart
With longing, broken stories of hope,
Senses, joy, longing – amber and gold,
Magnetic, inviting, victories…
She sings, like the peace in her wings
Dressed in still shadows, her voice
Trembling with grace, gentle praise
Wonder abiding in the soul who knows
Her brilliance resonates with love.
Wind, still and flowing with comprehension,
Intense as the stars who glisten so intimately,
Lasting intuition, blessing hearts and souls,
Feelings penetrated by the music in her light,
Burning softly on the notes of such a sonata.
Concerto of still life, glowing with harmony
That lives in the burgundy whispers of joy,
Falling from the indigo skies, the wind soft,
Blowing in whispers of richest exaltation,
Praising the One who sings each note…
With grace that saves the soul from the worst sins,
Forgives, restores, protects the soul from a past,
Where there is nothing but pain and rejection,
A past where there is only the darkest misery,
Where life was once a fear rising up in me.
Wind sings her intriguing grace through me
And I remember the way His love rescued me
And I know that I’ve found the answer, the peace
That comes from knowing the One who saves
Completely, with love that will never leave me.
In the wind, where the song hesitates to remember me
I hear His love, softly playing in melodies of light,
Reminding my heart, my soul, my spirit – eternity
With the One who called me home with His light
Is only a moment away, just one moment away…
And I’ll hear the music playing through the hearts of those
Whose words meet with the angel’s harps, the angel’s notes
Playing tunes of hope, peace, love that will never deceive,
Love that is the reason I can sincerely believe…
Forever, He is with me … forever, He is my JESUS!
Wind sings the tune, as I wait for the time when I’ll be with Him forevermore!
BOUNDARIES
an
unworld
explicitly
rendered
incorporting
misshapen
pictures
in a
gradual gloom
stubbornly
numb
& constricted
a
statuesque.
impression.
affluent
in
appearance
of
practiced
postures
of
still life
accoutrements
with
plentiful
attributes
universal
&
poignant
throughout
a
glimpse.
a
proof
transplanted
pirouetting
breathes
trabquillity
the
ultimate
contraint
a
sensory
manfestestation
of
creativity
&generosity
in
a
rightful vision
encapsultes
to
resassemble
depicting
the
sanctified
in
continuing
expectations
Fare waits upon the table— hard and fluid kind:
three glasses filled with golden liquid, shards of ice;
another two- the amber-colored flow, defined
and clear, no ice, their smooth opacity concise.
Supported are four slices—lightly toasted bread
that stand on end, grouped, dry without a hint of spread.
Oh, such a wondrous setting—bread, the staff of life,
the basic need that fed all men since long ago,
life-giving manna all across the world, where strife
engulfs and threatens those of humankind that know
without the staff of life, their days come to an end—
without their daily bread, grim death will soon attend.
And, there along with bread, the liquid stands beside
to quench the thirst, provide as a life-sustaining mate.
Without this sacred flow to balance and subside
the dryness in the throat from bread—this would negate
the need for food—for fluid is our liquid gold,
and mixed with bread, the staff of life becomes two-fold.
April 14, 2014
Spring is the moment of hope that embraces
The spirit with a glad, rousing devotion
Inspiration that fills the heart it graces
Summer is the time of gentle emotion
Where sunshine and raindrops capture silent hope
Waking waves of joy flowing through the ocean
Autumn is the gleam of the kaleidoscope
Brilliant hues of enthusiasm breaths belief
Serenity dripping help so we can cope
Winter is the dismal, dark whisper of grief
Longing to fill up our souls with loving skills
Wonders of kind compassion that won’t be brief
Seasons that fill our hearts, minds and souls with thrills
Sharing marvels so exciting our life stills