Long Tiled Poems
Long Tiled Poems. Below are the most popular long Tiled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tiled poems by poem length and keyword.
It's a snakepit because paradise is just a tattoo,
where the indigent,
slithers in and out like some revolving door,
where the toughest guards,
don't walk alone,
cause even the delicate ones,
can gut you dry in their awakening,
where Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are armed,
the bells go off,
and so do they,
when they are in their delirium state,
need the warden out from his chapel to mediate,
his tiled floor is consecrate ground,
keeping the egregious nutjobs away from him,
but there's just no talking to the obtuse.
There's no such thing as a happy ever after Mr. Disney.
~~Sooner or later, we all die.
Date: 08/20/2019
Topped with terra cotta- tiled roof
the house stood on a hill with pine trees,
partly covering it from view,
with its turrets opening like watchful eyes.
Rumor runs, at night from there,
people hear strange wailings.
Scoffing it as the weird fancy of crazy minds,
eager to prove the irrationality of it,
one night I ascended the hill,
leading to that cozy mansion.
As I paced faster and came closer,
the house looked so imposing
with a wide yard and a porch
surrounded by ornamental railings
with a winding driveway
lain with marble squares
and leading to the entrance
Close to the house but safely distant,
I noticed a narrow pit hidden among shrubs
Nothing was unusual about it.
I walked round and round.
Couldn’t see anything to rouse suspicion.
When I was about to leave,
as a proud victor after a thorough search,
I saw a skeletal figure emerging
from the pit and rising into air wailing.
In horror, as I looked on,
like a bird, on the pine branch, it did perch
and soon shape shifted into a man.
Fancy or Fact, never looking back
I took to my heels as fast as I could.
If I weren't afraid, I'd break out of my castle
out of my gilded throne, out of my head tiara.
I'd break out of marble floors and tiled walls
out of this cold linoleum of grand opulence.
Breaking out of embroidered blue flowers.
Breaking out of crappy fluttering voices.
Into that open field of cherry blossoms
Into those flossy clouds of chattering birds.
Into misty mountains of icy north winds
Into stormy seas where gallant waves rush.
Into cooled sands wet in delightful soft kiss.
Into solace of graffiti, a rock in love's bliss.
Baby bats within caves of hidden treasure
No longer afraid to lose all unknown.
No longer afraid of what might happen.
No longer afraid of what world will say.
No longer afraid of starlights in sky.
No longer afraid of freedom,
No longer afraid to live...
No longer afraid to die.
Dated 10th September 2019
Sponsor Line Gauthier
Contest Name IF I WEREN'T AFRAID
Narrow streets overlooked by red-tiled roofs,
lie brightly in the April sun while small robins
nap in the branches of the blooming buds,
but awakened by the voices of vibrant youths.
The young nuns in black attire, cross the voice-filled street
of vendors and buyers, they can't be late for The Lord's Passion;
punctuality counts, it's a creed they firmily believe with conviction,
which is not found in souls that aren't so meek.
In this southern, friendly town faith matters more than wealth:
their devotion to Christ is that spring that never stops flowing...
it's passed from mother to daughter and son: it's following
the Cross until they reach the steps of the crowded church.
The middle-aged priest stands in the doorway and greets them all,
such a fervent faith is too undeniable in the faithful's overjoyed eyes...
Christ's life was given up for all sinners: poor, rich, big and small;
the Blessing of the Cross is an emotion deeply felt in grateful hearts.
This peaceful town at the foot the mountains dazzles in the mild noon,
the balmy breeze coming from the North brings in the fragrance of pines;
who was born here, will return and dwell in this valley of sacred shrines,
can all the wonders he saw be as enchanting as the midnight argent moon?
Written on 5/16/2017
By my red tiled house stands a mango tree
Beneath it I cherish my treasured memories
Where cows merrily roam and cattle graze
As morning sky scintillates in marigold rays
Face of innocent days I spent in tiny village
Amid rice fields gracing serene landscapes
Watching crops grow from seeds to harvests
Playing game of cricket and idling in silliness
From dawn till dusk, ambling with friends
Venturing out coyly, exploring night’s secrets
Walking dusty roads holding kerosine lamps
Strolling like silhouettes on dark river banks
Floating young emotions on giggling streams
Stealing kiss of love, choreographing dreams
As we told stories spinning moonlit wizardry
Listening to wilderness strumming wild music
By my red tiled house, under the mango tree
Where eternally lie my childhood memories
January 13, 2021
Placed 1st: Your choice (44) contest by Brian Strand
Placed 5th: Good old days contest by Mystic Rose Rose
Replication, O photon.
Atmosphere. Molecules.
Phase, like seasons. Here, then gone.
Tools, tremors, toadstools.
Occipital ridge, troll, bridge.
Billy goat, thy horn.
Pestilence, thy name is midge.
Freighter, fain, forlorn.
Lightning bolt, fruit of the gods.
Eat one and become.
Mycelial, goldenrod?
Mushroom, just stay mum.
Sign of salvation, sea-bass?
Shark, set eyes on same.
Liquid legend, O my lass?
Sure. I'm glad you came.
Tympani, crush. Firefly, flee.
Knock thrice, then flit, thrush.
O behemoth, swim thy sea?
Death, you've had a brush.
Enormous or gigantic?
Titan, which to choose?
Oil on surface, stiff or slick?
Flickering fate, fast fuse.
Race, a trace of turkey wild.
In the corn, my child.
Charnel house floor, stains a-tiled?
Ululate, red riled.
