Long Trilling Poems
Long Trilling Poems. Below are the most popular long Trilling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trilling poems by poem length and keyword.
Far away in the remote woods...rarely visited by a soul...only mysterious birds trilling to each other,
came across an unyielding stone wall, by itself - no inscription on it,
made me wonder! why was it built! when was it built!
Surrounded by dense pines, and cedar,
branches touching the lonely solitary wall with doting adoration, spirally arranged needles, fern-like leaves, riveting cones, sprawling under.
Inseparable mates for countless years -
admired summer’s enthralling bliss, weathered harshest winters...together.
withstood so many severe storms, many frosty nights, blanketed by cruel piles of snow!
The wall remains silent, quietly bears an untold story -
is there a secret wish attached to the pillar? A lover's nest? did someone wish a recluse, an escape from the madding crowd?
Did someone wish to create a hidden sanctuary, to rest with a heavy heart,
when the world denied the yearnings, in passionate poetry longings burst!
The resolute wall witnesses all in stoic silence and a sigh!
October 6, 2020
For A Wall In The Woods Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
All Yours (March 26) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
it is one of those placid docile what-do-we-do April days.
I sit outside naked except for my light polyester mumu.
an airplane wakes the cloud with her powerful engine noises.
my wind chimes tingle a mirthful melody.
Sophie, my cocker spaniel sits behind me, she is an inside dog.
Buddy, our husky mix trots a giant six pound bone around in his mouth.
there is a car on Kansas Avenue, we cannot see it, but we hear it.
nothing else is moving until I spy a blue jay landing on a branch.
so light in hue, that he could be an arctic jay, he is the lightest gray.
annoyingly loud muscle car can be heard in the distance, tearing up a street.
roosters behind me begin to crow, even though it is noon.
melodic chimes heighten their melody as today’s breeze picks up.
trilling of birds gives me a reassuring thought of God in the yard.
behind me I hear the purr of our porch refrigerator.
if there has ever been a calmer day, I was not aware of it.
someone revs a car engine far off in the distance.
old man or boy, I think, or old lady in a mumu. This makes me smile.
The piano rushing with water.
Cramping hands and nothing feelings.
I used to have my mind.
Now it’s unleashed like a groggy mess.
Like spines being tangled up.
Teeth teeter tottering.
Clamming up like a tree wants to do, but can’t.
He really wants to slip away from the wind.
Drums and cymbals.
Eyes lifting like a garage door.
And stuck.
No one leaves.
No one would leave me.
Even the lonely guy playing the triangle.
The trilling isn't an instrument at all.
Sounds like a sudden exhaustion.
So I was late that day.
They don’t take attendance unless I’m gone and trapped.
I love music for no reason at all.
The piano burst through.
Unleashed.
Drums and cymbals.
Exhaustion.
Exhaustion.
Curbed, is the joy to dance in soaking rain,
when its descant’s encore mistunes its beat.
Choked, is the charm of flowers fragrant treat,
for lifetimes falter till aromas wane.
Dulled, is the shine of stars in cosmic reign,
once gazing eyes glaze up, as time is fleet.
Hushed, is the bliss that trilling birds entreat,
with ears deceived and well attuned to feign.
So is the child in us, like a sail furled,
alike the blooming bud with petals veiled,
same as the river flows that dams repressed.
Hence, the price paid, “to be one with the world”,
where blurred mores live with ideas curtailed,
the child in us alive and yet suppressed.
I love you lady, singing velvet night sky,
singing azure violet wounded woolen stitch.
I love your lady quavering haunting cry,
intoning shades of purple in fevered pitch.
I love you lady, even trilling, scraping in torment,
your voice straining oppressed about strange fruit.
I love you lady dear star teaching your malcontent,
piping broken lyrics, imparting pain so acute.
I love you lady, you never knew a childhood,
you never rendered a cyan song the same way.
I love you lady, though you think my love no good,
it is you with whom I walk in the rain, preternatural every day.
Flame of Harlem, you gave so much to live. I listened, and I cried,
always my cherished one, so tragic how young you died.
Whilst in space
Slow-moving pace
Musical trilling tinkers
Tantalising sensations
Personally provocatively
Gently guiding me further
Deeper to a blissful state
Enchanting euphoric energies
Swirling and whirling within, without
Where sparkling lights shimmer
Illuminating brighter
Gazing in awe the striking beauties reflecting light
These moments I truly treasure though now
Marvelling whilst my heart pounds faster
If only you could see
Only, what I see
Would you then breathe deeply with me
and exhale the pain
To freely float
In unity
to peace
For other worlds await
Us...
