Long Thrums Poems
Long Thrums Poems. Below are the most popular long Thrums by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thrums poems by poem length and keyword.
cold rain
to slow-streak the
glass I watch you through -
you and your
christ ...
the ginger bread man,
sugar daddy savior, all that
I was not, (and less) ...
choices of
compromise, to provide
the lifeblood of your
"needs" ...
you, admiring
your bullion reflection in a
shimmering bottle of Armand de Brignac,
smiling for your
'badder' half -
a manufactured laugh for
the fools about who
find your pout a
bit too pretentious,
conscientious that the
pear-shaped
D/flawless Winston that
tickles thy freckled
cleavage, speaks as loud as
the painted bows
above, my dear love,
(once) ...
now I'm
just a jester, the
crowning kid of skid row, and
you'll never know I
eyed your trim - spied you
with him, picking a
bone in the
bistro I used to own,
with Sir Steadfast, but
alone - so aptly
and achingly alone ...
extrovert of extroverts,
yet you're EVER
unattended ...
even 'friended' to the max,
'midst stacks of your
fairest fans,
(and man), your loneliness
strangles - dangled on a fraying
rope of hope ...
a wish that life holds
more than your
this ...
my station
now mended, I've
ended my peerless peering, time
for steering my Wal-Mart
cart to that
toxic box under the bridge,
the fridge that I
call home ...
I turn and push, warmed by the
squeak-squeak music
of the wheels,
makes me feel all warm
inside ... I chuckle
out loud when I think
of you and your scarecrow-on-
a-cross, all warm ...
inside ...
I spin my
buggy 'round, just
digging the sound, and the thought now
searing my marrow -
oh, such delight, the slings and arrows!
now I'm back outside your
restaurant, you and "he" are on
task - Baked Alaska
flaming sweetly,
so I neatly ball my fist
and ... SLAM!
BAM! CRASH!!
with a flash, (and the
wryest smile - not used in a while),
the glass is shattered,
as I'm Mad Hattered in my
lovely Goodwill coat and weeping
wrists - stormy
mists and sad patter of the
reddened rain ...
now, just a bloody stain upon
your pretty pair, (a bonus - my onus)
I don't look up to
meet your startled stares ...
but stoop to
pick a shard, and
pocket it with utmost care ...
at least
my chest thrums,
I muse - you ...
have not heart enough to
share this broken
window's
pain.
Why are there stars?
Without stars, how would we know that the darkness holds beauty and light in
limitless value? Where would fireflies find the inspiration to put on their
dance of love and loneliness, searching for a mate?
Without stars, what would the Milky Way wear to spin and twirl, and flaunt its
extraordinary beauty to the Universe? What would wee one's wishes send
shooting across the sky, to find purchase in their dreams?
Without stars, what would there be to shimmer in a lover's eyes at night, and
measure the depth of their gaze? What would we use to count the ways we
love our precious ones, or number the grains of sand on the beach?
Without stars, how would we know where to find water at eventide ... those
sparkling reflections of wonder and magic, that ponds, lakes, rivers, and the
sea, gift us after the sun sets? (Diamonds adorning the depths).
Without stars, what would lonely sailors befriend in darkness - what would
they use to tie their thoughts and hearts to loved ones afar, or navigate their
way home? What would the moon have to outshine in the night?
Without stars, how would we give sum to the winks of an eye, the thoughts of
a brilliant mind, the thrums of a heart, the ticks of a clock, or the giggles of
a child? What would Sagittarius let fly from his bow?
Without stars, what would the Big Dipper dip? What would Orion wear for a
belt? How would Polaris know where North is? How would Canis Major wag
his tail, or Gemini know his twin? How would Pegasus fly, or Pisces swim?
Without stars, what would make Heaven so ... heavenly??
And I am dread to imagine how few poems would have been written, without
the exquisite beauty and shine and inspiration, that the blazing Sea of Suns
overhead, has given to the human race ...
It is a muse without compare, and a glorious, dazzling expanse ...
Without equal.
there thrums a void I can't discern
the pounding echos thru my chest
this hollow, empty, longing breast
it beats and beats but will not burn
how does a pulsing 'neath my skin
keep perfect tempo all these years
so coursing blood from toes to ears
and working wonders deep within?
how does an organ keep employed
SO much work while staying strong
yet make me feel, emote, and long
for things and people I've enjoyed?
how could it be my fist-sized heart
can wield twelve megatons of love
while joined with others like a glove
though beating half-a-world apart?
how can it be that hearts of gold
can be debased with just a word
and twist with malice, undeterred
on one sad lie that it's been sold?
how is it that one change-of-heart
can make such difference in a life
embracing loves instead of strife
through kind examples set apart?
why is it that a heart's remade
by one kind act of love or grace
or just ONE smile upon the face
of someone who has come to aid?
hearts are more than just a beat
they find their work in ALL we do
while plied in loving, false or true
of others, kindred, cold or sweet.
a heart of hearts can take us far
yet, even pumping, often breaks
and how my own so dearly aches
to feel the burn and know a scar.
oh then I had true flames, thereof
but now a void where once, desire
as tears doused, long ago, the fire
and all the heartbeats giv'n to love.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Pick A Title, Volume 9 - Enclosed Rhyme" Poetry Contest, Edward Ibeh, Judge & Sponsor.
