Long Varicolored Poems
Long Varicolored Poems. Below are the most popular long Varicolored by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Varicolored poems by poem length and keyword.
Carrying a sleeping baby.
Cleaning after a successful party.
Camping beyond mountains more mountains.
Playing trumpet on the streets of New York City.
Eating although the food supply is deeply compromised.
Flying with Democrats and Republicans, evangelicals and atheists.
Flying like a fruit fly that won’t quit mating.
Cool as a hummingbird in the stream’s wet spray.
Abstaining wholly, absent from worldly life.
Two dogs fighting but not biting hard.
Chanting as if the planet were mending.
Gourmet dining, devout prayer, loving Mary.
Evenings watching tv. Scotch and Star Trek.
Taking off Emily Dickinson’s clothes.
Meeting in the meeting house, arguing and praying.
Planning a legacy as if you knew enough to control events.
Pursuing happiness as a naturalist or humanist.
Spinning with the planet, performing the history that surrounds us.
Killing many Germans, saving many Jews.
Doing less until one thing’s done well.
Fainting from staring at candles through stained glass windows.
Morning, a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second warming your
bones.
Manipulating symbols, solving equations.
Disregarding tweets and facebook persuasions.
Sitting with a tiny Buddha by a rushing stream cutting a gorge.
Running, disciplining myself, making myself healthy.
Ingesting drugs, throwing die, drinking sludge.
Growing varicolored corn.
Participating in the cause because it’s impossible not to participate in
the effect.
Running over a chipmunk, groundhog or a skunk.
Lying face down in the emergency room facing doom.
Waking up Monday thinking Sweet Saturday! but soon remembering your
trick knee.
Turning the towering young thunder of my anger against my sons.
Regretting the callow dispassion with which I met my parents’ quietus.
Lawn mowing, leaf blowing, yapping dogs, napping old people.
No jets but a rooster mornings, cows and goats.
Al is painting an apartment. Sirma is cleaning the floors. Felix is taking
out the garbage.
Deciding tentatively I slightly prefer Heifetz’ to Oistrakh’s Sibelius.
No cedar waxwings, no chickadees, but beautiful moon!
If you’re alone as you get, why are you crying?
Miss Muffet was a girl of thirteen, filled with youth's beauty and charm;
And a love of vibrant life zealous, like eager, vivid thunder of blue alarm.
She was a fine student, pert and popular; like the primrose popularity;
Or stars appearing at the designated hour, sparkling like crystal clarity.
Mary Muffet lived in a small town, with loving parents and her siblings,
Who sympathized with her fear of spiders; like colorful, fall misgivings.
Friends flanked their white picket fence, in fall days of glamour, striking;
And wove fanciful tales with flourish, like flowering genesis, so enticing!
Far off family ofttimes visited Fernglen, with its farms, rich with future;
For fishing and other rollicking fun, staying on 'til varicolored, fall rumor.
They lived in the house of quaint beauty, like charming red, berry sun;
Fondly gazing on pearly moon twice daily, the ritual begun on day one.
Songs sunrise to sunset serenaded, on dappled, silent, Sowerby Street;
But, a scorching summer bled scarlet roses, at the red butterfly retreat.
Near neighbors stayed on a first name basis, in unending, plum seasons;
Of days and nights of green nature; like teal surf, which never weakens.
Summer's glory was in the tiny details, like prayer plants, giving praise;
When sun face orchids, wore sunny smiles, in colored fields of noon haze.
And jade baby toes plants were crawling, through hours of soon history;
In honey days of bicolored hibiscus, filled with heady scents of mystery.
Mary attended a church celebration one day, along with her whole family;
And food was served indoors and out, as pink robin sang of gold, happily.
Mary had such fun playing games! There was much laughter and talking.
Then Mary had a craving for cheese, so like shadows, inside went walking.
Once inside, 'Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey;
There came a big spider, who sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.'
As Mary screamed and ran, causing a rumpus, she drew a lot of attention;
But, was suddenly embarrassed by her overreaction, like fall's suspension.
Little Miss Muffet was thence more mature, a natural result of getting older,
And fear of spiders was left behind, like summer blossoming, grown bolder.
