Long Varnish Poems
Long Varnish Poems. Below are the most popular long Varnish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Varnish poems by poem length and keyword.
—The Virtues I Could Not Bear—
He bore those virtues I had schooled my heart
To flout—the mercy tardive as a bell
That tolls when judgement hath already writ
Its iron sentence; and the fortitude
That, having neither warrant nor reprieve,
Still stood, as though endurance were decree.
His papers sodden, rain-black at the cuffs,
He watched the departing omnibus grow small;
Defeat had docketed him among the lost,
Yet some unlicensed morning stirred in him—
A pertinacious ember without name,
Which would not let the ruin have the last word.
A rumour traversed the town ere Truth
Had found her raiment, fastened up her throat;
By vesper it had gathered testimonial,
By night, a hundred tongues had canonised
Its falsehood. Truth came mud-foot, unadorned,
And found the lie enthroned where fact should sit.
I watched him exhaust the stratagems—
The specious plea, the venial compromise,
The facile alibi by which we varnish
Our abdications into innocence;
Till every avenue of self-release
Lay shuttered—and he chose the steeper way.
I had imagined triumph a resplendent
Heraldry, some aureate certification
Affixed to what the world elects as worthy;
His triumph was the wreckage underneath:
Each failure divested him of borrowed names,
Each rising made the ruin less his own.
Then, inexplicably, the firmament
Descended—not as vision, but as fact:
The stars lay rooting underneath our feet,
And darkness flowered upward through the stone.
I understood no doctrine, only this—
The road was not discovered. It was made.
Let Hell prolong its jurisdiction; let
The false arrive before the true, and let
Our virtues wound the very hands that bear them.
We are not promised passage, nor reprieve;
Yet where the last conceivable way is closed,
the footfall itself becomes the road.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The boat still waits where water meets the shore,
its hull a ghost of varnish, cracked and thin.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
Motor sits idle—no strong hands the throttle to pull
at dawn’s first blush or dusk’s slow-settling din.
The boat still waits where water meets the shore.
I trace the name he carved with patient score:
Ninnie Poo—paint now like weathered skin.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
The pines still lean as if they’re listening for
his whistled tune, the hook’s sharp plink within.
The boat still waits where water meets the shore.
The perch still school where cattails root and sprawl,
untroubled now by his net or his custom-made jig-spin.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
The lake holds silence, calm and still with languor.
Hushed wooden dock moans, wondering where Dad has been.
The boat still waits where water meets the shore.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
Morning
The rain leaves traces and then the window panes.
The first morning coffee fulfills the thought of her.
Eye color, hair color and voice.
An echo of laughter settled above,
the high rocks of sleep,
overpowering the smell of coffee.
Desire woven with fine threads of tenderness,
immersed quietly in hope.
You will speak to me gently, my love.
And the redness of the varnish and lipstick,
like a painter
Painting visions of their dreams.
She is the source of my happiness and is so sweet,
She became the subject of a nostalgic song.
And the rain!
The rain leaves traces and then the window panes.
The first morning coffee fulfills the thought of her.
Eye color, hair color and voice.
I love her.
Also, please don't pretend to be smart
Love is when you are happy.
Pull out the easel
set the canvas
positioned long and slender clean slate.
Sketch the figures huddled and dark-bound hostage
to charcoal-cooled coals
etching in shadow images;
Faceless entities
slipping in and out the background
earth-toned sojourners accepting, alone, quiet, dying;
Still the images in silence
hard and disfigured
grotesque horrors in place;
Somber soul-drained eyes
skeletal socket holes
buried in the heart and mind;
Let tears fall down their cheeks
in wonder, awe, and
fear of what happens next.
Acrylic primers dilute the wash in the storyline
flaking and cracking
tearing each soul and truth away;
Polyptych blended burnish bleeds
quiet, soft exuding
whimpered cries, asking why;
Chiaroscuro collages of death from life
fading to diluent breaths
the heartbeat of an unholy silence;
Graded gouache monochrome scraper boards
releasing sfumatos of singularities
communal lives sacrificed
Varnish the final rendition
camouflage the realities,
the actuality of what it represents,
Time immemorial in genocidal atrocities
of Native Americans, Cambodians, Hawaiians,
Jews, Rwandans, Bosnia, Darfur,.
When does it stop?
The never-ending list
life is more precious than this
until change comes
Paint the Picture Black and Gray
pray
then act.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was stacking hours like firewood,
planning a future that smelt of varnish and new,
counting the rungs to some polished ascent~
when Xavier, who never spoke
in anything but Excel formulas~
said it like a dropped fork:
*Life is what happens to you
while you're busy making other plans.
The room didn’t tilt. No thunderclap.
Just the steam from his mug,
drawing ghosts in the air between us.
That afternoon, rain fell sideways.
I forgot my umbrella, so I walked home
wet-skinned and giddy,
noticing how the pavement shimmered
like a dark river broken by streetlights.
Plans? I’d stacked them neat as bills~
college, promotion,
a love that wouldn’t bruise.
But the universe, it seems,
prefers graffiti to ledgers.
Now I leave my windows open.
Let the moths in. Let the drafts
carry their cold secrets.
I notice how rain tastes like metal
when you tilt your head back,
how a stranger’s laugh
can split your ribs like kindling.
I miss the train.
I live.
Others criticize me.
