Long Touchstones Poems
Long Touchstones Poems. Below are the most popular long Touchstones by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Touchstones poems by poem length and keyword.
Deborah: the name I’ve grown into.
I am also called seeker, dreamer, believer, ever hopeful;
For I am all these things.
Helen and John, grandparents extraordinaire,
Their imprint strong upon me as though they truly were my parents.
Deborah: lover of words, of ideals, of the beautiful and the profound.
Truth, honor and integrity - these are my touchstones.
Cowardice, dishonor and mendacity - these are my fears.
Someday you may see standing in the bow of a boat,
Facing Kalvoy, Norway, island of my ancestors.
Someday you may see me walking a beach in Greece,
Barefoot, bare face turned up to the sky, daring the sun.
Someday you may see me striding the moors,
Unpretentiously holding a walking stick and wearing English wool.
Deborah: resident of St. Paul, Minnesota,
Land of 10,000 lakes, northern lights, frozen winters, hot summer nights.
Radke: the name I chose.
EVOCATIONS a still life ekphrasis
time standing
stlll
arrested
moments
revealed
in
stimulations
of
the mind
revealed
illuminations
of
the
past
yesterdays
becoming
today
tomorrow's
postponed
memory
past pictures
live
again
momento
mori
in hypereality
as
monuments
to past
existence
from
shadows
of
transience
sentient
touchstones
in
memorials
of perception
aesthetic
sublimations
of
immersive
spontaneity
with
fascinating
expectations
a visual
of genesis
in
suspended
animation
still distant
now
living
again
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Checkout this unique still life (on a grand scale)by Jorge Diezma 'Bodegon del Limon'
The corner store across the street
Was known for all its cuts of meat
But also it sold milk and bread
And other things you’d need instead.
On Friday mornings folks would flock
To sit on chairs among the stock
To hear the music on guitar
Of Uncle Junior (TV star).
The owner’s lived at my address
For more than forty years, I’d guess.
As neighbors we would nod and chat
Of Yankee games and this and that.
Today, in shock, while walking by,
An empty storefront met my eye.
I’d heard the rent went through the roof
And there before me was the proof.
Though times must change, it makes me sad
When touchstones that we’ve always had
Just disappear and are no more;
Farewell, my friendly corner store!
POINTS of REFERENCE
reinventing
tradition
on display
undeniably
arresting
at
making waves
defined
in
the contemporary
&epitomises
in
bedecked settings
deliberately
elongated
unresolved
& unravelled
happening
prominence
of
the
touchstones
the
of
the
explicit
both
intense
&passionate
with flashes
of
fixating
on
the
fascinating
composition
of the bespoke
that intersect
astonishingly diverse
& paradoxically
sense
of
the
cool aesthetic
simultaneously
painterly
offsets
the conceptual
elaborate
&
equivalent
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
possessed
by words
yet
discourse-less
implicit
intuition
meandering
in a
web of language
a whirling
vortex of
silent words
strangely
laconic
a tapestry
the plaintive
&oblique
intertwined
the detritus
of yesterdays
scattered over
the stutter
of time
happenings
high points
of drams
self-enlarging
onto
contrived
corridors
symbolism
touchstones
of childhood
&death
abstracts
in mode&tone
clusters
of repeated
thought
of the
vernacular
themes
juxtaposed
in imagery
confessions
of decay
&despair
fables
of meaning
orchestrated
organised
in ballads
of personages
issues
elucidated
declaimed
the constant
delusion
of the soul
in explicit
contrasts
echoes
of feeling
in conversations
back&forth
the minutiae
of the
domestic day
direct
expressions
of the
intuitive
philosophical
spectating
crowding
the mind
modulating
the present
of an alien
world
a truth
beyond
beyond
our
remit
SEARCH FOR SELF
in anecdote
&discourse
a miracle of illusion
noticeable trends
with
an
emotional outcome
both paramount
& immediate
featured instantly
for the
sake of remembrance
a memoriae in
transient naturalism
with
emotion mirrored
by empathy
this distortion
or connotation
so subjective
clustered
then crystallized
in
distinctive
measures
touchstones
to circle
