Long Veined Poems
Long Veined Poems. Below are the most popular long Veined by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Veined poems by poem length and keyword.
As strangers to this virgin land
succumbed to the impossible
we are numbed by grief for what is gone
Astonished by the solitude...
We gaze, without a breath, nor voice
upon the blue veined world once loved
A home we've left behind!
It seems so weightless to the eye
And out of the chill of marbled sorrow
We weep for countless lost tomorrows
Although our eyes might be deceived,
from here, the vision is a lie,
yet remains so beautiful in the sky
We stand wide eyed, upon new shores
And look from here, to the earth so far
How fragile, is our earth still spinning
As we grasp at new beginnings
How precarious a world, untouched, can be
Have we learned, from where we've been?
We must recall,.... recall it all
Look how it spins, against the stars
Oh God, ...so fragile, frail and small
Let me turn my head,
I cannot bear to watch,
I must close my eyes
before it falls....
_____________________________
Out here, wild rhubarb grows free,
Bitter beauty escapes designs by premiers
And presidents,
Red-veined leaves untouched by the
Denizens of this desert.
Morality endures despite the sins
Of man, mere miles away.
Asleep at last, my small pond releases
Crawlers, bent on surveying the usual haunts,
Where spirits descend to warn of
Bad tidings, if wandering too far from this oasis.
In the moonlight, a pothole party regales
The gathered, with song and dance from the faithful.
Wind spirits, twirling nearby, brush feathers, leaves and
Tentacles, with soothing echoes. Green Darners rocket about, flashing
Smoky emerald wings, while fireflies spark the dark night.
Out here, wild rhubarb grows free.
07//06/13
© All Rights Reserved
"Breaking the Lonely Rewind"
Hysteria ensues a small death
on a funeral pyre pushed
into a sealed and soiled
heart shaped box sunk
to swallow stone tears
reversing reflections
in the coldest mirrors
Tsunami waves flood
all that was green
On the breaking shores
there the Lonely Rewind
is floating amidst The Shallows
resurfaced, cracked open and laid bare
her black treasures
boiling over inky interior
spilt darkly the soul
now sharp and split in two
a gift from the damned
walking out into the blistery wind
where sourness all around
whispers a soft war
of unclaimed, unwanted
forgotten voices,
The Lost and Lonely,
way past the end of their world,
where heartbreak is spurned
resurrect into burning birds
from the cold veined inferno,
The Silent Ocean of Reprieve
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
"When I Was Older"/Billie Eilish
https://youtu.be/HSCREQjxPHE
Lyrics:
https://genius.com/Billie-eilish-when-i-was-older-lyrics
"In order to rise from its own ashes, a phoenix first must burn." Butler
"She told me she’d be a phoenix.” The image of the mythical creature rising from the ashes glitters in my mind. “They don’t really exist.” “She said that depends on whether or not there’s someone who can see them." Picoult
"One does not need to be against womens suffrage," the London Times editorialized in 1908, "to see that some of the more violent partisans of that cause are suffering from hysteria. We use the word not with any scientific precision, but because it is the name most commonly given to a kind of enthusiasm that has degenerated into habitual nervous excitement."' Gilman
"Lady Lazarus", Plath
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49000/lady-lazarus
Weathered black veined granite walls
Built so many years before
Moss covers the slippery walls
Stained black by years of endless rain
Grass grows on antique slate shingles
Ferns grow in nearly unseen cracks
Caused by ages of neglect
The name has long since faded
The plate fell away and vanished
If it was ever there
Moonlight flickers between distant clouds
Shining through broken stained glass
Dancing on a mahogany coffin
Every morning a red rose arrives
Sitting on steps worn long before
No one knows from where
Who lies in this silent home?
No one will tell if anyone even remembers
The rose wilts into dust
Carried away with the next sun
Whoever lies in this eternal rest sleeps quietly
Knowing that one person
Unknown to the rest of the world
Remembers them at least once a day
And for them…that is enough.