Abundance of divine dimensions
Entries to celestial arrangements
Spiralling with no navigation
Security within is the essence of our perception
To release and liberate our spirits
Mine is here, Mine is there, everywhere
Embracing openly the greatness of all
Within my core from before and more
Timeless atmospheric freedom
Born again to be only
Again Born.
The wind is an easel of darkened hue
Under hanging clouds, my breath meets the sea
Where tears on night’s air linger to review
This pain once needled by love’s trickery.
Like a wing that rises on one blessed flight
Across the shores of hope trilling a dream,
Its fragrant air hums gently to rewrite
The end of sorrow wiped by a moonbeam.
And zephyr flings its stars , its promised grace
In hymnal joy for my essence, now whole;
Like a child of strength this gift I embrace
As tears become holy drops that console.
When life is pierced by rainstorms that invade
I think of wind chimes as my serenade.
-------------
Janice Thompson's Pen A Sonnet On It
Submitted 5/27/2016
I come into the garden
Where many beauties grow
Where saplings sprout and harden
Where flowers bloom and glow
The fresh and fragrant flowers
Are sending scents sublime
As from the verdant bowers
The vines and ivy climb
I come, my heart desires
To find some precious thing
Some beauty that inspires
I come to meet my King
I look at His creation
The leaves, both far and near
What beauty past summation!
I know my King is here
I feel His presence with me
Though He cannot be seen
I feel His gladness fill me
Amidst this world so green
Bright rays of light are spilling
Through canopies of trees
And from the trees comes trilling
The songs of birds and bees
For just as spring’s bright beauty
Breaks forth from winters bleak
He plants new life within me
Whenever Him I seek
The lovely flowers show me
That He who made me whole
Shall plant bright hope and beauty
Within my ransomed soul
The Artist of creation
Shall clear my eyes to see
His infinite provision
His lovely gifts for me
And as, amidst such glory
I pause against a tree
I hear a wondrous story
Of Him who set me free
For lo! a sight of wonder
The greatest gift He gave
Amidst the garden splendor
I see an empty grave
He lives; my King has risen!
He gives new life to me
I’m treasured and forgiven
From death He set me free
With joy and hope so ceaseless
My heart is filled by Him
With love and peace so priceless
He overflows my brim
I come into the garden
To see His works of art
I think upon His pardon
He overwhelms my heart
Wheeze in, wheeze out again as pollen
invades two chambers of lungs in
a choral synapse, an orchestral acapella
lifting my bronchial tubes as they
rise and warble high-pitched notes:
this is the melody of allergy
drenched in breathless tunes
right down my now tightened navel
while oxygen dips to 87--a horrific
musical trilling nurses in an otherwise
quiet emergency room...
And this big needle enters my greenish veins
to release a ditty called 'solucortef'
which opens this clogged overture,
sending me through a gateway of trance
as my Einstein-like hair droops, weaving
squeaky knots... finally, I river through
calmer streams: this very instance, dear bladder
sings another tempo, a urinary whistle...
the finale of a long, 3-hour allergy concerto
without any staged intermission.
Broken Wing's Take The Dagger From My Heart, Please - 2
Resent 10/9/2016
------------------
From Body Of Work Contest Submitted 9/13/2016
Visual Attached Judged 10/6/2016
...lungs, bronchial tubes, navel, veins,
hair, bladder
On this most unusual autumn day
I must say goodbye to an old friend,
a gigantic, ancient oak tree in my front yard:
You have shaded my porch for decades
enabling me to sit in my swing
on warm days relaxing, reading, and writing poems.
You have been the home of innumerable squirrels.
Little songbirds have perched on your branches
and serenaded me with their delightful trilling.
Limb by limb, you have been dying for a long time.
Twice, you have had to part with appendages, felled
by saws—at my reluctant bidding, but of necessity.
Some limbs have fallen on their own, in my yard
and even on the road!
Horrendous weather is coming, with ice and high
winds. For others and myself, I fear the huge limbs
on your right side that have been bare for several
years. How they creak when the wind rises!
The tree cutters will be here tomorrow.
Not even a stump will remain at day's end.
From this time forward, I will visualize you
where you once resided. I won't forget you.
Your kinfolk are still here, tall and strong—
as you once were.
May they thrive long after I am gone.