The brook thrums as it vaults over the piled rocks
Rolling on deep into the Zambezi valley
Twisting, flirting with the rigdes that compliment the escarpment beyond
And the indigenous lass strolled to the rivulet a rose
A dragon rose burgeoning before the morning glory of the sun
Her corn-rows tufted with the vermilion splendour
Of marigold petals she picked along the footpath
The sleeves of chives thriving along the watercourse
Weaved in the refined breeze sweeping across the wafting water surface
She surged on a jade
A jade turning, swinging in the butter sunrays
With every step, every turn
Seeking a new face, reflecting a new light.
Her supple skin freed from fetters of freckles and blotches
By the enchanted resins of the savanna balm
The hale and hearty of the chlorophyllous lily-pads
Reclining their backs against the waters
Consuming their limpid, shading enigma below
Genies, river monsters and cold blooded demons
That loll beneath the swish, patient, cuddling an ambush
She reached the songful stream
With her khakied antique clay pot clasped against her left hip
A treasure handled down her lineage
A pride of the tribal women
The gold then rested in her arms
She furled the pot beneath the mesh of lily-pads to quench its thirst
Offering the thyme of her bountiful body to the monsters
Her clamor short-lived while her breath sheared off
The waters gulped her, with the dye of her flesh teeming off
And the stream clad in red
The ceramic whimpered into shards
The seering forest kept vigil, languid
As it guttered down her tears along its wrinkles
Her palm couldn't bridle her fate
But let it sip off between her fingers
I round a bend in the trail ...
And gasp, literally ...
The scene before me takes my breath away
And I stop, transfixed by the sheer breadth of the panorama
The shimmering span of Crater Lake ...
Clear, crystalline ...
Pure as the tears of Heaven
Translucent fathoms of water, waiting ...
Glassy, tranquil, yet the depths shroud an inky secret
A brumal dragon, ages old, slumbers in the blackened abyss
Its fiery, flaming breath is calm, but its breast still slowly rises and falls
The wings of thunder that once battered the air to ruin
Are tucked close and quiet, but they tremble yet
The snorting nostrils that choked the sky, and earth-tearing claws
Are still and cold, but they shiver with an energy, relentless
The molten rock that is its lifeblood, ever flows deep in its bowels
Sleeping, dreaming, biding its time and virility
Above, nature attends to its own
The remnants of Mount Mazama paint the reach
Crimped in white and green, the edges of snow-dusted foliage
Creatures dance, unknowing, upon the beast's back
Life goes on-and-on, in all its guises
Struggle, tragedy, the feral judgements of existence and mortality
Predator and prey, birth and growth, changing seasons
The ceaseless spin of survival, continues on ...
This exquisite glade and the providence that surrounds me
Thrums with vitality, oblivious to the danger and heat stirring earthward
Bloating in the gut of the burning basilisk ... far, far below
Waiting for when the time is right ...
And it once again ... scorches the sky.
Written and submitted on January 15, 2019
For the "Sleeping Volcano" Poetry Contest
Eve Roper, Judge & Sponsor.
I've courted luck, in countless ways
Against the ragged judgments and self-umbrage
I still draw breath, and the mirror has been charitable
Most I meet deem me forty, (I don't challenge)
My visage betrays very little of the darkness and damage within
Oh, it will one day chase me down, no doubt soon enough
But I feign my teens in bearing also, and perhaps 'tis a lack of maturity
I make no false assumptions of grandeur or wisdom
My child's heart thrives and bounds, a lad seeking truths yet proven
It yearns, still, for a soft meadow's callow passions
Or the blossom beams of a summer moon, daubing sweet skin
I hold no kinship to middle-age or frosted brows
'Tis a young man's mad marrow that moves my flesh
The ambitious vigor of a yearning heart that thrums my chest
There is NOTHING of my age but the years themselves
And the altered perspective of being nearer dusk than dawn
My eyes look abaft now more than onward, I must concede that
And all the myriad priorities of gain and dream and want
Have dissolved into the one meaningful prerogative of life itself
The only TRUE worthwhile endeavor that should be the foundation
The solid base that we learn and treasure and build upon from childhood
The ONLY thing that I've come, through all these years
Through all these countless lessons and struggles, to care about ...
That is, quite simply and purely and unmistakably, LOVE.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "A Contest On Aging" Poetry Contest, Emile Pinet, Judge & Sponsor.
For centuries of ancient thought
cosmic harmonies have been sought
in the vast eternal motion
of the grand galactic ocean.
To some the twinkling sky inspires
poems about celestial choirs.
But if those serenades occur
it’s just as if they never were,
since sounds of stars cannot be heard
‘tis said, not even by a bird,
nor bat or dolphin, beast or man;
for frequencies are higher than
any species of mammal can
detect in auditory span.
