Long Tempest Poems
Long Tempest Poems. Below are the most popular long Tempest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tempest poems by poem length and keyword.
carried away on the last rays
of autumn sun in a moon-shaped pool
carried away like cosmic driftwood
she's having a pocket honeymoon
because
there's a coat of scarlet velvet
somewhere in her Estonian hair
having a picnic in a coffin
that's her own gallery of famine
please
let's visit our favourite sunken ships
born within the flood in a launderette
born at the edge of a melting ledge
she's a sick sycamore
down by the deli shop
she's a dark tunnel
in a raindrop
she's a blitz tempest
in a kindergarten
she's a jailed bouquet
her flowers of tartan
she's a coquette
a Russian roulette
my marionette
called Rosette
The wings beat against the cage
in an urgent frenzy tormented never defeated
within this half twilight zone of slow crawling time held victim
The allure of consequences nevertheless feeding the flames
where conscious thought and lucid emotions die
slowly singed away remains at the bottom rung
The wisest transaction is the covenant never made and openly denied
decadence should never be answered once a pulls so strong
becomes injured with pride in alacrity's foretaste for knowledge
Where even the wind no longer breathes urgent
madness with passions trait as the grand tempest storms
steamily blows a cloud of smoke
A haunting being hunts darkness pushing boundaries
towards cold unadorned blue abandoned
holding the oceans spheres in restless silence
Restrained darkness meets light but never crosses over
the divide scratching at a spirit so forlorn
restraint comes naturally to the craggy and torn
Under the echoes of a lion's roar
A thousand tears can never mourn
the destruction and sad beauty that you have borne
Inside this isolation un-embellished
Under an austere atmosphere
holds the wings of time imprisoned factors
Destinies commander oh so damaged in this stunted wasteland of emotion's
conception becoming the unconsecrated norm in an un-heeding barrier
where realisations stammer unknowingly into the humiliating wit of despair
Which darkens the very soul blindfolded
The overture of the dove dances on as vigilant oracle of peace
the internal struggles of temperament challenges
Memorable moments within the spirit quest
fear and love wrapped up in a sorrowful wanting
yearning which hurts without choice
The pinnacles of reconciliation
and the fragile stirring of wings
wanting to fly is the verdict yet to come
a co written piece by Donna Loughman and Liam McDaid
The loneliness of night cloaks a desolate sky.
Drizzling rain clings to devitalized windowpanes.
Staring, longing for an escape from reality.
Ruminating thoughts keep sleep at bay.
The flicker of the television hums in the other room.
Dragging myself, I sink into the doldrums of a discarded sofa.
Turning up the volume, the weatherman describes a tempest coming from the northeast.
Burnt out, silhouettes of notions run rampant.
Even the soft glow of the TV has become too much.
The wind is starting to howl now.
I can feel it whip around the boards of this old house,
Like ancient bones rattling through the ages.
The porch blinds suddenly, violently thrash.
Getting up, I close them before slipping into my pajamas.
Preparing for something just out of reach,
Always a centimeter from my grasp.
I lay in a desperate bed.
Ever-expanding darkness shrouds me.
Yet no relief arrives.
Swollen eyes no longer produce tears.
Vocal cords no longer produce sound.
Just silent screams going unheard into the mattress,
As sanity finally slips through the threads of unyielding fabric.
“Shine until tomorrow. Let it be.” John Lennon and Paul McCartney
Kindness is what we need today.
Patience, love, and forgiveness too.
If people do not think your way,
try hard to see their point of view.
Be gentle as a summer breeze.
Be not a tempest bellowing.
Be the sea when after unease,
its tranquilness shines – mellowing.
Be not a tree stubborn to grow,
withholding the fruit it could bear.
Willow-like bend; let your hate go,
and behold your heaven’s first stair.
Take that first stair to heaven. See
more stairs that appear one by one.
To quote two’s wise words: “Let it be.”
Shine your light, and let peace be won.
Nov. 26, 2020
"The waves of the sea help me get back to me" - Jill Davis
A skillful mariner in the seamless sea,
I’m sailing solemnly for uncounted years
in the radiance of the shimmering sunshine,
and when the testing tempest rages tearing.
On the azure swells of the ascending waves,
soaring sky high and falling abysmal low,
my senile boat pitches, and I struggle
to keep it afloat, the journey is slow.
The moonless night descends silently
on the serene surface of the charcoal sea,
as the smoky sky sinks at the line of horizon,
sight lost in dense obscurity, nothing I can see.
I need to reach the yonder shore I’ve promised me,
I know I’ve to sail long in the mist of uncertainty,
adrift forlorn in the expanse of the alien sea,
for the omnipresent pole star I search.
I discover at the fading fringe of hope
the beacon of the divine star hidden within,
tracing the ordained course to final destination,
I’m relentlessly trying to navigate life for so long.
The languid wind on the sagging sail is sluggish,
with its vigor waning fast it can’t blow strong,
before the boat becomes motionless
the land of promise I must reach.
