Long Unsullied Poems
Long Unsullied Poems. Below are the most popular long Unsullied by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unsullied poems by poem length and keyword.
I dream to wake up in a new world,
A world that is balanced and healthy,
A world where love, peace and togetherness thrive,
A world where war is not a resolution to disputes.
A world where no one is indigent.
My dream is,
To have my thoughts on a slate before me,
To be able to shut the door to the deluge of my mind,
To be able to permute my thoughts in a serene flow,
To have my sky clear from sombre clouds.
My dream is to wake up in a sculptor's world,
Where defects are easily chiselled out,
My dream is to have the world on a canvas,
Painted with colours of laughter, joy and hope,
Bringing daylight into the midnight train.
My dream is to always yield to the Potter,
To have Him mould me to His choice vessel,
My dream is to wake up in a different world,
A world adorned in its pristine beauty,
A world unsullied by the innovations of time.
August 12, 2022.
He writes to me in curly cues painting
fractals on pressed paper made of rice.
Shreds of simple stalks are beaten to
bare the smoothness of his script.
We have not known each other long
but we have known each other since
man first made fire, the poet and his
muse. His presentation fascinates
with swirls of brush or indian ink
he strokes, both deep and long,
with pleasant pressure most often.
His words though highbrow smack
of pent passions, watering palates
and earthy scents. The wanting so sweet
no reality could fill the expanse, the
oceans of prose, the mountains which
jut provocatively, daring, inviting, the cleats
of man, use pinion and hammer triumphantly
upon the bounty of breast, the thigh of night
the whimper of dawn. Poet preen for your muse
Caress the unsullied parchment whiteness
in the hollow of my neck.
First Published in Pyrokinection May 2013
I wish I had...
the power to change
a broken man's circumstances.
I'd flip his dim world
back downside up,
add colors and rays of sunshine to it,
and keep Lady Luck
smiling at him. I'd erase
his misfortune and pull him back up
by his bootstraps.
I wish I had...
the unsullied innocence
of a child;
wide-eyed curiosity,
a complete absence of guile,
unblemished
by transgression,
brimming
with vernal exuberance;
oh, it's like being reborn!
I wish I had...
the ability to resurrect the dead.
I'd bring back my father
and say to him ONE thing
I wish I've said in his living years,
and that is..."Dad, I love you!"
He knew I loved him, you see.
I showed him so many times
and in so many different ways,
but alas, I never told him so.
oh dear heaven ...
how impeccant …
how subtly innocent and eager!
are you truly as oblivious as you seem?
oh, I am sure of otherwise …
or would there not be so much unsullied skin laid bare -
so few garments that thus adorn the masterpiece?
utter innocence, burning in the motion of your stride ...
a fortuitous feast of flames for the common!
the gods themselves feign deference to such fair symmetry,
and barter the heavens for but a grace of your shadow -
you are pristine virtue, annotated ...
you are torturous fare for the plain and fallow,
and envy for even the inimitable …
innate sensuality trickles from your feathery brow
to your Lilliputian toes, (painted bubblegum pink),
tracing an unblemished dermal landscape
that any hormone-hewn human would consider a dream destination …
you exude a connate allure, inexplicable,
enchanting even the stars -
sky weeping in exquisite anguish for sake of your fluid movement,
saucy, exposed hips,
tossed with coy yet libidinous intent,
their immaculate and fluid rhythm
catching in chests like a cardiac event,
pulling the breath from lungs around you like taffy,
(and not returning without discerned effort),
every gaze in your line swinging in matched tempo,
stupefying all within your affect ...
a mass hypnosis inspired by your walk alone -
ponytail braid and pink ribbon sway in opposite tempo,
adding to the sassy attitude …
eyes, pure white arctic spheres
with polished onyx centers,
set to possess the soul, should they find your focus …
faultless, blue-white smile,
framed by sugar plum lips, shaped to perfect bows ...
oh dear heaven!
such resplendent rapture should they whisper your name!
such divine intoxication should those eyes affix yours!
the gods themselves are weeping wonder ...
the gods themselves!
* SECOND PLACE in the "Free Verse On Love" Poetry Contest, Laura Loo, Sponsor. *
I was flying innocent in my open sky
A storm from nowhere tore me down
No one ever cared for the injured bird
Hiding in me clasping the broken mind
In the collapsed wings painfully curled
Forgot how to fly free in the wild wind.
Pleas in shame sent out in meek voice
Reached nowhere found no other ear
Retracted unheard and hung unwanted.
Feeble appeals making no great waves
Touched no one and entered no heart
Subsided unfelt and faded unresponded.
The lone bird cries within without care
I can’t shed the flowing hidden tears.
I was lashed by the storm of dark desire
Mute feelings of young emotion mutilated
The unsullied sky was broken by the invader
Now forcing me to get lost in the wreckage.
What of me in the end you would remember :
A bird with broken wings in the ruins of its sky.
March 4, 2018.
