Long Twilight Poems
Long Twilight Poems. Below are the most popular long Twilight by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Twilight poems by poem length and keyword.
Constance's 'The Pensive Poet Contest ~ August 3, 2026
"Write, pensive poet! Empty your personal thoughts
that have long been lodged within your heart."
~ quote by poet
How often I sit alone with blossoming thoughts,
the pensive ones that slowly flow with my emotions.
The devotional kind that dwell deep inside my soul
and those pulsing in my heart of both, joy and grief.
They refuse to remain veiled in the hour of dawn,
spawned unbidden with images that flood my mind.
Some have the power to make my hands tremble,
while others soothe my suffering with tenderness.
Memory serves a banquet of sweet and sour dishes.
If I could make it so, I'd feast on the saccharine sweet,
but as twilight always steals the light of sunlight's rays,
bitter memoirs cross the threshold of closed doors.
They continue to return ~ those melancholy moments,
when I write what begs escape from my heart and soul.
They refuse to remain in darkness, like a galaxy of stars,
reveries uncaged whether wrapped in ribbons or thorns.
Seasons change but my reflections on the past live on.
With sorrow, some cause weeping, others only gladness.
Milestones along the roads that I've walked on in my life,
verses that ring like lyrics as I softly sing them in my head.
I cannot tame those wistful times when pen and ink
call out to me, "You must write what begs to be set free."
My poetic thoughts of long ago and faraway places
refuse to be reined in~ and I don't dare hold them back.
They'd scream much louder if I tried.
Like the moon's brilliant smile cast upon twilight skies,
I trace the delicate lace of your ethereal face.
The azure light reflects abyssal pools of blue in your bright eyes.
Your lashes long and dark, but another charm that time cannot erase.
I trace the delicate lace of your ethereal face,
with each blink of your eternal eyes I weep and time stands still.
Your lashes, long and dark, but another charm that time cannot erase
enchant me; when you laugh, they gently quiver and I lose my will.
With each blink of your eternal eyes I weep and time stands still.
My willing tears stain my cheek for like the smile on your full lips
enchant me, when you laugh, they gently quiver and I lose my will,
then the glitter of you spills like shooting stars from the cup which heaven sips.
My willing tears stain my cheek for like the smile on your full lips,
the azure light reflects abyssal pools of blue in your bright eyes;
then the glitter of you spills like shooting stars from the cup which heaven sips,
like the moon's brilliant smile cast upon twilight skies.
03/13/17
By the green lake snow drifts on
Sun vacates the vacuous calm so cold
Swirls of powder white, footfalls come in a trance
On children's heels, slips into tomorrow
Covered by hours numb and numbered count
Crisp particles frost down to dusk
Leaving us to discern what matters
Shivering lips, thin ice and rosy cheeks
Twilight bends dark shore escapades
It is not quite tomorrow yet
Green turns to blue under the slice of moon
White snow has mesmerizing powers
Winter waits, wastes no time
Billows of cold air coming from the young
Breathing heavy in clouds of pure pleasure
A chance to run forever on the ice
A faraway moon took a close-up look
At the waves of the sea as the ocean shook
And the fervor that raged ‘neath the palm of the sky
Bore aloft on its wings the scream of a cry
Of a cry that was greater as twilight began –
‘Twas the cry of the night in the voice of a man
There stood he alone, alone stood as one
On the side of the sea as the evening begun
While the gloaming fell over the ocean’s roar
Stood the man on the sand at the ocean’s door
With a gleam in his eye there he stood on the sand
And out to the sea to the sky held his hand
Held his hand out to capture the pearl in the night
As it rose in its glow in the eye of his sight
And he closed his fist over the jewel he would take
From the sky to the sea as it raged in its wake
And raised it up high with a mighty roar!
For the pearl of the night – now in hand evermore!