Albeit space may ‘silent’ be,
the waves traverse that spatial sea,
which scientists convert to sound.
Plus other systems have been found.
With asteroseismology,
a useful methodology,
“starquake” flickers of light can turn
into sonancy to discern.
Still, stars are sounding on their own,
with song motifs as yet unknown,
Aural hums and thrums they render
symphonize great Nature’s splendor
in astro-plasma pulses strange
from universe’s tonal range,
like resonance of bells immense
ariose in a stellar sense,
with strains, refrains sidereal,
majestic sounds ethereal.
Is there a unifying theme
melodious in heavens’ scheme?
If only humans had the ears
to hear the music of the spheres!
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
“Each celestial body, in fact each and every atom, produces a particular sound on account of its movement, its rhythm or vibration. All these sounds and vibrations form a universal harmony in which each element, while having its own function and character, contributes to the whole.” ~ Pythagoras
Inspiration derived from article with image, “Have researchers discovered the sound of the stars?”
There, so long ago ...
Precious little one, hair of platinum!
If I could but speak to you from the "now",
From the heart of the man you will come to be ...
Oh, you have a pure spirit there, little one,
Full of love and energy and uncommon tenderness,
(For such a wee, wobbly, skinny little lad) ...
Fascination, rife, for every particularly wonderful thing,
Like stars, the sea, and clean, white seersucker shirts, (three times-a-day).
A loving mother and older siblings to nurture you,
And a father who sacrificed all to work long hours and provide,
His sweat and varicose legs and lack of engagement
The payment for opportunities and education that so many never realize.
Yes, little one, clutch steadfast the child's heart that thrums within,
Above all else, save love, it will guide you back ...
You are a free spirit, and you will chart paths through life's thickest brush,
You will rebel away from the median, and choose poorly in emotion,
You will experience and learn and feel and gain SO much,
But you will fall even further, and lose almost all, I'm afraid ...
I can not keep you from the seams of Hell, little one, that is your destiny,
But the glimmer of love and your child's heart will wind you home,
The same heart that will crush with the pains of loss and lessons ...
But trust it always, little one ... trust it ALWAYS,
And here you will be, looking back with wonder and gratitude ...
On a full, rich, extraordinary life.
** FOURTH PLACE in the "What Child Is This" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Sponsor. **
Written: January 17, 2024
_________________________________
Delphic melodies on
elysian breeze
lustral chorales in amber
from spiritual chronicles,
seven seas mingle in tandem
in abyss quietness
of an arcane heart,
sky spreads sapphire salacity
in wispy turquoise
of unfathomable horizon.
In inked echoes
of aureate verse,
endured true self, mystic,
Beset by a harsh problem?
it's time to shine
gather yourself, and
overcome aptly,
striving to draft
words of faith
that convey emotions,
feeling utterly inept.
Yet, it is our lambent spur
that compels us to attempt
despite various paths
they all lead back
toward my heart,
includes everything...
everything I foresee
is my mirror,
everything I foresee
is my love...
Thrums of orphic cymbals
in choral melody
crimson wings beat
in furious rhapsody!
In sways of swirling lilts
you glide on tendrils
of iridescent waves
embracing truth
we're all fallible,
It's harsh to have a humane life,
still, God is in our midst.
we merely crave faith
that entails conviction,
Azulene swirls
of glyphic whirl,
blazing!
Conga drums
in sibylline upswell,
you waltz to a claret trance
on wisps of tender melody!
One can be driven to
destructiveness, illness,
or failure by fear
but faith is a stronger force,
that can push itself into
your mind and urge
you to accomplish
embrace power of prayer,
unexpected metamorphosis
may transpire in the aftermath;
beseech Him for abettance.
9th place contest winner
The clouds hang low, thick and dark
It reminds me of the suffocation I feel here
It is supposed to be my home, the secure native place
Drop me off in a corner here, and I should be able to navigate back
I suppose the land is lovely
Petrichor and sweltering heat plays portrait paint
Deathly beauty, stifling beauty
Rules I do not want to abide by
Opinions I’d like to fling across a hill, far from me
I can’t appreciate the people here
Old, not crippled, stuck in their ridiculous gilded cage
A cage called society
I pity them, a world lost all of a sudden
They crave a sense of authority
I wonder why it is that talking to the old I do not love,
Is more fun than talking to those I do love
I wish to return to my home
Filled with the thrums of teen spirit,
Of a lack of judgment, fun and life
The old think we do not experience things anymore
That is not true
We do, we make long lasting friendships, we go on walks
Yes, technology has seeped into our lives
But I am sure, many of us still enjoy versions of life they enjoyed, albeit on a screen
Chess? We get in on a screen, do we not? We can play beyond the people we know
We get to talk to so many more people, learn of different countries
We are fortunate, thanks to them, but the thanks seems to stop there
I don’t wish for you to dictate my clothes, my opinions and my behaviour
You do not have that right,
I do not scream it at your face, because courtesy is something the youth has
I wish to go back, it is too thick with boiling hot air here