Nature so unsullied and pristine
in God’s own land so divine,
in a child born with psyche empty,
beautiful is the mindscape naughty,
encased in a frame of innocence,
of the real world it has no sense.
Flower blooms in a child’s smile,
reflected in flawless mirror so fragile,
can’t survive unbroken very long,
for it bears harsh time’s impact strong.
His gullible simplicity may last
while his world changes fast.
As the impish child becomes adult,
the loss of innocent mind may not result,
with his naivety he is happy, not upset,
for the child in him hasn’t grown up yet.
__________________
March 2, 2022
Contest : Naughty Yet Innoscent
Sponsored by : Mohan Chutani
my grandson wakes up early, excited
on the first morning of our weekend trip.
look grandma, a boat, a bridge...
can I go out and wade in the water
run across the bridge, then ride on the boat?
i'll be good, eat my cereal, drink my juice, please, please.
(not necessarily in that order, I thought. I'm not his mom
so thank goodness, it's not my decision to make.
but his mom and dad are sleeping late, and grandma
is as excited as he, or never sleeps late anyway,
life is getting shorter by the day, why waste it
when very soon, sleep will take forever)
so much activity my grandson is planning for his day,
I'm already exhausted, just thinking of it -
all I want is to soak in the quiet stillness
this peaceful collage of muted hues
the sky, wanting cloud and color, shark-grey,
blue-white and haughty, all blurring together,
in the pale thin light of a new day -
empty, innocent - as yet unsullied -
a universe of somber mystery...
but he is just a child
it will be a lot of years more
when such thoughts will creep into his mind
prefer silent moments than the boisterous
and in his innocence now, as yet unsullied,
I revel in the luxury of his universe.
-
A forest leaf, sways far from any man,
amid soft rustling, pleasant to the ear,
like footfalls as the woodland creatures ran,
and birdsong for a passing greenwood deer.
Indeed, the leaf life on a country tree,
with clean, clear waters and unsullied air,
and green and blue as far as he can see,
surpasses Cuz who spies me in my chair.
Yet, Cuz is smiling from his vantage point,
through the window as I write this odd stuff,
(no one would ever me, "Leaf Pro", anoint)
as he awaits my girlfriend, in the buff.
The woods have reigned through countless ages past,
but catch mankind today, for it won't last.
Pumped
Reams of paper sit upon my desk accordioned untidily, dimpled where the cat stood or sat too long. The wastepaper basket was full of crumbled balls, reflecting the topography of the Nepali adventure I am trying to re-count. The heavily grained desk of golden oak supports a range of dictionaries and thesaurus’s, any one of which was heavy enough to use as a doorstop in a windstorm. An old Underwood typewriter sits, holding court, in the midst of all this, enamel black, with chrome edged keys and struts which depress at the tap of a fingertip. The radio blares, God Bless the Child Who’s Got His Own…as I formulate the saga of a heroine seeker, lead by two caramel colored Nepali boys, toward the foothills of the Himalayian Mountains.
The spindles holding the black ribbon snag in the clip-like opening which holds them taunt. Adjusting the tape turns my nails blue-black. I brush the hair from my eyes decorating the tip of my nose. Dirty business this writing. I tear another sheet from the rubber roller and crumple it with a sigh. “Damn, irascible machine don’t you have a soul? Give Mama something! Anything” I whine.
Scared by the abruptness of my outburst, and the carriage's leap left, the scared-y-cat is propelled to the floor, sending a half-stack of unsullied paper to ground, covering my patent-leather pumps.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKNtP1zOVHw
Enjoy...while you read..Billy Holiday
I am Sphinx Stone, Sun stationed statue
silent sculptured synoptic, not marble or
granite nor black tourmaline or crystal
timelines cutting cross my magnetic
magenta miracle to dissipate in dry
desert winds, my gaze unmoved
as quizzing quantum queens swirl
around a Blue Planet ascending
Sphinx Stone gathering goddess’ goodness
whilst slippery Sophi-el sprinkle sparkle
Nile evaporations down Sumerian
phantom phœnix photons
here I stare broken-nosed across vast
expansions exiting or entering dual
portal claws hot rooted into Violet Flames
of Mother Earth belying my etheric origins
Did Leo descend from helium heavens
painstakingly perfect from His tumultuous
gut with goblets of gold, goblins gyrating ?
ask you may North African secrets slither
no soiled sounds to simmer in sandy
storms or scarlet sunsets spreading
spells, silence my singular speech to
skulls of pharaohs or peasant alike
I am Sphinx Stone, my silhouette
signposted in simple or significant sigils
Saturn’s starlit sighs bypass not my
knowing aloof yet vacant stare which
agelessly gather stories of aeons
imprinting dreams of God into manifest
luminosity becoming your words on lion
bones or this ephemeral page
Sphinx Stone I see sabian riddled profiles
making prolific progress patterns filled
with steely grit, come now release
agitated ages of bygone bitters to
prick or paddle dimensions where
appled anemones sing my stare into song to
swallow swiftly sweetly slivers of sanctities
I remain Sphinx Stone stable
unsullied forevermore