But the tide overwhelmed him and under he fell
And swooned in the sway of the great ocean’s spell
While the moon traveled calmly on over his head
He slept fitful dreams with the sand for his bed
And awoke, empty-handed, with a stir and a jolt
Well after the moon from the tide had broke –
Line of inquiry:
blessings from above
transformed lust to love
delusion to illumination
earth-heaven bilocation
When darkness consumes my lost mind,
I turn to blessings from the blind.
To escape ego's flame of lust,
tones of zen my soul yearns to find.
Before my heart fades into rust,
I turn to spirits I can trust.
Fake guides try to lead me astray,
but I burn their words into dust.
In my delusions, demons play,
begging for me to let them stay.
I close my eyes and seek the light.
Angels appear to show the way.
In serene peace my soul takes flight,
entranced, my mind now feels delight.
Spanning spheres of stars and the moon,
astral visions kindle so bright.
As my breaths begin to fine tune,
heart sparkles like twilight at noon.
Sacred sighs sway from the wreckage,
in rebirth, I leave this cocoon.
Differences
We – rivers – you spring, me summer, travel in opposite directions.
You, towards the east- twilight- running, being chased by the night.
I, ever onward, towards the west, being chased by days bright light.
There seems to be little, middle ground, to experience affections,
to feed, to ripen – by days light, by the light of the moon – mushrooms
to ripen, to feed, mystically, magically, to ripen by light of the sun – fruits –
movements towards opposite direction, never grooms
not even affections, affections grow not strong, healthy roots.
Reaching out for that cold, empty orbs glow.
Reaching out for that worm Sol’s ray.
Relationship becomes very difficult to grow.
Rendering these hearts to find another way
to touch, to feel, to be – just being a friend
seems to be the only way- reach an end
to all the uncertainties, to compromise,
desires, expectations, wants, needs – above all, to rise –
at dusks grays, nights blackness – days rays – sunrise.
I sometimes wonder, think about the ghost
that sends you into the security of hour long night
- the reason you seem to need, to take flight –
that time of day you prefer not to host,
those thoughts of darkness – keeping them from sight
during the day’s, bright, healing, sun light,
These ghost, you seem to continually fight.
I keep looking for a day, when all will be alright !!!
B. J. “A” 2
June 12th 2004
"If we have a cracked vessel we may discard it because of its fault, however, true love is knowing a person’s faults, and loving them even more for them." Quote by: Rabindranath Tagore
The story of "The Cracked Pot" doesn't have a single, definitive origin but is a widely circulated folktale with versions found in various cultures, including India and China. Its roots are most likely ancient, with variations attributed to China, India, Morocco, and even the spiritual tradition of Zen Buddhism. Contest Name: Myth & Memory Sponsor: Vanya Evangeline
________________________________________
Carrying two large pots, they were heavy for the old lady.
She carried them at twilight when it was cool and shady.
Daily she brought them far to collect water from the stream.
Someone to unburden her, from her load was her dream.
Reaching the stream, she would fill each pot to the brim.
One pot was cracked, chances of it staying full were slim.
She’d empty both pots into a huge tub shaped like a bath.
One pot would be quite full. One leaked and only held half.
Still every day the old lady completed this arduous task.
The leaky pot spoke and said,” I have a question to ask.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of me?”, said the pot with the crack.
“Every day you carry me, yet I only bring half the water back.”
She replied.” Didn’t you noticed I carry you on the same side?
You do a great job and I always carry you with much pride.
You see every day, as I walk back you water each flower.
Your Crack does the job of giving the flowers a shower.
And dear pot, all those colourful flowers as I walk, I adore.
When you were perfect, I loved you, when you were not, I loved you more.”
Before last breath, he finds a quiet space
As time's arc has reached its final expanse
Traveled trails from life are etched in his face
His sense of mortality is enhanced
On the long road, his heart had been assailed
Left to bleed memories that stabbed the mind
Where forgiveness was asked for times he failed
An enduring pain to always remind
Yet, could he have known a life more sublime
As he chased moments of laughter's sweet guise
His passionate heart wrote poetic rhyme
Read to the lovers who welcomed his eyes
This evening falls dark to replace the light
As his eyes close slowly with life's twilight
2/14/20
"Ennui Sets In”
Whenever pen is placed
Between purloined phalanges,
When my mind unfolds and tears along the seams,
I know it’s time to move my thoughts,
Through the underground;
That dark crusty void
Of dreary dreams diminished,
Where loose hell raisers floss and shine,
Comb and spray,
As drowning voices backwash yesterday’s histrionics,
Dark-eyed winches peek through the
Centers of dead doughnuts;
Bleacher seats rust and wallow
In half-moon emancipation,
Ennui sets in…
My bow tie knows all the answers.
