Long Tinctures Poems
Long Tinctures Poems. Below are the most popular long Tinctures by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tinctures poems by poem length and keyword.
There's an eerie feeling in the air tonight.
Voices in the distance seem full of fright.
Crisp cold winds that blow
chilling to the bone...
leaves rustling in the darkness, unknown.
Silence even whispers loud the fear,
Silhouettes of ghosts on trees' barks appear,
waving mystic spears that sang in the winds
heard only by already frightened minds.
The wings of both the devil and the angels
confused the eyes by the winds that dishelves
the tinctures of darkness and light in the clouds,
that separated the moon from the stars in the crowds,
A frog nearby, its eyes full of dark fright,
it jolted a snake, its body slick and tight.
It fell on my head and I fainted in my fears.
But quickly woken up by its hissing near my ears.
I ran helter-skelter, the snake joined me
but 'twas the humming of a flying bee,
that stopped my run, only to find my heart
hanging out as the snake and the bee depart.
With fear I begged Halloween to stop its torment,
it refused while darkness still was present.
Then, I heard the approaching steps of sunlights,
that was when I was freed from all my frights.
The sky, so overwhelming..
it simply beckons,
grabs you..draws
you to its changing colors..
The sky shifts with the sun,
that skims across like a Winter
of Alaskan full moons
in the twilight of my life.
The sky tosses the fires
into edges; strokes the tips,
the belly, the limbs of the trees..
my spirit takes the trees' shape
as it extends my arms upward,
to feel the dusky peach-salmon
tints at the root of a soft cool night;
after deep butter yellows
have pressed this sky,
and the daylight had dressed
the plowed earth in iridescence,
as I, like the honorable trees,
stay rooted in Nature's soil.
The night will descend
with its violet-onyx hues;
the sterling silver stars,
the multi-rose tinctures
of man-made light will emerge.
My silhouette, with the trees',
will disappear, slip into the dark.
When fallen angels came roaring down,
Darkness formed the company of Nephilim,
In renowned legend, armed with more legion
Godless tinctures fleece hapless Canaan town.
The grim left breath in the ground, wild and wet,
Through Pitch-black gate, giant beings embark.
Deluge of demons rising from the dark, deep pit
Roaming around, trying hard to find the Ark,
Dappled with flu, attack the faithful few,
What would the ancient world be like?
Once bereft, now, strength of nobility drew
Windpuff deeds out of what history left.
In the pool, that groans with banshee froth
Fortunes loom to our detrimental doom,
Which craft hides the most fear in the cloth?
That covers the sea in secret phenomenon.
Salem sail on Siren, over the deep waters
Basham shadows frowning, despair of drowning
In baptism of fire for atonement of martyrs,
We at ease, see surprise revival of the Nephilim.
Let the disembodied imps that were chained
In the wicked wilderness, phantoms burn in urns,
Nymphs and Nixies witches that religion claimed
Will descend again, in latter times, reigning flames.
Poetry is tangerine and other potent or poisonous colors.
It is the breath you feel at the nape of your neck and
the strong caress of flesh on flesh, defying death.
It is most certainly Spring with petal flutters and jays
flittering about. Melodies come alive…words almost too
ravishing to versify…like brilliant diamonds and crystal lines.
Poetry is rhyme and not…it is time well spent. The clock
doesn’t give a hoot. It’s cuckoo to stand on your head
to get just the right angle, the geometric high. Likewise,
the adjustment on a thin wire, with ink blots to examine.
But a poet does, again and again, pounding at raw meat,
to settle a matter…but we never settle…there is always
one thing more. Death, maturity, seasonals. Let’s dig
up that grave. First we jump in, holding onto leaves dyed
in various tinctures. Often we swing over, on our trapeze,
thinking we are invincible - we don’t see the six foot ravine.
Not feeling trapped at all, until the Ice Queen shows up.
We paint that buttercup white, as if it were virtuous.
She vividly holds up the scales to weigh our slights,
to slow us down…now,
we dribble upon the page…drivelling every nuance, as if
our kids (our words) were leaving home and we need to drill
just one more thing. Sadly our words will hang
and slowly scroll away…our scribbles fondly remembered
by a few for a while (and our smile)
Paint giraffes ouside the line, and gaffes - keep them in time.
Don’t be afraid to annunciate or not…to be literate or
alliterative…to be silly…oh do be silly…to be human…
to be common or uncommon…we all have our place.
We are the apostrophes, colons and periods. We stop
in mid-sentence a lot. We throw the hammer down
with an exclamation point or dot. We write run ons
or put out briefs. We admire awe. This is just a small
treatise of thought…a mud pie, but certainly not
a prize…but I say, the prize is in the beholder’s stall.
3/13/2023
Breezy balmy zephyr
Whistling through your hair;
Sparkling sunburst
~~~~~~~~~
Waltzing on the breeze
Lady with parasol;
Sunscreen stroll
~~~~~~~~~
Old friends meeting
Chat over lunch;
Journey update
~~~~~~~~~
Words in brief entry
Journey journal;
Vivid self-talk
~~~~~~~~~
Afternoon siesta
Drowsy with sweet talk;
Somnolence loiters
~~~~~~~~~
Charming manners preside
Good nature speaks;
Gentle murmurings
~~~~~~~~~
Listen calmly
My lovely heart knows;
Details unnecessary
~~~~~~~~~
Magic moments --
Nothing unusual really,
Simple agendas attend
~~~~~~~~~
And when you look
Do you see me;
Pretty blue flower
~~~~~~~~~
Bamboo garden
Stray wind ruffles leaves;
Raindrops slide
~~~~~~~~~
Pen and blank paper
Ink stains converge;
Word art fashions
~~~~~~~~~
Fine line sketches
Glimpses in a swirl;
Frozen images
~~~~~~~~~
Art in sure craft
Draft after draft;
Emotional
~~~~~~~~~
Sense a new sight
Broad strokes highlight;
Mood tinctures
~~~~~~~~~
Old friends meet
Share a meal;
Surprising moments
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
26 September 2014
Singapore
She thought of years, within a maluable
frame, but a body, pulled out of orbit.