Yesterday I was in the parched, red desert, where it pours only seldom,
Bearing joy for varicolored cacti blooms, a silvery shower, very welcome.
This morning I deluged the green, pathless forest, at the dawn of purple.
Tomorrow, wet footsteps will travel, down the tree-lined street of myrtle.
In wild days of ago, my fervor caused floods, as I danced in dewberries;
Then a soft, yellow sun spun rich gold, making cherries and cranberries!
While there is gladness everywhere I go, my sporadic errors humble me,
Like an errant wind which blows off course, tenacious, golden honeybee!
In childhood, we saw our tiny world
in brightest kaleidoscopic shades.
There were no greys, only brilliant swirls
of colors that formed vibrant parades
and danced among peridot-green blades.
Our days were varicolored landscapes
of flowers, many sizes and shapes.
We created our secret pathways
dropping blossoms to find our escapes
Childhood's rare world of halcyon days.
As poets, we long to find those times
of innocence and wonders unknown.
We sprinkle colors into our rhymes
But gardens of youth have overgrown
and grey slipped in at edges unsown.
At a fair, is a man making grand
"Kaleidoscopes: Their View Is At Hand!"
As myriad colors of glass spill,
I catch my breath as designs expand
in hues of a world I long for still.
March 10, 2023
for "Word Challenge--K Words Contest"
by Constance La France
howmanysyllables: 9
First Place
The velvet cloak is cascading, all adorned with sequin stars,
Final streaks of sky colors fading, as pearl moon gazes afar.
The queen's lately departed, from the plush burgundy room,
Blue Neptune on her left, and and scarlet Mars on her right,
Trailing stardust in her wake, on the way to beautiful night.
Forays into mystery are waiting, at the dark end of the sun,
And tomorrow's queue of colors, await the orders of golden!
Blueberry darkness lies in its soft, eternal folds everywhere,
And beauty travels always, diamonds and jewels in her hair!
Varicolored flowers await fiery sun, of burnished days of old,
When sunlit cream tulips went on for miles, capturing smiles.
The Tribe
Who will lead this Army
Crying for the flame to march
Millions strong
Summoned by the siren of death
Suckled by the breast that eats
Its own children?
Our flags are mottled
No longer red white or blue
Showing we are scattered
And delighting unseen eyes.
Our songs are many
Unsweetened of love’s paeans
Telling now of anger
Lamenting broken dreams
Who will lead this Army
Varicolored through the night
Who will lead us to the doorstep
Of the Gods?
Power Failure
it was like trying to hold oxygen
in my hand.
like someone tilted the floor
& told me to stand
it was like trying to level a mountain
with a rake
like using a spoon
to empty the lake
like falling forever
in a bottomless gorge
or trying to bend iron
without flame & forge
that’s how it was
my friend
when he died of cancer
we had come to the end
without finding
the answer
Tooly’s Pond
When the rain had ceased
the pond was still
till fresh North winds arrived
to free the trees
of moisture’s burden.
Like a grounded cloud
the mist rolled slow
upon the surface of a mirror
and was gone
making hard to judge
where sky and mountains stopped
and Tooly’s pond began
The fish
emboldened since the rain
leaped high from home and grinned
knowing I came rodless,
the flies were hunted now
where sky and mountains stopped
and Tooly’s pond began
Must there come that day
when metal cat returns
to ravage once again the work
He deemed complete in seven days,
or will the pond prevail
to hold in check
the clanking track of monster
and its master?
If the cat must come
let it be in summer after rain
when we shall see who wins
as sight and purpose falter
where sky and mountains stop
and Tooly’s pond begins
E.J. Hudak ca. 1969
Beyond the maple hills that have fought many storms,
gales don't disturb the meadow of grape hyacinths:
observe the Aurora Borealis paint the soft azure sky
into a glittering, robust gold which the fading moon envies
as thick dew starts dripping from them like idle rain often does...
Over there a varicolored aura of glitter always appeared,
and from a run-down shack blue grass was played on time...
drunken with buck beer, the big fellow with frizzy, red hair
anxiously stepped outside and started the ritual of vain fools:
thinking that fire would have burned the Earth and he would have died.