this imagined
inner life
to
rival
former
occasions
&situations
a
devoted
exegesis
inspired
by familiarity
into
an elevated
synthesis
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
time standing stlll
arrested
moments revealed
in stimulations
of the mind
revealed lluminations
of the past yesterdays
becoming today
tomorrow's postponed
memory
past pictures live again
momento mori in hypereality
as monuments
to past existence
from shadows of transience
sentient touchstones
in memorials of perception
aesthetic sublimations
of immersive
spontaneity
fascinating expectations
in a visual genesis
of suspended animation
still distant
now living again
February 5, 2023 / 2022 Poetry Marathon Qualifiers' FINAL Placement Poetry Contest / Sponsor: Mark Toney
Corridors, power, call it what you like
When shadows fall, on this hot June night
These walls, this place, I'm absorbed I wonder why
They, the inflicted, their embers, we now throw them to the sky
Sleeping giants of Auschwitz, in mass production die
Good boy psycho killers, into their new world they tread
To look for new horizons and leave behind their dread
Behind half moon meadow, now decaying in ancestral creep
Amidst discarded gates and ditches, this, the city sleeps
Their corridors of Epiphany, whilst Christianity weeps
Written using the track titles to the Touchstones album
The City Sleeps
There's no set list of motivational things I can name
because my inspirational impetus is never the same.
Often, I'm encouraged to pick up my pen and write
by celestial bodies glimmering upon me in the night.
What moves me to choose canvas and brush to paint
can be induced by flower, a child, there's no restraint
when it comes to what triggers my mind as inspirations.
It can be reading works of a Master Poet's compilations.
There are no bounds that hold back my impulses to act.
I'm easily prone to create from song lyrics. That's a fact.
I'm prodded to cook after coming across a good recipe,
maybe tweaking it with a bit of this or that to satisfy me.
I'm an artist at heart, finding inspiration in everything...
sunrise, butterflies, my senses honed by birds that sing.
I'm stirred by many touchstones that spur my imagination.
Remaining open-minded is a great source of stimulation.
I've been inspired by compliments and even disrespect.
They serve as catalysts, like an inspirational architect
that lead me to find new provocation; a spark to ignite
the fire of creativity within me to rise up and take flight.
She is a masterpiece of wild contradiction,
fuse blown by a wick, of litmus tongue in your senses-
her moods shifting chameleonic shades everything at once
in candle wax trick or residue residing nowhere.
Heart's firework pinwheel blown
by a wish everywhere
and summoned without lips service-
to neither Hades, Avalon nor Loch Ness, lore.
In her magic lies a silent non disclosure appeasment,
a benediction like a life preserver of electric feel.
Her trinkets are cursed idols, in a pool of profoundness laid- imply at your feet, dewly spilled.
She sheds jade droplets of faceted
watershed moments,
strings them like pearls
to loose your balance on your
precipitated emotion.
She is "in the field"- set of runged abominations-
of a fools notion.
Jade droplets of faceted conglomeration
bathed of precipitale- emotion-
swimming your head like electric eel.
She is a storm brewing inside a jewel,
vagabond bauble non descript versing of
evident residual haunting your soul to steal-
new horizon, taunting virgin territory, with infatuation, lightning.
Underwritten page of felt covertly, subtly everything hunting, seasoned overtly sensory heightened display.
Moraed morals, moreover-sustained
of overlay fonting the atmosphere
cover paged as she wears where she lays.
The sky, a distant dream in the ocean of her gaze,
Wind stripped bare in a pool of borrowed
rhymes swimming your head in amaze
as we scramble for the right words to parlay
in her charms way.
In her voice lies a silent romance
leaving more questions than answers in her wake,
as her moods shift, atelier 'steem-roller,
like runic winds
of intolerant display, mind, screen-controler.
Touchstones in a pool of profoundness,
sun ray sing song at hand after the reigns.