Long Trails Poems
Long Trails Poems. Below are the most popular long Trails by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trails poems by poem length and keyword.
She lies, quietly reclining,
her flitting eyes
beneath porcelain lids the only sign of life,
save for slight rise and fall of maiden breast.
But in her dream . . .
she soars beyond her narrow, provincial world
where tales recorded in approved books
are her only adventures.
Moonbeams beckon,
luminous trails of stardust swirl
gilding the fluid pathway of her flight.
She wanders aloft, observing narrow streets,
foreign to her wide and planted avenues
where one walks protected, shielded
from the rough venues of common life;
there dwell
the weak, the halt, the maimed, the depraved,
those whom poverty and cruelty have crushed
beneath ponderous feet abuse and hurt cleated,
seeing an encapsulated view captured by inner eyes
that sense her privileged world
has lost step with humanity.
Courage is conceived; resolve is awakened:
a Florence Nightingale is born.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, May 16, 2014
In the vast space where deep silence resides,
Beyond the reach of air and fleeting breath,
Lies a realm where stars slowly shed their flame,
A canvas dark, where cosmic echoes fade;
The galaxies, once pulsating, now are husks,
Drifting like whispers in an endless void,
Each collide, a forgotten tale unwound,
And time itself, a river turned to snow.
Here, comets fall, like tears from distant eyes,
Their trails a fleeting memory of life,
While black holes yawning, consuming all light,
Remind us of our fragile, fleeting flame;
What once was known, now shattered by the night,
And worlds untethered spin in endless dance,
Each entity a ghost of what has been,
Their stories sketched in shadows on the dark.
A cosmic death, a stillness so profound,
As nebulae dissolve like dreams at dawn,
And planets turn to dust blown by the breeze,
With every heartbeat, echoes of the past,
Resound within the silence of the dark;
Yet in this end, there sprouts a quiet hope,
As from the ash, new stars may find their birth,
In cycles vast, where windups weave the threads
Of every nascent dawn we long to see.
It is in the grey of icy evenings
When those dimly-lit wishes seem to fade,
A bitter nip, a woe this season brings
The chafing of hope's ardor, delayed.
Even though I grieve during the passage
Of summer’s festive and vigorous trails
How could I not ponder on this new stage;
As the quiet of misty Fall unveils
Reflective pauses where breaths gently ease
The dark and long wait of unanswered squall;
Endowing thoughts with a hymnal reprise
And, guiding stillness with poise that enthrals.
It must be the cold flakes in dusk-like stent
That restores hope with godly contentment.
Sara Kendrick’s A Penny For Your Thoughts Contest
“Hope is faith holding out its hand
in the dark.” ~George Iles
-----------
by nette onclaud
3/20/2015
The silence stream cascades in the alien alley,
sonata of stillness resonates in the concrete,
dances with the music of the barrel organ,
his weathered calloused fingers produce.
The nostalgic notes play a melancholic melody,
echo the tune of the tantalizing times long-gone.
The sigh of the old organ scatters on the street,
bemoans bittersweet echo of the sound of music.
From the concealed cacophony of clamoring past,
the music returns to where it used to be once.
The stark reality remains secret in songs unsung,
in the abysmal abyss of his marooned mind.
On the misty path weary in the winter wilderness,
feelings freeze like insensible ice on trails unwalked.
The buds of emotion wither away unblossomed
in the forlorn frigid gorge of the glacial hearts.
In the titular template of listless loneliness,
the spaced out ethereal melody melts away,
as the faraway beguiled beginning is epitomized
in the million steps he has walked enchanted.
The feeble resonance of his dreams drowns
in the depth of desolation confusingly configured
with the image splinters of his desolate desire,
and they fly away to oblivion in a sonorous way.
An abandoned musician of the fast fading fraternity,
walking his last mile in the deserted cobblestone road,
with the remains of the old rhythmical relic,
the last organ grinder plays the music of swan song.
And in the well-worn ache
of turning mourning,
there are no more tears-
for all is beauty-lathed
misery, held unswathed,
without fearing to uptake
hope's new sculpted shape.
A changeling exchanged
while flailing naked
in it's abyssal state.
And wholeness excises, to demean
only fruitless shoots, now seen
to sow what has no further meaning.
And in the ague
of restless morning's
fitful, nude, new break
from dim, unsculptured yaw-
fretful feet leave
dark, wet indents in dew.
Old soul trails beneath gift's gape-
heaven's gate, just ajar,
seeps, speaks healing wreathed
in Love- the writhing heart agape.
And thr dry-cried throat
too friction ground to speak,
slakes it's thirst on dew-
Heaven's assuage tempers, cools.
And in eyes' age
of blinding burnings-
forceful, rude muckrake,
there are no more proud airs.
For eyelids pasted shut, caked
in self- molded clay's despair,
felt insightful incision
draw sharp truth's decision deft-
knavish knots excised, reveal
man's Sculptor knows justly how
to grave His image.
And seeing is only believing,
when believing is cleft open
to high insight's slice and sculpt
understood, read, spoken.