Leonardo stands in the hush of his studio,
paintings breathing softly behind him~
the Virgin’s calm, the inventor’s restless sketches,
and the Mona Lisa waiting on her easel,
her half-smile already carrying
more secrets than the room can hold.
Beside him, the cracked egg waits~
its shell veined and luminous,
a chamber where silence has been working.
Leonardo touches it,
and she steps out smiling,
the broken shell releasing
what had been forming in quiet,
an idea finding its shape
the instant his hand
made room for it.
*apertura is a Renaissance-rooted word for “the moment creation steps forward.”
Many men came today to look at the old empty house;
I have been guarding that house for many, many years;
They spent quite some time looking at and touching me;
I heard them saying that the house was being demolished,
And a condo building would take its place. I can't help,
wondering what will become of me.
I started my life as a whirly bird seed in a wild forest,
And soon I grew into a young tree, one of many trees.
I remember them all, spruce, balsam, fir, and birch.
And some maple, like me, that was two hundred years ago.
It was wonderful in the forest; I loved cradling the birds,
And the squirrels and chipmunks were delightful.
The seasons changed me and in winter I stood proudly,
Stripped of my dress; snow and icicles on my branches.
Over time, my tree friends were cut down to make space,
For houses and streets, but I remained standing, waiting.
Soon a lovely house was built, and I have stood over it,
For one hundred years now.
I have seen many people come and go, and I protected,
And they liked me too. Finally, the house stood derelict.
For years I have been alone with only the birds and squirrels,
And sometimes cats and other creatures as companions.
I love the wind in my branches in the summertime,
And how the fall changes my veined lobed leaves.
Changing them from emerald to red-orange, then yellow,
Oh how the children like collecting them from under me,
And how I adore the feel of the rain and the snow falling;
I even have flowers of green, yellow, orange and red,
In spring, I send millions of seeds twirling in the wind,
And I pray they find their place in the earth.
Do you know that my leaf is the coat of arms of Canada,
And it is on the flag; I am a symbol of strength and endurance,
I am the national tree. But the men approaching do not care;
They do not care that I have stood for two hundred years,
And although, I expect it, the first cut is agony, and I scream;
I am screaming in pain as again and again they cut me.
Until I am lying on the ground, dead.
______________________
August 30, 2015
Poetry/Personification/Maple Tree
Copyright Protected, ID 15-702-654-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Peudonym.
Submitted to the Premiere Contest, Number 8
Sponsor, A Skat
Ninth Place
I found your name
where winter had buried its bells—
beneath the frost-veined silence
of an abandoned orchard
where roses remembered
the colour of wounds.
You were not the flame
that devours the forest;
you were the secret ember
the earth conceals
after the stars have surrendered
their silver kingdoms to dawn.
I carried you like an ancient relic,
a relic no temple could contain—
a sapphire of sorrow,
a fragment of forgotten heaven,
a prayer written in the language
of rain upon ruined marble.
The moon, jealous of your radiance,
lowered her veiled face
behind the cathedral clouds,
while Orion loosened his arrows
and the rivers paused
to hear your shadow sing.
For you were never merely a lover—
you were the myth
my soul had been rehearsing
before my body learned
the alphabet of longing.
Your voice was a violin
left untouched for centuries,
yet when awakened,
it made the dust of kingdoms rise
and taught the silent statues
how to weep.
I drank from your absence
as monks drink from sacred wells;
not because emptiness nourished me,
but because even your leaving
carried the perfume
of your arrival.
The roses around my window
have grown strange since then—
each petal holding a universe,
each thorn preserving
a small, invisible eclipse.
They say love is a wound.
They have never seen
how wounds become windows,
how darkness becomes a doorway,
how a heart once shattered
can become a constellation
with its own forgotten mythology.
So return not as a flame,
beloved—
return as the ash remembers fire,
as the ocean remembers the moon,
as the earth remembers the footsteps
of the gods who walked upon it
and vanished.
