Long Suffuse Poems
Long Suffuse Poems. Below are the most popular long Suffuse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Suffuse poems by poem length and keyword.
Echoes
Every morning a man is seen to climb upon a hill
His mission there to bare witness
To the suns flooding as she rises
Her painted fires airbrushed dawning through the skies
He stands alone upon the grassy barrow
Gathering every thought and fibre
Every nuance of the unknown marrow
His bodies longings for his lover
The colours of the sunrise splash his passion
Peaches suffuse azure washing blues
When the dawning orb breaks its tethered anchor
In her flaming pinks and fiery hues
Lifting his spirit from the ground
All his soul he has encompassed
To an echoes welling plume of sound
From his throat and from his heart felt
And from a smile bathed in saddened tears
It issues from his lips all his happiness and his pain
He stands alone upon the hilltop
Brought there by the echoes
Which always sound the same
With one lasting supplicant breath
And calls out to forever
Echoes every syllable of
Her name
Shouted out for a life he once new
Called to a life he never lived
Turned this echo to a sorrow
By a curious cuckoos tourniquet of fate
He turns to watch his shadow
And carry on his day
Descends again to the waiting meadow
But in the niche of every hour
And in the edge of all his smiles
Lays a sadness to vague to remember
Dormant in the corners of his eyes
Yes the day is filled with loving
In the patience of his hands
And his heart is given over
For living while he can
But in the shadows of the evening
The dusky moon upon the rise
A distant voice is calling
Sees the reflection of her eyes
When his heart is turned to ponder a quietly burning flame
Hearing how the echoes upon their returning
Are whispering
His name
While the forgetful night is passing
In reincarnates senses dreaming
His breathing then beseeches
The pillow of his prayers
And as the day comes on a dusting
Airbrushed dawn of coloured peaches
Washes the flaming azure of her eyes
All those words return upon their longing
Baring witness to the dawning skies
Brought there by the echoes
Which always sound the same
And written in his calling to the new sunrise
Echoes there forever
Every syllable of
Her name
OH, DEFECTS, DIVINE!
Oh, fabulous fallibilities!
You, so perfectly imperfect ...
Like a rill in the rain,
Its path unestablished 'til the sky opens,
Yet its purpose is pure ...
Even before the drops' mistral dance -
The supplication of life,
Sating a thirsty vale ...
In its twisting, indirect fashion.
But all droughts are not such,
My hunger is for YOU ...
So exquisitely flawed,
So sublimely set apart, thus:
The coy, crimped tilt of your smile, shining ...
Dark cocoa eyes,
Tainted with flashes of copper ...
Strands of platinum tarnish in honey hair ...
A shapely eyebrow, not quite its twin ...
Smooth, sexy, petite little feet,
With big toes just a wee bit shorter than the next ...
Mole, subtly set above your bow lips,
But far to one side ...
Deliciously-placed back dimples,
One that dips a bit more softly than the other
When catching moonlight, just SO ...
And your birthmark,
Shaped irregular as the crescent moon,
In a sacred place very few have ever discovered.
BUT YOUR WHISPER ...
That supremely sensual sound from the depths of you,
A stirring, libidinous moan of nothings, sweet,
With a trembling, musical interlude ...
Fiery-fresh lips pressed tender to my ear,
The warm, sexy sighs suffuse my blood and body,
Carried on your breath, soft as saffron ...
Oh, those raw, unpolished murmurings slay me, true,
Through-and-through with exquisite energy!
All these errs and human frailties -
All the naive irregularities and blemishes,
So elegantly designed by the hand of The Creator
To be impeccably inexact ...
For should those features be of finished form,
Heaven itself would dim its light ...
In want for fair comparison.
Alas, you are so imperfectly perfect,
And I, the fortuitous fool for your sublime insufficiencies ...
OH, DEFECTS, DIVINE!
* SECOND PLACE in the "Whisper Sweet Nothings" Poetry Contest, Julie Leigh Rodeheaver, Sponsor. *
Oh, precious little creature, mine,
The joy you suffuse my life with is immeasurable!
I pray I convey to you in affection
And inclusion in all my comings-and-goings,
Just how dear you are to this human fool,
For I love you as I love my life -
The life I would give to save you.
Your warm, fuzzy smile is my sun each morn,
And your mischief is my compass ...