02/12/2017
When everything else is dark except for the moon,
starlight flickering through the forest trails ,
when no human being stays awake,
on days the werewolf howls
Water seeping through the forest canopy
The rain drizzling in all its glory
The cold the wind the moon and the night
All combined make a magnificent sight
The stalking leopard and its shiny eyes
Hooting owls and their pleading cries
Make the jungle a savoury delight
The smell of rotten carcasses
with the faintest whiffs of coagulating blood
As the jungle goes silent
Bowing before a pair of yellow eyes
Offering you as her sacrifice
She trades another day
Another sun, another moonlight
Begins from the unknown caves,
Waxing and waning till graves;
Progresses journey; squints, slants,
Through rough rocks and softest sands...!
In its silent secrets, sweet,
Trifles turn tough; targets treat;
Trackless trails merrily merge,
Rivers and rivulets surge...!
Dearly deemed destinations,
Ease endless explorations;
To pilgrims of perfection,
Peace propels pure protection...!
I'll stay patiently trusting,
Each step to God entrusting;
I'll, my journey, enjoy whole,
Gaining solace to my soul...!
21 March 2022
Form J - Just Write Me a New Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
On Devil’s Night
There once was a devil queen on Whispering Lane
Mean and cunning her crew driven insane
For millenniums hurling malice
Content in her palace
Casting a malevolent muse throughout her reign
The King no longer amused by sonnets that shame
Concoction’s of besmirchment tangents that defame
He sends for his men
Calls out to them
bring me an enchanted quill before the sunrise flame
On Devil’s Night…
Along trails a fairy ascends with cascading red hair
Whilst devil queen sleeps inside her musky lair
Dreams of incantations
linking locution associations
Hater of poetry that allures not hers drives despair
As the fairy sings with an angel's voice
The King listens he has made his choice
Let it be so my loyal Jester
the fairy you‘ll sequester
The zealous Jester lures to come rejoice!
The jealous devil queen a tedious word crafter
Responsible for cancelling laughter
Now casts her spell
expelling the fairy to hell
It’s there she sings her happily ever afters
You see she was in a realm from hell, and not even a spell could save her.
The new reign of elect it is when she’s saved, and the devil queen will finally reflect. Denouncing her kingdom and foreboding.
Keep Fairys free! To express their poetic revery
Energy found its way through the rigorous
rigamarole of trial and error of those persistent
like the Wright Brothers, the Curies, or Thomas
Edison, and others. The close failures were consistent.
At the time, based on their hypothesis
that it will benefit all living-kind existent.
Yet they were all clueless to the vigorous
negativity that their inventions will be hell-bent.
The electric chair, countless deaths by accidental
electrocution, then the military plane that dropped
the atomic bombs, first on Hiroshima's citadel
by using devices onboard for their best opt
to maximize deaths. Also, Nagasaki being critical.
The Atomic bombs were both propped
with radioactive properties that were essential.
Ergo, good and bad are clarified when mopped.
Since the beginning of human history,
entropy played a significant part
that affected borderlines, racial sophistry
another open flesh wound of the heart
as fanatism occupied and warped the symmetry
of religion and segregates, faiths impart
brained the clueless first via chemistry
until Tsar Bomba took the chart.
The atmospheric conditions are codependent
with temperature. Barometric condition affects
weather and health that are both consistent
as one trails a single value that projects
air quality being as effective and existent
ergo, temperature gauges the fall and rise as subjects
and cannot separate themselves as self-dependents
so they're not polarized, but affectionate objects.
A preposterous venture to entertain as the last phase
of the Three Laws. The First and Second Laws were
easily fathomed, yet the Third, like dots in a maze
became blank when they didn't link keeping the stir
as the only constant having left my mind in a haze
being kerfuffle and not stifled, the informed concur
casting doubts as temperature measures my mind strays
returns a better me. I deduced 'twas by an amateur.
First Law: Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed or transferred (conservation of energy).
Second Law: Entropy, a measure of disorder, always increases in a closed system.
Third Law: As the temperature of a system approaches absolute zero, the entropy of the system approaches a constant minimum.
I chose "NFC", Not For Contest, due to my drawn conclusion, sadly truth became the judge.
Upon silver tracks, in moments held in suspense,
Gentle steps of angels are faintly heard, idly interlaced.
The vault of heaven quivers in translucent azure;
Through the eternities creeps a divine murmur, cold and alive.
The pure echo of the evening mingles with the sunset,
With the shadowed blue, that in the wing of night vibrates and rises.
The earth's labors lose themselves in a deep abyss,
And ethereal slumbers spread over meadows and frost.
In their stead, remains the alluring song of mystery,
Weaving its game through spaces, a secretive enigmatic wave.
From abstractions unfurl indefinite contours,
Like shadows of dreams, on the trails of cherished, holy days.
The stars, candelabra settled in the celestial decor,
Ignite in the night, reflecting the ancient corner of ray.
Whispered, the flow of hours weaves the threads of destiny,
Thoughts, like monks in candles, knitting their quiet chants.
Embracing infinity with a beam that pulsates discreetly,
Lighting up caverns of the soul, another secret universe.
A river of stars murmurs under the arch, an ancient stream carrying,
To lands unwritten where times of silver are forged, growing.
And when night unfurls its veil, an astral map envelops,
Revealing evermore depths, winter dreaming, time without bound in divine grace.