Long Tracery Poems
Long Tracery Poems. Below are the most popular long Tracery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tracery poems by poem length and keyword.
Filigree
Celtic Filigree
Graceful filigree unbroken
Weaves a tracery
With strands entwined
Like a whisper from the misty isles
Woven into whorls of melodic unity,
Indivisible spirals of the eternal three,
Thin harp strings of crisscrossed swirls
Weaving lyric filigree
Delicate fine threads elaborate
Earth, water, fire in legends
Of scholar saints and mystics –
Erin’s braided shield
Two hearts intertwined into infinity
As a king’s wisdom brings a benediction
Of enduring life
That reaches back into the dusty kells
Of rosettes in oak roots interlinked
Plaited knotwork - no beginning and no end -
Echoes eons of captured grace
In continuous mystical contours
2-14-23
Contest: Writing Challenge – F Words
Sponsor: Constance La France
There are several well-known Celtic knots including Knotwork, The Trinity Knot, the Dara Knot, Solomon’s Knot and the Love Knot.
One of the meanings of “kells” is cocoon or chrysalis
–For Burns
Hanging from its branches,
The tree bears them like glorious fruits—
Laden with corpses rotting: old and new.
Their eyes glazed over, forever spewing agony—
All in various stages of decay;
Dripping blood from their slick fur.
It must have been their eyes, black like buttons,
That drew you in. The whole forest closed in around you—
But, in the end, it was a voice
That brought you back to the carrion tree.
Slowly, you released the corpses one by one
And arranged them into a circle.
Now they could dissolve into the earth
Like they were supposed to.
Longing to be with them, you rid yourself of your clothes
And lay down—naked as the day you were born—
In the centre of your new companions.
You would dissolve with them
To gratefully give your body back to the earth;
While, above you—through the tracery of branches—
The sky darkened and the air grew colder.
Still, it didn't occur to you to move.
This was the right place:
This was where you had wanted to be—
Surrounded by the fragility of death
And at peace with the elements.
The gate to the old cemetery is rusty and old,
though once upon a time is was elegant and gilded;
ornate with filigree tracery ornamentation,
now, it is decaying, fragile, yet still beautiful to me.
I push to open it and the gate creaks, groans, moans;
and sighs an objection.
Stepping into the cemetery is like entering tranquility,
the green wraps around me like a warm cloak;
the majestic old trees are like a protecting canopy,
I am awed by all the hues of green I behold.
The birds are non stop, oh how divine are their songs;
many headstones are in ruin.
I begin to walk a worn path looking at the stones,
unable to read the inscriptions, I find that so sad;
yet, still some have flowers either planted or bought,
oh such a peaceful place it makes me want to weep.
I hope my resting place can be like this old cemetery;
full of green peace.
Then, I retrace my steps until I stand at the gate,
pushing to open it creaks and moans again;
and did I hear voices whispering, impossible I think,
I turn expecting to see someone standing there.
Pushing the gate, I hear the whispers, is it possible;
or is it impossible.
Snow greets my eyes, all is quilted in white;
some red berries for colour, a pink rose,
delicate tracery of trees impose
silhouettes, for me delivering delight.
As a child takes first steps I tread with thrill;
mine are not the first impression but those
of birds. The neighbours' cat seeing me froze,
then leapt, prevented from making a kill.
There's a weather warning of ice and snow.
I think of workers with journeys to make,
over black ice, delayed transport to take.
Wrapped, I'm relieved I don't have far to go.
I gaze up through falling flakes descending,
diffused. It feels as if I'm ascending.
We Look Up At The Family Of Tracery Architecture
Tracery architecture began seeing the light
From the Gothic Age on it gained its birthright
Its beauty spread left and right, day and night
In the stoneware dividing the glass with all its might
It took shape in the rising windows to a viewer's delight
The molds and shapes symmetrical and out of sight
Where the decorative patterns do please the eye and incite
With grooves, twirls, and colors holding the window tight
Many a cathedral today share its passage and sprite
Like an acquired custom, blessing, and rite
That duly accentuates the interiors and exteriors flight
Where the parishioners do see more than the rays of daylight
1/28/23
TRACERY Poetry Contest
Sponsor-Julia Ward
Bejeweled, in and out of the Gothic architecture,
Conceived by Abbot Suger, through a constant conjecture;
With perfect glasswork etched out of the then-time silica,
Found its place In Saint-Denis Cathedral Basilica...!
Modestly outsized splash-smeared gorgeous goblet casements,
Renaissance classic styled stone accent wall sacred basements;
Prettily pointed piercing cumulative curly curves,
Rib vaults great and small intertwining like the war of nerves...!
Soaring airborne ramparts; metaphysical adornments;
Perpendicular proportions; lopsided floral fronts;
Steady solemn designs that flounce upward in height and grace;
Domed arched ceilings that charms of times, ages, and eras embrace...!
With no shrinks and wrinkles like the perfection of pure youth,
Enticing grand elegance like the fullness of the truth;
Tracery is a treasury of architectural forms,
Within which dwell, fine ethereal elemental norms...!!!
26 January 2023
TRACERY Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.
POWERFUL CONCEPTS
daring
to return
in
enthralling
&
radiant
grandeur
bright emblems
in freefall
of
nostalgiaa
resembling
a
galaxy of
frozen
spectacular
fragments
forever passing
as
drifting shadows
in an
astral accidentn
explosions
of all kinds
painstakingly
&
marvellously
spread
out greeting
the arrival
of the deeply
ambiguous
perhaps
an allusion
of transformation
something from
nothing
melted down
&
refined
evocative of
minimalist
tracery
in the
abstract
of
tangles
of
vibrating
clouds
through
the
lens
of
beautiful
innocent
ignorance
potent
with
significance
trying to speak
through
a heap of
discarded matter
subtle
& capacious
&
drifting
a sense of a mind
unfolding
stretching
adding
words
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
Child, Child, Holy Child Yes I'm Still Here
Bless me Holy Father as I weep
You are my Shepherd and I am your sheep
I pray at the altar today to confess my sin
But I don't know where to start or how to begin
It's been fifty years since I left the flock
During that time my boat never left the dock
I've walked the Seattle streets selling my wool
And have gone thru that vicious cycle like a fool
In all those years I walked to the Devil's beat
But today I prayed and repent, as I take my seat
My eyes teared as I looked up at the ceiling
I saw the light and regretted hurting God's feeling
I could feel His ray of light thru the stained glass
Yet my face couldn't hide my dark past
I saw the folds in the glass, the tracery, and the beauty
And I, too, want to be a ray of light and be of His duty
I want to be set free, absolved of my sins, for I care
Father, Father, Holy Father are you still there
connie pachecho
1/25/23
Rough hands upon her,
not near, there, or where,
nor the seashell tip of a fingering care
or other
lack-lustering lapping's
but the groundless clubfooted grasping
of long incoherent passions.
A clinker of desire hammered anew
by the forceful hands
of mist shrouded Nibelungen;
a dross now forged bright
into red-eyed gleams of flame.
She who bears the weight
of such a slobber-lipped changeling
covers his paws
with a tracery of spidery entanglements
the softest spell-binding webs
that break his knuckles;
refining hot bones
into phantom kisses.
For her satisfaction (and hers alone),
she captures that clumping stray
caging him deep,
and he left with no hands but hers.