Long Transient Poems
Long Transient Poems. Below are the most popular long Transient by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Transient poems by poem length and keyword.
In the misty milepost
of the penultimate pathway,
at the faded fringe
of the future obscure,
the waning tune
of vibrant chromatic strings
of the setting sun
in the twilight zone,
reverberates the requiem
for the skeletal tree,
defoliated forlorn,
silhouetted tranquil
against the sundown skyline
of transient radiance,
witnessing despondent
the last sand grain
mark the trail of destiny
in the cauldron of time,
illumined by the final flash
of the decayed day,
d y i n g….
The tarnished lattice
of firmament’s blue fabric,
interlaced seamless
with consuming cleavage
of diffusing clouds
in swarming storm,
ravaging the unwary horizon,
halcyon once,
like the still air before squall,
marks the chameleon shift
of collapsing colors
on convoluted canvas,
lacerates the last corner
of the frail fresco,
c r u m b l i n g….
Deformed shards
of splintered sky
spin in gyrating gale
with fragmented shadows
of terminal torment
on dismal convoy
of curled-up bleak clouds,
the remnant rays
of sanguinity sparkle still
in the departing flare
of the sinking sun,
drowning the montage
of disowned memory,
compose the latent melody
of unsung dreams
with fossilized life’s
incoherent cadence,
sequestered in spectral lyric
of the sunset swansong,
r e s o n a t i n g ….
A spell cast, a net of wonder forever,
Transfixed in mountainous worlds, clever.
Isolated in chosen safe places, deep,
Sublime generosity, secrets to keep.
A portal of experience, a window's grace,
A reprieve from boredom, time and space.
A caress of melancholy, when skies open in rain,
An embrace of hope in sunshine, easing pain.
A pact with the vine leaves, whispers low,
A way to touch the seasons, where soft breezes blow.
Sending morse code-like candle messages bright,
Literally to propel the narrative, in fading light.
Washing my soul in the earliest sunshine bath,
Where spirits rise, along a sunlit path.
Soul inclined to shrivel in confined space, it's true,
A cinema, window a screen, a world anew.
A picture, dipped in hues so grand,
Transient, aching, tentative, grains of sand.
Intend to live as slow as the vista allows to the sky,
An idyllic portrayal, a repeat telecast, a painted dye.
Pennilessness shadows black
unemployment endless track
rails tie-er less lee when dumbly staring
overdrawn account issues
another clattering smack.
Income pleat undergraduate degree
contributed to the role of a sporadic employee
time to acquire handy dandy blues clues key
lost within vacillating undermining spree.
Mental state can be a precarious widget-like thing
directly at the whim of financial sliding swing
self-destruction demonic ring
courtesy of pauperism
delivers the destructive poisoned scorpion sting.
Immortal force of please hear my cry
provide support while
under the sheltering sky
steady (just out of reach)
sought income bolster up high
mirage vision brings transient delight
to this great (former
Civil War Yankee) supreme guy.
If no breakthrough I do not foresee
charity not for profit (but only prophet) I will bee
and this blurb carved outside my cave-like hovel
many moons and break of the day find me
imploring existential vagaries this baby boomer
sans middle-aged man who hankers to be free
thus though aye to be a schnorrer
who scrounges parking lots for scattered change
yet...decries blubbering the beggar's credo
write out a check and mail to me.
Philanthropic persons
may rightfully balk and get irate
at such brazen plea to squelch
ma pecuniary financial state
yet where the crossroads of mine future
most likely crop up which
would cause far a tete a tete
meanwhile, stoicism bids me wait...
For Godot, Curly, Shemp, or Moe
the stand-in for a Stool Pigeon
or even an odd antagonist
or protagonist dreampt
by Edgar Allan Poe.
If I sought to understand the essence of a culture, perhaps my own,
And considered this understanding a lifelong quest,
I would first turn my gaze toward the realms where poetry lives,
For in the poet's heart, the deepest truths manifest.
Poets, eternally amazed by the wonders of existence,
Build worlds and dreams with unwavering persistence.
Their words, like vines, weave through the fabric of our minds,
Revealing hidden visions where the soul truly roams.
In the cadence of their stanzas, the world finds its pure voice,
A symphony of reflections where every silence rejoices.
They capture ephemeral moments, like shadows in flight,
Redeeming what is transient with strokes of truth.
Through the veil of metaphor, realities are unveiled,
Layers of existence where the deepest wounds are healed.
In the delicate balance between sorrow and delight,
Poetry redeems the world, casting darkness into light.
Thus, to understand my culture and its silent songs,
I would listen to the poets, where timeless truth hides.
For in their verses lies the echo of humanity's core,
A mirror of our spirits, always yearning, seeking eternity.
So let us dive into the magic their words offer,
In the heart of poetry, where boundless mysteries grow again.
For in this sacred dialog, where hearts and minds converse,
Unfolds the essence of our being in the reverberating silence of verse.
When the opaque nights were starless,
and the depressing days desolately cloudy,
the journey through the tortuous valley of life
wasn’t easy as it was meant to be.
When the wilted flowers turned pallid,
and the defoliated trees tarnished tawny,
I lost the tantalizing trail of the garden path,
as in the unshed tears of toil hapless hopes sank.
The jagged pathway of listless life I traveled,
was sorely winding and the time finite.
At the end of the tormenting tunnel
I didn’t see the glitter of the guiding light.
When in stormy nights I was in the wasteland wilderness,
the surreptitious destiny designed for me,
the shards of my splintered sky fell asunder,
I forlornly envisaged strewn all around me.