Yet her senses are its captive.
"How"? that's the question they, the young,
ask themselves..or someone else.
I am asked, "Why"? It is a theivery, a feat
of taking of what is perpetual,
until the flesh is consumed by decay.
Until the bones sprout into the tree
as dark as dusk, though sometimes a web
is woven amongst its limbs, and in the rain,
next to a streetlamp, the web sparkles.
Their entwined roots grasp Fertility.
They may be planted. Or cut, burned.
"Why" are there midnight songs? Or the Lakes
created by the rain, over eons. These glassy
bodies may have a beach, a mowed lawn,
or a deep wilderness that can betray,
as you become lost. But her shores..
are more colorful than Autumn leaves,
as rich as Spring's BLOOM-a pastel sketch-
CHARMING, and a Summer garden.
Thus, a Winter Spectre will beckon:
a lady. She will come, be a perfumed
whisper in a funeral. The heavens
will be alien skies- cruer tinctures,
or the many tints of the rose;
or a star's light dimmed by seven planets
that have the nights, days cut into halves.
And perhaps a planet will come too close.
January 23, 2021
Morning brews sunrise colors-
yolk yellow seeping over
edges; light sterling silver
strung; rubbed linens ironed
across the rim. The creatural
world-a lime olive, sea blue
cup- has a view from space:
mottled tints- mud grey, green. Deep.
Sienna red flames bedewed.
Aged worn cotton tinctures-
the crumpled fabrics' wrinkles
are mountains, hills, cliffs ingrained.
Threads netted- the indigenous
lives captive-evolution.
They tat the stretched skies, royal.
From beats the animus- birth;
sprouting; feathery gardens
open to the sun. Roots plow.
Volcanic lands thrust- beryl
hues are the telluric gloss
of... diamonds. Hope. Pearl flushes-
scents of the wash of Summers.
Peach -brown malts- inebriation
of puissance. Grains reaped, ablaze
in Autumn afternoons. Stoked,
ground into mealy givings.
Marl nectare, fertility.
Corollas of heaven- O'Keefe.
I know something about being a GLBT Ginger,
the undress and redress of our left leaning politics,
like sacred naked communion
for Therapeutic Warriors.
At my best,
when adolescence urged HisHer ugly ambiguous head
through pubescent tail,
I wondered if other fire redheads
and sun speckled skins
felt this co-passioned love,
desire beyond procreative need
to touch,
embrace,
to smell,
to taste,
but not to own.
How could I have known
difference between my Ginger sensuality
and gay male nervous sexuality
without more comparative communion?
Although,
in hindsight,
perhaps not quite so much commingling
of sacred elements
I invested with integrity
for sorting out these red
and blue-black,
purplish and heated
ultra-violet distinctions
of warm wet rainbow Gay ecopolitics,
with Ginger red-yin differences,
influences,
tinctures seductive and reductive,
distinctions inductive and deductive;
Integrity of wild red unrest.
Bamboo clusters sway
New year breeze hurls;
Tinctures of dawn
~~~~~~~~~
Magic moments thrill
Beginnings beckon;
A touch divine
~~~~~~~~~
Here in this room
Writes of a sort;
Colour sparks tints
~~~~~~~~~
Waiting upon words
Wit fondles pun;
Collect stray fragment
~~~~~~~~~
By park detour
Wet wooden benches;
Desolate feel
~~~~~~~~~
December died
In January rain;
Sadness wets well
~~~~~~~~~
My darling calls
Grocery shopping lists;
So much To-Do
~~~~~~~~~
Love wears a face
It's you my love;
My magic moment
~~~~~~~~~
Three decades old
You and I journey;
Starry starry night
~~~~~~~~~
Morning mystique
Sun on terrace;
Colours at play
~~~~~~~~~
Haiku strains
Zen garden charm;
Stillness funds beauty
~~~~~~~~~
Star Wars saga
The Force moves;
Good versus Evil
~~~~~~~~~
YinYang twist
Round in circles;
Opposites flirt
~~~~~~~~~
Jerky notes
Fumbling expressions;
Fleeting gains
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
06 January 2016
Singapore
Contraire
by Michael R. Burch
Where there was nothing
but emptiness
and hollow chaos and despair,
I sought Her ...
finding only the darkness
and mournful silence
of the wind entangling her hair.
Yet her name was like prayer.
Now she is the vast
starry tinctures of emptiness
flickering everywhere
within me and about me.
Yes, she is the darkness,
and she is the silence
of twilight and the night air.
Yes, she is the chaos
and she is the madness
and they call her Contraire.
Keywords/Tags: contrast, confusion, emptiness, chaos, emotions, despair, depression, dark, darkness, night, silence, twilight, madness, contrary, contrariness, loneliness