We find our way through the days together,
And your soft paws around my arm
Wend me to sleep every eve.
But oh, how my heart grieves so for you!
Oh, how the salty drops have traced my cheek for your sake!
To watch you each day at the screen door,
Or the window sill in winter,
Cracked ever-so-slightly for the air,
So your senses can ply the breeze for all its stories -
All the tales of birds and creatures, huntable,
That you will never chase ...
The butterfly games you will never play ...
The deep grasses that will never brush your whiskers ...
The textures that will never press your pads ...
The trees you will never climb ...
And the adventures that will unfold only in your dreams.
It is a torture that I can never know,
Yet my soul yearns to set your yearnings free,
And my heart aches for the passions and instincts I MUST deny you.
The dangers are too many, my dear little one -
Coyotes, foxes, disease, and a busy street,
All far too formiddable adversaries,
And I am forced, for the sake of your extended life,
To confine you to the world of a house cat,
And it sickens my spirit so,
As I know it crushes yours.
I pray you can forgive me, little one,
And that somehow, in the sincerity of my love for you,
You come to realize that it is JUST that love for you
That binds my wrists ...
That my love for you and your safety
Outweighs your freedom.
Can you tell, little one, by the way I look in your eyes?
Can you tell by the tenderness of my touch?
Can you tell by the way my voice softens
Every time I speak to you?
Oh, how I pray you can,
For I am so heartily sorry, little one,
And I love you so ...
Forgive me.
April 19th 2020 - just an ordinary and typical...
clothes washing Sunday courtesy the missus
Ah... the highlight of our supposed, linkedin,
designated day of respite after a week toiling
away with ennui, yes reader a tower mountain
(rivalling Himalaya's 29,029 foot range), oozes
odoriferous tendrils suffuse every square inch
within entire drab one bedroom apartment, but
invariably contribute to climate changing/global
warming), said domestic chore indulged with a
burst of fervent excitement (competing making
long day's journey into night long to retrieve the
requisite communication with outside webbed
wide world) bring joie de vivre je ne sais quois
weekly highlight to thyself vaccinated courtesy
(against adversity), and valued tough as (nine
inch) nails missus vaunted as Xena, methinks,
she exaggerates bajillion fold dubbing me with
appellation as herr (germane) Hercules, a miss
gnome er, I no longer nitpick amidst these most
challenging times where coronavirus COVID-19
(ironic violent crime plus environmental abuse
nearly absolute zero) engendering loyalty, high
fidelity, assiduity among madding crowd I (a runt
of mill garden variety generic doubting Thomas)
kin Hardy believe me myopic sudden inexplicable
camaraderie between and betwixt ordinary folks,
no matter, we (doddering, hobbling, & kickstarting)
long time married couple (seems like millenniums)
revel when washing clothes occasion arises, despite
modern time saving contrivances (washer and dryer)
available, but all monies larded out to buzzfeed icky
persnickety, rickety,... temperamental wishy washy
machines quickly (said cash & or cache automatically
line silver) pockets of Grosse and Quade, them iz zee
who own living facility here: 2 Highland Manor, yet
purportedly (according to rumor mongers aim to sell
property for fair market price) - just in case ye dear
reader seek to sink (literally) x dollars into formerly
owned Mars redoubt, and once upon time wetlands.
fast as a blitzen comet,
this dashing prancer
contra dancer
(i.e. Rudolph nary hoof) didst zip
with cupid ditty toward his vixen wife,
who loosed a suppressed yip
asper one discovering remains of the day
from the donner
(newt the majority) party whip
ping her olive drab camouflage attire,
as if she hapt to be a vip
endlessly congratulating herself
(and bow wowing her ego) bing awarded
the housekeeping seal of approval,
and expected me to tip
her gore gee us Martha Stewart déclassé
snoop doggy dog rendition
as she did slip
agilely (with broom and dustpan in hand) rip
peat head lee uttering
an apropos Mary Poppins quip
booting muck can clear across to Compton
(wherever that might be) pip
pin like a cat on a hot tin roof,
where no cure existed to nip
in the bud at this stage,
and rid thine beloved Narberth bride,
who caught a bout clean destine
feverish frenzy to make house beautiful,
oblivious to beseeching despair,
sans this husband who cried
plaintively imploring divine intervention,
lest extreme heroic measures
need be taken, thus guide
me asap before her blistered hands
rubbed red as tender (vittles) raw hide,
which could find her catatonic, doggone
ill eagle lee flying a boot
like a bat out of hell, and stupefied
hence, this urgent message typed out in a huff
for less severe invasive
experimental treatment truly tried
on this, that, or some other missus so and so
.....please pardon this abrupt end,
plus initial idea wide
lee differing from my initial intent won
during how to write an elegy to mister son
describing, how aye felt enervated with run
hills of beaming solar rays, oh how none
synthetic drug to bathe,
enhance, suffuse away mon
day moody blues,
and now...gotta tend tummy hun!