Racket, informed packet?
Data, grow in trees.
Weather, wail. Jail, jacket.
Pain, poisonous to please.
strong does the wind blow.
against it, she walks towards me;
two guitars I hold.
Four parakeets
Living in a little cage
Singing for freedom
Why do you seek us?
Earthlings, you are so far away.
You will find, that we...
thirsty little flame,
not orange, crimson or red;
highlights sister's scales.
Sandals speak below,
Though sand knows no prejudice;
Sun begins to shine.
Each page is Hellboy,
Read with warmth in my sunroom;
Tiled floor gently glows!
a room filled with mirrors,
collected by a blind man;
hoping to once see.
Tarot's number nine,
wisdom boarded isolation.
here to set it free.
hello dear nature
and to the spiders inside
outside I will be
Grimlocke the Oracle,
Born to teach us prophecies.
What has he to say?
I'm a happy cat,
you are my fine gingerbread,
let's go out for milk!
'found my old guitar,
played just a major seventh;
strings were out of tune
dreaming and daring.
And with this shovel, digging;
for dinosaur bones.
ouch, squeezing my eyes,
a nail has entered my foot.
taking a look; rust!
baby elephant,
life will be so hard for you;
baby elephant.
room to room I walk.
each turn doggies follow;
love is mutual.
sitting on my stool,
gazing beyond my guitar;
reaching for my drink.
drunken pirate heads north.
epic adventure begins;
treasured gazebos.
lost; knowing where I am,
very slowly I shake my head;
lost; knowing where I am.
polymorphic six
everywhere where you shall look six
cryptography six
one two three four five
days away from the Amazon
curious Return
tasty yellow rice
simmering in shiny tin
lunch will be awesome
romantic squirrel,
painted his acorns crimson;
appreciated!
gluttonous owl,
eating extra meals each day;
tree branches annoyed
black daylight cricket
happens to have lost his way
friends will wait to play
escaped parakeet
from one strange place to another
panicked guardsman prowls
The trilogy dance...
Boxing on midnight canvas;
Who will reign supreme?
Five lighted candles,
What will your fortune behold?!?
A tarot draw; hot!
Unbelievable
Just indefatigable
Vocabulary
forest is alive
moon lights up pathways and trails
horns are all I see
The old house stands still.
Rot has set in.
A flying termite caught in the webs of a dead spider, sway to the shrill of a ceiling fan.
All things sway.
Dreams rise and suffocate in the mouldering mortars
Falling on the adjacent tiled roof.
They scream, laugh, make love, declare the infiniteness
Of their finite existence through diatribes of reality and unreality.
They are passionate bunch,
Bound by their common desire to be. And blood.
And the house just is. It still is.
Once there were sparrows in the ventilators.
And envious swallows on the palm trees.
The ripples in the pond sing their dark, merry tunes
Licking away its edges,
And they shove and trample for the whiff of north wind.
Life persists in slow, lonely decadence.
The cactus on the roof thrives in monsoon and in summer.
Basil live and die, live and die trenched in the never ending circle
Of micro-civilisation.
The house harvests its own sustenance in the whispers among its bricks
That become a collective
And a roar is heard.
They pray to Earth.
The old house is defiant,
The old house is tired.
Its melting skin sizzles and stinks of industry of old,
A glorious past always in the distant like the horizon,
The promise of bright future exposed to the misery
That is naturalness of time.
The hammer rusted, weed has grown over,
They clinch onto the sickle, like oxygen.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Form: Free Verse
Date: 02 / 11 / 2016
Growing up in a state of the country where all the magnificence is limited to either history books or fictional literature, one hopes for something more. This is definitely a political reflection than anything else, but 'the house' is not just a metaphor, it does exist, and so do the people living in it.
A cold wind.
Whatever was here has fled inside
or has curled up in a corner somewhere
out of sight and gone to sleep.
Footpaths are tiled in the wet,
skeletal remains of leaves
and tree trunks have begun to wear
their gray winter coat of lichen.
There is an honesty in the landscape,
the scaffolding that holds form
together is no longer concealed
by a camouflage of color, the eye
is confronted by what lies beneath.
Cover withers away to bare ground,
the earth takes breath, bathes
in the chilly glow of a winter sun.
I also come to this place,
to this stark season of truth
and see myself stripped back
to the bones and sinews of me.
The wind blows through the same
vacant spaces, unpicks the pretense
to let a cold light shine through.
I don't like what I see.
When I was a young boy
I used to watch with awe
The common house sparrows
busy building nest out of
twigs,straw and dry leaves
in the crevices of the tiled roof
in my old ancestral house.
The ever chirping sparrows
never stayed at one place,
But kept moving swiftly,
now in the backyard of the house
Where there was a garden,
And 'd collect tiny worms
Insects,, seeds or grains;
And keep them carefully in their mouth
And fly from thence to their nests,
Where they 'd feed their chicks
Waiting anxiously to be fed;
I remember all these vividly
Even today ,to tell my grandchildren .
What happened to these birds,grandpa?
My grandsons asked ;I told them
The tiny birds were driven out
By radiation emitted by micro-wave towers;
And further by paucity of their food
The worms and insects which
No longer are there in the modern
Landscaped gardens fed with insecticides;
And where will they go to build nests
As modern buildings are bereft of
attics, crevices and spaces.
So my kids,make cardboard nests
Keep them in vantage points with
seeds and grains inside to lure
these lovely little passerine, the sparrows
To our neighborhood once again,
Long live the house sparrows.