Long Tasseled Poems
Long Tasseled Poems. Below are the most popular long Tasseled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tasseled poems by poem length and keyword.
3rd march 2012,malvan.
Waves diffuse themselves on sandy shores repeat,
Like fresh feelings in young lover’s kiss, their pristine emotions upbeat.
Youthful hearts pant and gasp, volcanic emotions erupt,
Like Twilight rays caress blue waters and foam splits abrupt.
As night she festoons her darkness a more,
Temptation flares within youthful flesh like burning flames galore.
White virgin sands dormant they spread and lay waiting,
Like warm satins spreads for nocturnal love making.
Dim lit fishing boats tied to their anchors they beacon flash and float,
Akin fresh youthful body lying in wait for the mate ,it’s voluptuousness to note .
Alone here in serene surroundings, feel the caress of the orange light of setting sun,
Tingle in my heart and my emotions wild they have begun to run……..
Rising moon reflects in the shimmering waters all blue,
Like the joys from my heart emerge on to the expressions on my face without ado.
Elegance radiates from the skies as the stars jauntily they dance
Her tasseled hair, and the sweet smell of love’s nectar drive me into a trance.
Diaphanous sea breeze carries supple love’s words unspoken,
Blackened progdious velvet skies nestles my copious passions that are still unbroken.
By: Sashi.Prabhu (zeauoxian)
What can I be, so colorful?
Who flies both day and night?
How can I be so colorful?
A predator in flight.
I have chosen so it seems,
to vie with God on high,
to decide with anonymity,
who will live or die.
Mindlessly, with disregard
for grace or soul or power;
Down I swoop without surcease;
all mankind to devour.
I had a choice but not a quest
to live or die or dream;
to work for higher consciousness
or continue with the scheme.
As I landed on man’s wrist
my tasseled talons grasp;
the henchman’s hood descended
as it past my eyes, he gasped.
Another day, another time,
perhaps, I’d chose the dream.
For the moment of this time
I’m locked within man’s scheme.
A play off Keith Bickerstaff’s “Higher Good”
When dreamtime leads me to a mystic land
I saunter quietly ... climbing a hill,
For the kingdom of fairies and elves reigns
With gossamer wings and jewels in their hair.
A sapphire castle laps with ambient winds
Robed in diamante from godly hands.
Sweet mist of air and silver voices echo
Through quivering rock pools of hawthorns green.
This lofty place thrills bright imaginings
Upon glittered sands like tiers of limestone,
Hard marbles and finely-polished pebbles
Lie dotted through rainbow of stardust ,untold.
Tasseled wands bestow spells on the courtyard
Beguiling my eye with pixie- waltz steps
Until, at the height of enchanted awe
Fairy Queen lends magic, then fades in dreams!
Second Chance # 3 Contest of Broken Wings
Posted 4/21/2016
Judging Finalized 4/27/2016
My jet-black tresses and the glossy, glass skin-
Ah! Are they the things of the yore!
The silvery strands instead are now a new lure.
Like a model, I wear a crown of gracious gray
For I know, this pearly wisdom is here to stay!
In gratitude flow and sing these lovely locks,
As my radiant face peers through lush, wavy hair
To reflect a seasoned soul, with all its own flair!
Teeming with toil and agony which fueled
The furnace of life, carving the crown bejeweled!
In poise glow and dance these lustrous tasseled tufts,
The bounty of beauteous Lord I do proudly reveal
Beyond rash youth, a class I’d rather not conceal!
Every silver line in the gray is an asset dear,
A celebration of life grown richer each gone year.
The silver silhouette is to my forehead
A hallmark of storms weathered; lessons learned in grit
Imbued with faith, I beam the never-say-dye spirit!
This life in all its ripeness and fulness I embrace
Holding my head high, I call it ageing with grace!
Dear tender line,
(crystal pyramid-hearted)
this king's chamber is empty
my queen's is filled with flowers.
Like a child with a bubble ring,
your essence blowing rainbows lovingly...
but long to arrive too soon gone
beautified in its diamond-studded brevity.
If not in this tasseled lifetime,
for certain in the next.
Hand to hand-mind to mind
soul to soul halting time.
For now, about we splash in word puddles.
Two shivering chalk children
huddling in cold cyber rain.
We sit in a valley of three-leaf clover dreams...
I'm sorry for the charade and deceit.
Dear tender line.
Shucking Evil In Favor Of Good...
(courtesy of tasseled colonel corny maise aye aire)
Challenge more difficult than threading
camel thru eye of needle, hence catchy title
scotched, and I aim to endeavor and steer
away from task surpassing
defying gravity clear,
nonetheless (sorry), I still hotly air
glomming pablum attesting ill
success while sitting
in this wooden hard backed chair
oft times a means to leap bajillion
miles, cuz yours truly doth despair
one composite primate being forged care
fully vis a vis from carbon based life
je ne sais quoi essence Earthenware
composed, whether flora or fauna,
one species, sans latter, whose fanfare
of self importance don, trumpet
white out blinding search lights glare
ring essentially making grist for mockery,
parody travesty, etc shady spectacle
buzzfeeding nothing of pinterest to hear
blabbering blaring blather most teeny
tiny in utero homunculus hazardous heir
to the porcelain throne
faulty genes impair
ability to reign reduced
to basket of deplorable
what, particularly as
one benighted longhair
pencil necked geek refused treatment,
(cuz preexisting condition) by medicare
not covered, thus accursed
imp of the pervert
resigned to toss in hat
unsuspecting nightmare,
and run for political office
touting offering nuclear
weapon to every man,
woman and child
additionally larding couture
to design outerwear
housing protective
missile deflecting capacity,
which article designed by
Penn students, yes a bit
elaborate what with
doodads, thingymajigs,
and whatchamacallits
they (especially Eden)
did amazingly overengineer,
but, what the hey, now
the prophesied armageddon
answered courtesy
oven entrepreneurial pair
two peas in a pod, which
success stories ain't *****,
where Ivy League University
flush with funds to bolster
any promising idea, yea
even full body pod suited rainwear.
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.