YOU are waiting for me at the edge of my time
in the eternal realm of the heavenly shore,
I don’t know why and for how long
in tormenting sea I’ll be tossing.
_____________
August 22.2021
Contest : Writing Prompt Oceans Or Seas
Sponsor : Constance La France
WHAT SHE SAID
She said to me “You will not walk again.”
But I say I will. Even if only atop waves
That roll in over the shores continuously,
Or waves thrown about in tempest and
The invasions of such unforeseen storms as these.
I was taken aback and I
Shouted, “I don’t believe that!”
So, she pronounced it again,
“You will never walk again.”
She was slashing at my paraplegic knees, trying to
Wrench away my God-gifted hope: to tear from me
My full armor of God: to cause me to doubt the true
Love of God’s inseparable devotion as my ABBA!
But I will keep working to walk again, perhaps less
Briskly than I do now in company with angels, by
The grace of the Holy Spirit and alongside Jesus
Into a land far from the desolate, flat macadam
To where her words transported me...For
I SHALL walk on beyond lamentations, beyond
Pacing on embers and ashes, to walking on
The calmed waters after such doubt was spoken.
**********. ************* ************
(C). Sally Young eslinger 8/2020
Peace
Unfading years draped you with grace
Like twilight tinged leaf you glowed
I floated around you on wings of dream
I thought I’d write a poem for you.
As we soaked the sheen of emerald meadow
The patina of dainty dawn you mirrored
On your face flushed by the sunburst sky
I thought I’d write a poem for you.
In my garden as the flowers withered
You blossomed with spectrum of lasting spring
My yearning flittered like beguiled butterfly
I thought I’d write a poem for you.
We’re drenched by mesmeric moonshine drizzle
The tinsels of longing rippled through me
Entranced me with enthralling rhythm
I thought I’d write a poem for you.
I sailed through the tempest of life
Couldn’t salvage the wrecked ship
As the ancient mariner didn’t reach the shore
All these poems I never wrote.
______________
October 8, 2022
Love knows no boundaries within its heart,
once given in intimacy,cannot cede
an inch of terrotory to depart
the mutual promise, bound close by deed;
Love in its passion,holds all things clear
yet lays wide open,giving its all
and lives its life ,trusting without fear
a loyalty innate,of instinct's call;
With faithfulness it lays foundations sure
against all tribulation and heartbreak,
death's tempest certain storm,it can endure,
held by unseen pillars that cannot shake;
With neither rule,nor scale can we measure
the height,depth,breadth of this priceless treasure.
| Year Posted 2010
Grace Darling
Tempest spits upon the gunnels,
But Grace Darling manhandles the paddles
To rescue the folks of the Forfarshire crash,
Stranded on the Farne Islands off the Northumberland coast.
The spirit of innocence to give more than ought
Took on the challenge and faced the onslaught.
And lucky for them on Big Harcar Rock,
Grace Darling was manning the boat.
***
Note:
During a stormy night on September 6, 1838, the paddle steamer SS Forfarshire, with sixty-one passengers and crew aboard, ran aground and foundered near Big Harcar Island of the Farne Islands group in the North Sea, located off the Northumberland coast of the United Kingdom, and sank in the early morning hours of September 7, 1838. Thirteen people escaped the sinking vessel and were stranded on Big Harcar Island, where four were swept away into the sea. The others who were on the SS Forfarshire perished in the storm.
Grace Darling and her father (William Darling, who was the Longstone Lighthouse keeper, located in the outer group of the Farne Islands) rowed out to rescue the survivors. Grace Darling (age 22) manned the rowboat and kept it steady while her father aided in the rescue of the stranded survivors. For her heroics, Grace Darling became the first woman and the first citizen recipient of the Royal Humane Society’s gold bravery medal. She and her father were awarded the Royal National Lifeboat Institution silver gallantry medal. Grace Horsley Darling was born in 1815 and died of tuberculosis in 1842.
A dance step begins with feet.
Hands flare, to make it complete.
They carve the surge, sculpt the line.
Transforming still water into wine.
Like petals blooming bold and free.
Five fingers chant in symmetry.
The thumb dives low; the pinkie soars,
Hands are blossoms, the crowd adores.
The body pulses to rhythm’s calls,
Hands, the conductor, fully enthralls.
Charging the air to sparkle the throng,
Lifting the spirits, driving them along.
The hands lead the way.
The hands lead the dance.
They give each step,
Its prance and romance.
Each gesture proclaims, a line, a word,
A sentence streams, its momentum is stirred.
The hands finish what the feet began,
Exposing the heart, its whole lifespan.
Without their grace, the dance is bare.
It's a song without a breath or care.
Brushstrokes dashed, the vision still folded.
The clay is yet to be shaped and molded.
The hands flint sparks; the wrists ignite.
Fingers flick flame; they torch the light.
They lash, they soar, they crack the sky.
The storm erupts with their battle cry.
Each twirl is a tempest, each curl a scream,
These hands inspire the dancer’s dream.
They break the silence, sear the floor,
and leave the crowd begging for more.
The hands lead the way.
The hands lead the dance.
They give each step,
Its prance and romance.