I live.
~and the ghost of my old plans
whistles through me, a dry leaf in a storm.
Xavier’s gone now—moved to Phoenix,
sends postcards of cacti in sunglasses~
but some nights, when I’m balancing checkbooks
or untangling Christmas lights,
his voice elbows through the clutter:
Hey. The moths are dancing.
Look up.
*Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans
When June emerges through its gentle rise
The cloak of sunshine bares an amber tint;
Glimmering on our lush fields, that reprise
A varnish of leaves, hued trees now imprint
Morn's luster as crystal rays spill anew
A dazzle, a blush like folks’ warm embrace
While toddlers hop and prance amidst sweet dew,
That frames of light imbue auroral grace :
How birdsong on boughs chirp in reverence
So effortless like this daybreak’s fresh array,
Till prayers bless a god’s omnipresence
Bestowing life in a heavenly way.
Magnificent the grandeur of dome's beam
Until it rests , hanging low yet agleam.
Your best sonnet for John Hamilton's Contest
Written 3/18/2018 : Repost 7/05/2018
The holes aren't equidistant
and the spot welds aren't spot-on,
the varnish on the handle over sixty years has gone.
It lies with all the modern stuff,
their plastic and brushed steel
but for all it's vintage shabbiness
it has a pleasing feel
and does the job time and again
as it's supposed to do,
no reason after all this time to swap
for something new.
Dad made it in his lunch breaks,
such tinkering fulfilled him,
sadly in an environment
that eventually killed him.
Some show their love to their fair wives
with flowers, which is nice,
but true love comes from lasting gifts
like my late Mum's fish slice.
I descried a ghostlike glimpse,
of steel breath on blunt mirror,
as my taut brain mulled scars,
from fractal bleak life motif,
zooming over skewed glass,
reflections glum and forlorn,
black ink eye ring capture,
shadow, shade, or shield,
brittle convex, abject cog,
whoa, my frail image riven
Buoyant pneuma projects,
stuck on screen mimicry,
impact ray remedial dent,
on jumpy jitter edge twin,
shaft between rotated a plus,
my geometric bent wavelength,
mere focal countenance,
epoch elapsed pier gaper,
morphing current field of view,
behind hollow sphere’s mask
Silver, aluminium, gold metal,
counterpart to my snapback,
curved aspect to visual plane,
optical illusion now infinite,
refurbish bone-weary scraps,
as sinistral dextral frontispiece,
august neck crane of aperture,
green speck tunnel sighting,
a trick of the light axial ploy,
prism dispersing faux rainbow
Jagged shard bias plummet,
obsidian or shinning copper,
glint and glare bounce factor,
mirror varnish vandalised,
leafy quatrefoil resemblance,
harsh hallucinating peep,
stiff lens on prior passage,
when aghast, shrill alarm,
might re-echo or resonate,
with latent shock imprint
Acoustic wobbled surface,
noise returns sunny splatter,
merriment exuberant audible,
etched in sonic brush strokes,
interstitial dual facade,
splits a gleam diffuse,
watch my smirk refract,
is that mirror cracked?
off its alloy succour,
stone hearted crop
Rent beads amass,
one shrunken clone,
me in smithereens,
asides a plethora,
fraught mien on exhibit
Wedding gift to me from my grandpa,
was antique with an obvious flaw,
a three legged table made of oak,
made for him special and was bespoke.
It was designed to be by fireside,
was eight inches by eight inches wide,
just about two and a half feet high,
to keep him in winter warm and dry.
polished in dark varnish to high gloss,
etched in ivory he did emboss,
the names from our whole family tree…
somewhere on one of the legs was me.
Said to me as only grandpa’s do,
with tears on smiles, his face split in two,
leave you this to remember me by,
not let past love and memory die.
with pride we placed it by our fireside,
wife and I would spend time sat beside,
that three legged piece of grand old oak,
warmth of generations would evoke.
Written 31st October 2023
9 syllables each line
aabb rhyme
Edward Ibeh sponsored
This or that Vol 21 contest
Today, meandering through the clutter of the local antique store,
I almost tripped and fell over an object partially hidden on the floor!
My hands came to rest on an old-fashioned school desk sitting there.
It reminded me of the one I occupied in my school days, I do declare!
My thoughts drifted back through the misty past to reminisce and ponder.
As I caressed its oaken surface with my fingers, I began to wonder.
Did it once grace a simple one-room prairie schoolhouse in Indiana?
Might it have come from a rustic schoolroom in the state of Montana?
The slanting top of the old desk was scratched and with ink was stained.
I saw faint initials carved by an idle lad whose attention span had waned!
The varnish was worn off the folding seat by many a squirming kid.
Wads of chewing gum still adorned the underside of the folding lid!
I recalled sitting at one of those uncomfortable desks trying to stay awake!
As Miss Ruth droned on and on, all I could think of was the recess break!
The room reeked of oranges and fried egg sandwiches we'd bring to munch.
Kids of means paid a dime to eat finer fare in the lunchroom for their lunch!
I recalled the thwack on my knuckles of Miss Ruth's ruler to get my attention,
And what awaited me at home for misbehavior with growing apprehension!
(A clerk noting my glazed eyes asked, "May I help you sir? Is anything amiss?"
"Nah", I replied. "If you please, I'd like to stand here awhile and reminisce!")
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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