For I have built you
not a throne of gold,
not a palace of roses,
but a cathedral of unforgotten fire—
where every candle is a memory,
every silence a hymn,
and every breath I take
is the universe whispering:
you were never lost;
you were only becoming eternal.
Written: August 4, 2026 for a contest by Silent One
Quote: "All opposites unite, All that is profane becomes sacred again." By Rumi.
******************
I move through the dusk
where the air feels half-holy, half-feral—
a thin-veined shimmer
trembling between grace and grit.
Some nights, the mind cleaves
like a slow-burn seedpod,
one part stretching skyward,
one part anchoring in dark loam
where old impulses hush and hear.
A drumbeat in that place—
A firm, orotund thrum
like aureole tracing archaeology of rust
like a breath caught
at the threshold of ardor and augury
I've felt the infinite in finite foofaraw
a faint flare of a fancy
that flouts all fetters
the way a memory falters
and still summons song.
the way serendipity sidles sunward
And sails, steers by secret stars
And I've peered past the profane.
in the pellucid, pearl-lit moments:
a misshaped munificence of misery
a molded by mourning mercy,
a trembling truth that teeters
but never topples.
Both breathe beneath—
the balm and the bruise
the straight line and the stumble,
the silence and the thunder.
I walk with them
as if they were twin shadows
weaving at my heels,
each whispering
its untamed vision
of what I might become.
Onyx veined moon
peeps behind a frilled
crystal cut cloud adrift
black ink stoic sky
has its pallette
pleading for a
bristled brush
in the hands
of visionary
captivated by
a mystic miracle
that glowing orb
it neatly nestles
whilst weaving
wispy strands
of scattered
lunar beams
oe’r pliant
dark tree top
foliage swaying
to sharp breeze
scenic stimulus
an earnest art
grove gallery by
adjoining stream
in flow and trickle
stint akin to cue
for lambent
loiterer glum
so perplexed
yet inward
inkling as orbit
of the artisan
pen or paint
closet dabbler
whose inertia
frozen frigid
hidebound
hankers for
silken swoon
from that
celestial
of bodies
to spark
a latent fiery
gumption
bubbling
blandly
within each
arch after
hour budding
Rembrandt
O The Pestilence ripens in the fields
as pest harvests the shops and till
Harvesting of diminished yields
To !REAL CONSPIRACY!
Sovereignty-PIRACY, tips the scales of justice,
feilty, unity, irony
A question mark with its answer
Written on the wall with pen of blood
and filth of ashened wills
and cheaply boughten thrills
Civil Wars and silencing to seal the deal
O Self Righteous Mew Martyred Lost
unto
Dragons breath, and the
Crows counting the cost
Line by line
into perdition we go
Design upon design our Statement
of Mission creep O Ord
Bony fingers, Blood Drawing Board
Like Moths to a drain
Of
Energy
Of misconceived pipings; O synergy;
creams never veined
Of suave salves,
dealings of those that have only vain,
not the have nots but
Hearth-wicked flames
Unwritten names
half hooved of Thoth-Baphomet and the
Long-Toothed of his stage
The storm born, they,
Catching mud in your eye
Rebirthed, stalled, aborted by skanky sway,
mucked dry
Are we rebirthed anew, awry
Eating our own tale of condensation
A trail of compensation trys
O The Pestilence ripens in the fields
as pest harvests the till
of diminished yields
To !REAL CONSPIRACY!
tipping the scales of justice,
feilty
The Treacherous Dealer deals Treacherously
Swat at your reality again,
Shew it away, once upon a dream
Fly off the handle,
do not debate rationality
Buzz in the garbage of backalley deeds,
lift up your back wings
Carrion to 1984 vid-19
Green screen
transitioning-to the scheme
Tampered, temper in lock step fashion
"we won't remember"
Country by Country,
seamless as its been, lock, stock and barrel
full of fun, funk, funking, really?!
SINS
O Unanimous consent!
Magnanimous, calamitous,
NO surrender NO repent!