I cry and beseech for all those tomorrows
To resurrect, to pontificate, to loose
The bowels of screaming sunsets, yet sutured.
I flinch. I sigh.
Force majeure got in the way.
Polka dot panacea,
Wretched weasels in the underbrush,
Prufrock is the metaphor to mangle, impugn, vivify,
And otherwise squeeze until the cows come home.
I’m a poet without a message.
My heart pumps vexations of vaseline,
I am dry and empty
Like the musty moans of sweet madness,
Emanating elusively
From the hollow of ancient days,
Amidst unanswered questions,
At the fork in the road,
Two blocks northwest of my last dying breath,
I am the last sunset!
Ennui sets in.
Twilight vivisection holds the door open this time.
There is no respite,
From Raphael’s regurgitated Renaissance.
He jumps backward,
Through the darkening dissonance,
Dissolved, dismayed, dumbfounded.
Skipper Frank lies dead in the glittering gutter.
The Pancake Man melts into the waxworks.
Madame Tussaud wonders why.
Ennui sets in.
Dead meat saliva feeding
The roses of Robespierre.
Little Lord Fauntleroy is mixing martinis, and
A dozen dainty dames are dancing
Past the midnight of my time.
A blue trumpet, buzzing in the steamy shadows.
Lapping corpses line the phosphoric hillsides;
It’s not what it appears to be.
Truth and beauty perceived in the morning mirror.
Ennui sets in.
I gaze beyond
the silver winged
heart of
twinkling twilight,
lost within metaphors
in warm cashmere
bows of midnight.
Whilst lava lamps
for lost souls
f l i c k e r across
a maze of melancholy,
ghosts of past whispered
surreal sagas through
subtle mists~
silky snow that
d r i z z l e s
in the shape of crescent,
slowly trails
my moon-kissed skin.
If only the stars
of scarred silence
spoke the voiceless
truth raised from
the arms of trauma~
not every glowing
ray is destined
to be your wish
come true,
I was sculptured
in hailstones
of burnt ice,
and my ivory nails
drowned in the color
of your fire blood.
I am the throned
mistress of massacres,
a walking black storm,
that strikes onyx lightning
upon pearlescent
roads to hyacinth healing.
For everything
I touched
became frost,
when heavy clouds bled
to paint the skyscape
in citrine powder.
Perhaps, there is
no need of stretching
your fingers in gratitude,
as it shall
soon abandon
every lucky charm,
like the death of poetry
within inked
pages of
an accidental poet.
Yet, I still see
the unwritten
verses in your dewy eyes~
unsung
poetic confessions,
written in
diamond and rust;
“you’re the poison
I’m willing to take”
Like how romeo
died in the name of
a forsaken tale
told by the infatuated
soul of his Juliet~
Cupid’s bow still
is adorned with her
love-struck tears
that emanate
unshed truth.
So let, the alchemy
of dreams concoct,
a perfumed potion
from black
quartz rain,
to ease this caricature
lifetime of memories~
chasing sonnets
contrived in sorcery,
to seize the stories
of
misplaced prophecies.
whilst hope is flying
on paper wings
of a dark
horse carousel,
where my past self
was crystal-gazing,
to see the crown
carved from rhinestones
of shattered glasses,
piercing through
my honey mane.
But, this immortal
heart will remain
in a museum of
Monet’s garden,
where sorrowful
serenades linger
above thornless roses.
For I am heaven
and hell for you,
in everlasting awakenings
transcribed in turquoise
topaz till tomorrow…