I didn’t question the supreme designer’s motive,
and His ways of mundane manifestation,
but prayed for the sparkle of the sapphire nights,
and for the shower of the sunny days’ shine.
Without complaint I endured complacently
the transient time’s turbulence as His gracious gift,
waited for the spring to bloom the divine flowers,
and grow the emerald trees to enliven the blessed me.
When under the ruins of the fallen sky
my broken dreams were in the debris of despair,
I traveled within crossing the dark corridor,
and in the soul’s precinct I discovered the heavenly light.
In those precious moments I totally surrendered,
and remained subservient to His omnipresence.
I got the inner strength to hold up the falling sky,
and those enlightened instants kept me going.
eye opener, close me up for eternal slumber
clarity unseen, introduce a new world for me
nobody's vision can really decipher the murky water in the art i see
i deteriorate in the rusty shingles of Peace to forever unknown
blue candles burn, but they do not illuminate
blue brains wordplay, but who really knows what they will create
blue dwellings crumble, but we are unsure what will actuallu dissipate
blue colors remain as definitive frigidity, but what will be uncovered when the ice of it all does hesitate
surely sealed identity, reveal me when the eye of the earth wilts
identity withheld always, unmask the old world's gentle smile
everybody's neglect of true respect explains today's pitiful passion
i guess i am a martyr for an opinion forever injured till death....incompletion, i guess, is the new parallel....
In the mist shrouding mystically
the journey’s penultimate mile
at the fringe of the fading pasture
of the un-blossomed future obscure
in the twilight hour transient
the sunset swansong resonates
for the forlorn life silently spent
and becoming silhouetted still
against the shrinking skyline of lost luster
seeing the last sparkle of the dying day.
The twirling threads of turmoil
entwined in seamless motif
with the passing clouds of passion
surging through the sensuous storm
to the unwary horizon dark
halcyon once with splendorous hues
tinting the chameleon transformation
on the convoluted yearning canvas ablaze
as from its burning rememrance remnant
the abandoned ashes fly away.
The shards of the splintered hope
in the swirling squall of relentless agony
afloat on the melancholic waves
of melted fervor flowing in the stream of tears
the remaining rays of sanguinity
survive still in the final flashes
of the sinking sun not yet morbid
fabricating the last lattice latent
of the tapestry of dream
swathing the panorama of the promising life.
In the depths of silence, a solemn refrain,
Where shadows gather, and whispers wane,
I'll paint a verse upon a canvas of breath,
To explore the depths where life meets death.
Death, a mysterious and inevitable fate,
A journey embarked through an ethereal gate,
With every heartbeat, it draws ever near,
A reminder of our mortality, crystal clear.
In the embrace of darkness, we find release,
A final slumber, a gentle peace,
For death is but a transition, a change of form,
A passage to realms where spirits are born.
Oh, death, you herald the end of our days,
Yet your presence gives life a poignant gaze,
Like autumn's kiss upon the trees' last leaves,
You teach us to cherish what time perceives.
In your solemn arms, we bid farewell,
To those who've journeyed beyond life's spell,
Their essence lingers, a whispered breath,
In memories cherished, they conquer death.
But let us not fear the inevitable flight,
For death, though somber, unveils its insight,
It teaches us to live with purpose and grace,
To embrace each moment, in its transient embrace.
For in the face of mortality's decree,
We find the courage to truly be free,
To savor the beauty that life bestows,
Before we, too, join death's gentle repose.
So let us honor death as a part of the whole,
A companion on the journey of our soul,
With each passing day, let us strive to find,
Meaning and love, leaving no regrets behind.
For death, my friend, is a reminder profound,
To live fully, to let our spirits resound,
To dance with passion, till our final breath,
For in embracing life, we triumph over death.
Home was no longer her home.
Thoughts of survival clouded her future.
She dragged the boulder tied to her feet,
each reluctance etched upon her face.
She walked through the dark night,
blending her body with a silhouette.
Together they moved—
hiding her from her past,
exposing her to a blurred tomorrow—
of uncertainty,
of hopelessness,
and of danger.
The strangeness of his accent
carried her beyond mountains~
where birds croaked
like frogs seeking mates.
“Why waste this beauty in the cold?”
She wondered
if beauty had finally found her face.
No one had ever used that word
to clothe her eighteen years of ugliness.
Perhaps he knew she was new to the street—
but she cared less.
To be called beautiful
was relief enough.
Years of grief dissolved in a second.
She smiled—transient, delicately fragile—
as joy briefly veiled the tears
the darkness hid from him.
He took her home.
Suddenly, home became beautiful—
not rotten wood,
not smelly gutters.
She met his youngest child first—her age mate,
then two others, older by years.
Disappointment pricked her heart:
she could not lie upon his chest,
could not whisper darling—
a word stolen from her lips
twenty-five years earlier
by a stranger
who now calls her “daughter.”
Yet the word still burned
like an ember on her tongue.
She longed to taste it,
but she knew it would be bitter.
She loved this kind stranger—
but her love for him
remained
u n r e a c h a b l e.
When the muse leaves, his quill runs dry;
then joyful songs, sweet poetry,
drain from his pen, though write he try,
as hollow strains lack symmetry.
How then to woo the Muse once more?
Her treason robs him of his art.
What offerings, what gifts, might restore
against the whims of a Muse's heart?
But love is mild, and then patient:
love waits, with no pose or pretense.
His heart still burns incandescent
for her. To restore her, no expense
will be spared. And though she feels distant,
his constant heart will break her whim.
She'll not remain, forever transient,
but turn her radiant face to him.
Form: