Long Symbolic Poems
Long Symbolic Poems. Below are the most popular long Symbolic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Symbolic poems by poem length and keyword.
"When the Grim Reaper asked for my spirit,
I told him to take my poetic pen.
He walked away smiling, leaving me illiterate."
In the mystical wilderness of virtual poetry,
surrounded by metaphors that mystify my mind,
I've become a shadow of the poet I once knew.
Insecure with egotistical lame labels,
tormented by attention seeking tags,
irritated from imitative compliments.
Exhausted eyes sting, bloodshot from
reading an overuse of mumbo jumbo jargon.
On the edge of personification,
symbolic syllables burn all desire to scrutinize.
Sometimes there can be too many words,
sometimes not enough,
yet we veil the true meaning of our thoughts.
I guess there is an art to pretending,
yet I watch my artistry fade.
We weave webs turning the internal into external,
but I question whether I was ever a poet.
Pondering if my poems served a purpose.
I have lost patience for personal prose,
rhymes without rhythm sound so revolting,
the soul is sick of old fashioned sonnets.
as iambic pentameter has always been my enemy.
I hear alphabetic patrol sirens,
their ignorant judgment is a mockery to the bilingual.
An assassination of alliterations,
is causing a massacre of my muse.
There is a void in my verses,
which prevents me from roaming free.
My soul feels like a starless supernova,
a moonless sky drifting into a black hole,
as fatigued fingers become a mistress
to simple scribbles.
I yearn to be forever silent,
with no motive to write for a legacy,
so I've imprisoned my muse in an asylum.
I have lost passion to spill the ink from my quill,
so I no longer tend to the petals in my poetic garden.
I've found peace in the solitude of a blank canvas.
Silent One
15 February 2022
How many will stand up for their Faith
when the devil gets his grip
agendas change
There is nothing but control over certain rights
in mind, body and broken spirits
deluded by false humility
Take a good hard look at yourself fake or real
certain symbolic gestures like pretending to care about welfare
at what point of living can you identify with the Truth
How much has been centralised around the culture of death
voodoo doctors and weird science shape the landscape of words
Just because you have letters to your name
it means nothing when lying is caught in the trap
bought loyalty bears little credits to preach about anything
how far around the bend will people go before springing back
Trust the government some will say your welfare is in their hands
I know in whom my trust remains and forever will to cut a long story short
Avoiding the girl-scouts
I hasten out of the store
trying hard not to see the people
huddled in their thin coats
as they wait for an infrequent bus.
This ice-chilled evening
with its stark revelations
is like the nag of an irregular heartbeat
sheathed like a thorn in my shoe.
Later, by a warm fire
sitting in an upholstered armchair,
a despondency chews at my breastbone,
it is a reaction hard to pin down,
to objectify,
a lingering presence.
My mind shifts through a symbolic iconography
effigies depicting:
a lost and hungry dog,
an ill-treated child,
a stranger I refuse to call brother,
places long deserted,
places found far too late.
A love unpicked from a now withering vine.
That same presence
sets a table and chair before me
that I may write, try to explain
this tumbleweed of unnamable sorrows,
a phantom, that even in happier times,
I recognize it as a coarse impression
akin to a grating scar
beneath a tender tongue.
Tomorrow may emerge as a frail old lady,
struggling with full shopping bags,
head bent to a cold uncaring wind.
Many might offer her a lift
but in my present brittle mood
I probably would frighten her,
so,
I don’t.
Gustav Klimt adored for his murals and paintings
Turned life in poverty into art of awesome glory
Pioneering erotic paintings depicting female body
Moving boldly to shape pages of his artistic story.
Honored for murals painted in famous public places
Klimt became renowned at relatively young age,
Soon changing course of his creative endeavors
Crossing boundaries of norm to launch a new phase.
Paintings like Philosophy, Medicine, Jurisprudence
Quickly became symbolic of his early innovation,
Yet, he was shunned due to misplaced objections,
His trio was later destroyed by ignorant generation.
Moving boldly to declare freedom of expression
Painting Nuda Veritas to foretell his intentions
Achieving critical acclaim using gold in his portraits,
The Kiss raised his profile to yet higher dimension.
Exotic naked women became hallmark of his art,
Depicting Girlfriends in colors of nude confluence,
Drawing Adele Bloch-Bauer I as an elegant woman
Wrapped in a golden gown of rich Asian influence.
So many paintings became renowned masterpieces
As Death and Life won first prize in world exhibition
And Adele Bloch-Bauer sold for huge remuneration
Rejoicing art lovers who seek to own his creations.
The Apple Tree I, Birch Forest, Litzlberg am Attersee,
Adorned with nature, joining ranks of so many more,
Upon Klimt's death became tremendously valuable
As admirers of his art continue to cherish and adore.
November 28, 2017
Klimt
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Here, but for the grace of God
Tormented within my vessel,
To walk on burning coal,
To hear the cries of my hungry spirit,
To eat from an empty bowl.
To journey on without hope,
I stagger around and not through,
Given mouth, teeth and tongue,
Yet no bone to chew.
Given wisdom to make change,
Strength to see it done,
Slow is the pace I run this race-
Given bullets, but no gun.
I have knees that stay bent,
I have hands that stay in a clasp,
Words I’ve been given to say,
Their meaning I have yet to grasp.
Where is this valley,
This shadow of death,
This life I must get through
Before I can be given breath?
What deed to fortune must I take?
What many words must I spew?
What more torture to withstand,
To be given a seat in the pew?
Given the Shroud of Turin,
my symbolic flag of relenting
To lift my head towards the heavens-
And to begin, my repenting
Although the Christmas tale rings true,
For every child who feels slighted and destroyed,
By religious insult, pretentious token or symbolic kiss,
He shouldn’t only be wishing for Santa’s gifts deployed.
But the Father Christmas story ensures,
That every kid is worth something, equal and sure;
The morality attached to Father Christmas is quite explicit,
That all can be loved, and in that all can be complicit.
It may be that you call this semiotic of Santa Claus implicit:
A suggestion, indirect and a loose interpretation;
But I think that because all kids are included in his giving,
The inherent equal worth of all is its stipulation.
Any kids, of any diversity, difference or race:
Black, white, Asian or Australasian;
Fat, tall, geek, weak or disabled,
Whatever your facet, you are enabled.
Society so needs this Christmas story,
That a child’s interests are his right;
His hobbies are to be accepted and encouraged,
And that even the cold shouldn’t make you tight.
That the individual is considered at Christmas time,
Is on point and fully correct;
Economics and money have a high place,
In a persons needs hierarchy, you may detect.
St Nicholas first emerged in a poem in 1823,
Published just before Christmas Day on the 23rd,
By the Troy New York Sentinel to help its shopkeepers,
Multiply sales, and cheer and invigorate searching customers.
The love of a parent for her child,
Objectifies best by way of a gift;
And I just love the symbol of Santa,
Whom the lonely child from insolation can lift.
A square cloth flying in the breeze,
For all to see.
Colors begin to form as the sun,
Comes up in a new day.
Red stripes for the blood shed for all,
Those who sacrificed their lives for,
The independence of this new country.
The white stripes show us the,
Innocence and purity of the true heart.
The red and white stripes equal the 13,
Original colonies where we gained,
Our independence from England.
The blue stars on the flag represent the,
Individuality of the states where we are,
United as a nation.
"Old Glory" as we call her today will,
Forever be symbolic of our,
Fight for freedom.
Devotion Poem, The Black Dahlias
This morning, for a time, you seemed
To have disappeared. I called out to you
From my bed, but the words
Must have been consumed into mute syllables,
For any answering voice, if there was one, was not yours.
I asked the angels to go search for you
And soon they found the traces of your footsteps
Entering into the valley of the black dahlias, where those
Flowers in that valley loom thick, and overlong in season.
You must have entered the black dahlias valley
With some fear, for I am certain you felt unsure
About the consequences of treading
On beauty — wouldn’t some measure of suffering
Follow such an act? And who,
But perhaps the Lord himself
Defines the scope of beauty and
Could mark any count of its maiming?