Bobtails watched him and wondered what made
his face so red and his dirty feet miss a step as he fled
to reach the meadow of grape hyacinths to cry out and curse God,
but his cussing nobody heard while his anger increased into the unfolding dawn...
exhausted from screaming he got up listening to a rustling sound coming from behind.
He looked around and saw nothing moving,
" It must be a squirrel searching for food, " he thought to himself
then a swishing wind knocked him down and an eagle swooped down to seize his beer,
" From now on, I'll never return to the meadow of grape hyacinths! " he vowed.
As time went on, he forgot his promise to never go back,
but one spring morning getting up early to watch the brilliant dawn from his shack,
he remembered the meadow of grape hyacinths and with the strong urge of seeker...
he raced there to catch the last rays of that sunrise to proclaim himself its keeper.
On the museum walls, a many hued color explosion,
As in varicolored gardens where beauty is spoken,
Or emerald forests where strange wildness thrives,
Scarlet macaws, blue frogs and orchid bee hives!
On nameless city streets, a steady fashion parade,
And sunshine orchards where luscious fruit is made.
Circuses and carnivals, with clowns and balloons,
And seeing flamingos dancing, on golden afternoons.
And popular culture in its varied shades and styles,
Painting upon the times, many appreciative smiles.
And the blur of lovely cars, sleek on the highway,
Heading toward red sunset, no thought of yesterday!
Orange sunshine, pink butterflies, in dawn buds of hope-
Last night's rain has caused noon blooms in the fields!
Canaries are flying low in a season of scents and scenery;
And the moments are creeping, in response to sultry heat.
A day among varicolored dahlias, at the premiere of life,
As bees are buzzing for honey, at summertime's midlife.
Tall trees cast shimmering shade, all the green afternoon,
Amid life's colorful, lovely, eclectic sights and sounds.
Until delight and fragrance greet dreamy evening eyes,
And deep burgundy sunshine leaves with the butterflies!
Written on 7/7/2021
For: A Brian Strand July 8 Poetry Contest
I was a successful, fashionable florist, in mild green days of elegant gardens,
When an orange sun beamed its pleasure, like locales where lavender begins.
I formed arrangements for many occasions, drawing beauty lovers from afar,
As pretty planets arrange for a meeting, after wild rumors of the newest star.
And crowded hours were filled with summer, like pearly dews crowd morning,
Until ruby butterflies are playing tag, and gemmed damselflies are swarming.
Friends felt I might always be found, in some area of flush bloom fragrancies,
Like raven midnight's march to daybreak, with its warm, varicolored agencies.
Fond family held festive feasts, in fading hours of sparkly, fuchsia sun falling,
As whippoorwill songs clashed with red robin's, midst magenta stars gawking.
I lived in the house of tangy, saturated noon, when flowers were in full glory,
Like the most beautiful day of a woman's life, when a bride she's come to be.
Scarlet, saffron and other hues glittered, within the soulful sector of summer,
As starlings sang songs along my street, and sun rose and retired, a stunner!
Neighbors were nomadized at times, as honeydew moon nestles in new night,
When visiting me on eves of silk and satin, when fresh June was at its height.
Silver clouds were saddled with summer sun, in suddenly days of sweet rose,
Like grey encumbering smoke from autumn fires, when in plum mists it flows.
Raven noon was in green treetops, as the inarticulate ravens were squawking,
And fading time seemed to stand still, but ephemeral moments kept walking.
One day I woke to a gorgeous view from my window, daisies pink and yellow,
In the wide field right next to my house, glowing in the rich, sunshine mellow!
It put such a smile on my face, oh my! Like flocks of pretty blue jays going by,
And I kept seeing daisies everywhere I went, like a pearlescent moon on high!
I beheld African daisies and shasta, and pom pom-like chrysanthemum ones;
Along with fine lustrous gerberas, in all colors found, in wild green kingdoms.
I wondered at my strange, good fortune, in seeing beloved blooms anywhere;
Like the young, butterscotch days when Mother said, 'We're going to the fair!'
For awhile, I saw sweet daisies by day, and it seems I dreamt daisies at night;
Like a brief mystic spell of rapture, when hidden beauty's freed from its plight.