Strikes relentlessly thrashing
(from all points
encompassing me) assigned
unforgivingly, vehemently,
witheringly, blind
ding figurative sight, then
I finally craft a title,
then subsequent lines
of poem (or prose) defined
incumbent to pay
proper obeisance deigned
then once a thread bare
theme more or less defined
unleashing skein of thoughts,
(that barrel thru
muss hike key)
utterly entangled,
enthralled and entwined
rather then panic, a series
of deep breaths
decompresses,
deemphasizes, and diminishes
a near futile attempt (thwarting captivity,
futility, and impossibility) to find
even just a faint coalescence,
essence, and furtherance
pitting ma small nose
to the metaphorical grind
stone calmly try
to temper onslaught
of tsunami like brain storm,
yet no matter
how fast fingers type,
a sinking sensation,
sans pursuit to process
this tidal wave sets me
further be hind,
this faux
cat and mouse game,
which forces bust
ting thru out this scribe
demand to answer himself
with minor expletive,
viz cheeses crust
why the ƒ¨ç° must
this doggone eventual dust,
when staking claim
on literary fame and fortune
will no doubt entrust
yours truly to pauper's grave
(if lucky enough
to garner gofundme monies
or not bother, and consign
any viable anatomical
parts of this
well kept body fussed
over with copacetic delight,
holistic insight, and magic night,
where a strong gust
of wind doth suffuse dreamy state
permeating mine subconscious,
where inexplicable
exemplifications doth leap
and prance, while aye
obliviously repose in deep sleep,
which may be the condition
of an unsuspecting reader,
whether an generic
guy or...a Veep.
Somehow he was made to feel the culprit
for the sins of all house trained mammalians
the breath he drew apparently criminalized
eventually concluding that 90% of the obstacle course
was the low hanging fruits of bland insanity
designed by the get it right or we rip your eyes out faction
cooking up the usual rigorous crab claw cioppino
merrily bubbling in the chamber pot of the gods
their high court of iniquity assigned me into the care
of multinational 4 star celebrity ladle virtuoso
chef Aristotle Von Nilmann grillmeister emeritus
filling bellies quilting the perpetual food chain
long since time and gluttony began
who could sizzle the eyebrows off a veldt giraffe
using no tinder or conflagrance whatsoever
his baleful cross-eyed stare having been licensed
as a terrifying weapon of mass deduction
the product of chronic identical summation
no matter the frame or gist or significance
stretching back into the dawn of conception
spasmoegomanaically in the Germanic sense
tho equally Cimmerian or Tezcatlipocian
in the universally benificently sense
a security perimeter being a somewhat necessity
in the realms of imagination that so suffuse
our incapacity to generalize other than by self expansion
it's all a bit of me has become the golf ball in the cup
and we measure existence by the elasticity it confers
angels smile upon us in spite of their frowns
for it is not all feathers and tap dancing clowns
apparently after all these aeons we can discern
that the evidence is not discerned with acuity
belting the blues like Pork Chop Annie
I can't imagine how you could listen to him
for more than 30 seconds under lunar lighting
a hoot owl perched branchwise above
says there's money on you boy
and boy replying while eating his booger
who me the me who began
or the me who began again
The signposts come along much faster, now.
And I fear most of all not my own death
or even your own sense of loss or grief,
but my betrayal, for I cannot go
upon the road to everlasting life
that you will travel, reaching for my hand
and at the close releasing it as I
release your paper lord--and then I die
without your blest assurance
that I made him mine.