Did you soon regret your stepping away
And your quick journey into that valley?
Did you then pull up to a questioning halt — having as yet
Sacrificed nothing — and spun around
Wondering how to safely retreat?
The uncountable burgundy/black petals of the dahlias
So closely pack the valley, all their growing
Overlaps, eliminating any sight of the earth.
The black dahlias impressed their image over centuries as
Symbolic of beauty and betrayal, much as
Humanity has done in overseeing its charge of our planet...
And we set our eyes to scan for viable paths
To green, fertile plains anywhere surrounding.
We try to gently reverse and re-claim, to
Over-cross the further striking of beauty.
But, this requires acts of going forth — beyond
Just dreaming or wishing: in the work for now and
New generations of new seeing and clear actions.
Your own return from the valley of the black dahlias,
Struck both our souls. The peace of returning
And the acts of new creation are
As reconcilable as heaven’s full plan for all life here.
While for us, there is no parting, no leaving. Our love
Travels the full labyrinths of the imbued
Patterns of the cosmic kingdom.
**********. ***********. *************
(C) sally Young eslinger10/15/2020
Thanks be to God!
When fate decides to bring you love,
Your old ways may need a little shove.
Open your eyes and welcome the truth,
That someone you searched for in youth.
The smile, quick wit just closed the deal,
There’s no denying the magnetic appeal.
Standing before you waiting for the word,
Commitment to marriage must be assured.
The Trevi fountain only needs one coin,
For love to flourish and your souls to join.
Actions of love demonstrate true caring,
The time is now to begin your sharing,
Blue and pink candles are woman and man,
The white candle begins the marriage plan.
Together they join, the flames shine bright,
Brought together by two families - this light.
Good times and bad will come to pass,
Now its time to toast and raise a glass.
For you will now become man and wife,
Forever in love - creating your new life.
In the marriage ceremony a pink candle is lit by the bride’s mother and a blue candle is lit by the groom’s mother, then the bride and groom light the white candle together. The pink and blue candles can be returned to parents or just left burning. It’s beautifully symbolic.
Written September 8, 2012
For Janette Fisher’s contest
“When Fate Decides”
Perhaps like a lightning
bolt of clear out of the blue
rigor mortis (tenon and
three decades hence)
two thousand fifty nine if you
count from January 13th 2019, adieu
attest that day 9 months I did brew
in wound (of the late Harriet Harris),
now finds me loved ones
crying boo hoo,
after this stiff mortal
Earthling bid toodle loo
with symbolic casket
(carrying cremated urn of ashes)
remembrance attended
by gentile and Jew
sharing positive memories purportedly
about this nondescript
fellow they knew
mainly indirectly, poignantly,
and wickedly shot thru
with his insightful humorous scribblings,
plus magnus opus titled
"How do ye do,"
an informal rambling missive bereft
of any subject and
devoid with little clue,
the purpose of said hefty tome
out weighing The Federalist circa: knew
lee after American independence
Papers, written by true
purrs under the pseudonym "Publius"
but great (as a great doorstop), or
alight as tinder for barbeque
since many admirers never
read his text written in Hebrew,
fluency acquired spending
final years he grew
old, since automatic citizenship
granted based on genetic goo
plus Mediterranean climate helped promote
longevity to century his health did hew
thus naturally pronounced philosophy,
where he drew
quite a wide web asper the many
claims Matthew Scott did eschew
to maintain longevity (more
quackery than science), but who
could dispute glorious
principles, not to poo poo
analogous to placebo effect
harmless fervent coping methods,
whether to cure ague
interestingly enough he cited ack hue
puncture for a gamut of physical ills
as well he did advocate chew
wing food (after taking small bites)
until mouthful became pulpy slew
(proponent of Fletcherism), this to
exercise dentures in addition
to maximize stew
pen diss experience of simple
routine eating view
wing thoroughly good (by George)
said quotidian activity grew
tubby spiritual, similarly basic
functions in general did get skew
ward whereby meditation on intrinsic,
metabolic and scholastic
processes to name a few
added a dimension of enhancement prior to
exiting life into frontier mortals can only rue.