You cannot understand the god I breathe,
the one who breathes in me also-- the one
who holds his peace and thus enables me
in dying, to inflict more pain, for if
I make an honest life and then in death
deceive, I do not pull away your prayers
but neither do I then impart the love
I hold within my chest. For I do not
beneath this tent address your god or your
devotion; and thus become for you
the merest husk to blow away.
How may I speak to you of mystery?
How may I share with you
a cosmos that embraces all--a love unstoppable?
If I could creep with you upon my knees
into a throne room in the stratosphere
that our old fathers fabricated in
their heads, then I would plead that you
perceive a later portrait of
transcendence.
Then will you let me grieve with you
that you must grieve eternal loss?
(while in my heart I know with your
same certainty the opposite is true)
--That I remove the father of
the lord we love, as I suffuse a
deity beneath that canopy of truth.
I might explain forever what I know
of that supreme and drowning ocean,
overwhelming fear--but knowing inwardly,
it is what you may never see.
You own a most capricious source
of immortality. Of after life,. I do not doubt,
but see it through another spirit lens
that you have spurned, as I in turn
have laid your own aside.
There is double dying as the price
for glad reunion, and for one of us
in--creed-able surprise.
~
We become empty and void like vast space,
aided by bliss mists that suffuse our form
and there remain no tests, we need to ace,
as we’re cradled by divine currents warm.
Mind-body a vessel, in which dwells soul,
which first descends, before upward ascent
but to fulfil thus its ordained life role,
it must first and foremost, grant love consent.
Opposites dissolve when love’s manifest
and cravings of lower mind too recede,
whereupon we breeze through life in light jest,
allowing bliss beat pulsations to lead.
Flame of innocence in our heart aglow,
breath by breath we rise, in staid stillness slow.
Breath by breath we rise, in staid stillness slow,
witnessed by presence, with a tranquil eye,
as shedding resistance we gently flow,
observing false ego wither and die.
We alone witness our transmutation,
near and dear ones remaining unaware
of our soul’s divine entwined flirtation
and though we wish to share, no one can pair.
Our stance is stillness, in silence we burn,
feeling hidden nodes within come alive
and truths transcending mind, in time we learn,
as deeper and deeper in bliss we dive.
We write on, although we cannot translate,
sublime bliss rapture that does not abate.
Sublime bliss rapture that does not abate,
reverberates within by day and night,
asking but of us to keep our heart chaste,
whilst teleporting us to zenith height.
Synced with vibrations of the universe,
delighting in each offered sensation,
essence of presence sings a joyous verse,
as our spontaneous meditation.
Illumined within, is our central vein,
being both immanent and transcendent,
at the centre of which, heart free from stain,
radiates our inner light resplendent.
With no goals to chase nor puzzles to lace,
we become empty and void like vast space.
Artemide Cacciatrice (2)
The carriage trip – who’d like the factual version?
That whole idea was Tuzia’s, never mine.
“Let’s take a carriage for a day excursion,
and have a picnic on the Aventine –
we’ll see the Seven Churches!” But perversion
lay in wait. What Tuzia had in mind
was getting me away from hearth and home,
so I’d be vulnerable in southern Rome.
The Farnesina was our only halt,
to see the Raphael. Picture, then, my shock
when, as we boarded, who should come and vault
into our carriage, strutting like a cock,
but him, and Cosimo? She’s worth her salt,
is Tuzia the Pandar. That blue frock
she wore the following Sunday must have cost
a fortune, notwithstanding what she lost.
Why do I paint castrations? This is new
to me. I get a subject in my brain:
it buzzes there, until I have to do
a canvas, to release it. Can’t explain.
I never knowingly suffuse, imbue
my work with undercurrents. I disdain
all show of private feelings, but suppose
the artist offers much more than she knows!
One thing this maggot said that I must squash
is, we were having sex around the clock.
You’ll know by now that he is talking tosh,
and anyway, it’s not me in the dock,
but him. But yes, I let that cesspool wash
around and over me. I was in hock.
My only way to stave off social death
was, hope for marriage, bear his stinking breath.
You broke into my carriage, and my house,
exploited me for sex, though you were married.
I lost my honour, yes – but you’re a spouse
I wouldn’t wish on Tuzia. You have harried
and bullied me, and lied to me, you louse.
Now, finally, your schemes have all miscarried.
I’m confident this judge will grasp the facts.
Let’s hope someone is sharpening an axe.