Long Verdigris Poems
Long Verdigris Poems. Below are the most popular long Verdigris by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Verdigris poems by poem length and keyword.
In Memoriam Quietly Always Close
Are they whispers, then, settling
So gently upon that slightest breeze wending
Over the granite crosses and statues of cradling angels,
Which stand in their long cemetary rows?
Stating each name of the one passed on with
There-on etched, too, the noting of time alive
And telling of the beloved, who hum there their slow laments;
Who send up colorful balloons to celebrate their love and
Take far their silent greetings in the sky.
Are they lullaby heartsongs, which
Rise on sprigs of heaven-bound light,
So tunefully sweet for love’s addressed, aided
By a league of angellic composers
In their lyrical rounds from above our earthly sphere?
Are these the places of our hushed sympathies?
The places we lay over our dear ones
All the broken pieces of the grieving heart’s still longing
To stay in some way forever near, and, so, we linger thoughtfully
Criss-crossing the undulating final verdigris
Landscape, which embraces the last remains ~
Resting on in heaven’s wait for that further journey going on.
Are these faint mists surrounding
So many hours of our own remaining days —
Which are spent summoning back the stories, the touches,
The eyes that happily cast their glance into our own —
Not truly our tears
Being turned to magnifying memories,
Prayerfully appearing with each
Dusk’s close of day and placid rise of the radiant moon?
Do see that the soundless falling is our aching?
Is a furor — burst of pure, white snow:
A flash of a blizzard, looking nearly weightless,
Landing in silence, but
Incongruously, falling heavily down, into those forming crystalline layers
To dress a seeming lace-like çover over all the stone markers
With a luminous beauty, revealing a metaphor, ineffable
~ Blessed markers of life itself set here before us
Within reach of meeting the Divine.
—————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 6/5/2023
(Written for Jennifer Wilson & Maggie Hopkins in loving
Memory of James Hopkins, spouse, father, & friend) Also written with the inspiring power of images of the 9,000 marking gravestone crosses in Normandy, France, and sights of Arlington Cemetary, Washington, D.C.
Written to unaccompanied cello Suite 1 in G major, perfomer Yo Yo Ma
Thanks be to God…
Anti-Poem — “Snaking It To Venice”
(Poet’s Instruction: Play “The End” by the Doors loudly, while reading this anti-poem)
it’s you and me baby inside this gliding duster
this ’74 green plymouth cruising machine blasting
spit fire and gasoline grenades into the LA sun
snaking it to venice on the santa monica freeway
passing pillsbury billboards and green verdigris
doors music playing loudly on the duster radio dial
taking us past the santa monica civic auditorium
our rock pleasure palace under the ocean stars
fronted by the six high dudes straight as spears—
pylons of steel drum solos and marijuana memories
standing upward like skinny giants waiting to eat
hippie dudes and the bongo kings stand out front
polka-dotted chicks smile and pass running joints
we’re riding the snake babe riding on main street
looking for the rock gods behind beaming glass walls
looking to hear boogie music with the mind jive girls
the van chicks craving a bong hit of columbian gold
looking to groove on organ sonics that weaken you
kidnap you with handcuffs for a ransom of lost time
now jim morrison shimmies into view with a beer
the boys play the end again in 1967 with amps blaring
the vox organ humming out electric mind lacerations
as Ray Manzarek sits upright again on the melting stage
dig it baby, dig it there are no tomorrows no endings
it’s just you and me baby snaking it to venice beach
passing the dream palaces lit up with phosphorescence
the sun pole-dancing there doing the cosmic bend-over
the ’74 duster blasting spitfire and gasoline grenades
She’d kept the pewter dusted and displayed
since 1969.
A verdigris had leached out of the urn nevertheless.
She had been hard on him, had forgiven little,
but felt much closer now.
The television became a corner coffin,
its screen a penumbra she often spoke to.
She had interred it in 1974 after Nixon left office
“Disgraceful.” She had said both to his ashes,
and the ancient T.V. set.
A part of her husband remained to dwell with her,
the homunculus felt like a much-chewed jawbone
rattling in the urn.
She began to dream.
His tweed suit walked from its closest,
to make love to her,
sleeves caressed sensitive pockets.
When she awoke, she smelled of mothballs,
Brylcreem and Old Spice.
The television came to life.
the blue monochrome face of Nixon appearing,
he was crying.
his permanent five o’clock shadow damp with tears.
“Sorry Mabel.” He spoke.
“You should be.” She retorted hotly,
yet her heart skipped a beat as the screen died.
She was troubled.
She broke the glass front of the TV
placing her husband's urn within it.
The urn grew greener as if it were full of Ohio River water.
She saw herself as a young girl swimming
in a river as refreshing as a lime phosphate.
The urn glimmered as new images surfaced,
a tenderness gnawed at her.
Her late spouse teased her with fingers
plucked from her own lap.
He brushed her lips with threads of gray.
Her bitterness toward him
become a speck she kept in a jar of Pond’s facial cream.
“Just in case,” she thought.
She’d kept the pewter dusted and displayed
since 1959.
A verdigris had leached out of the urn nevertheless
She had been hard on him, had forgiven little,
but felt much closer now.
The television became a corner coffin,
its screen a penumbra she often spoke to.
She had interred it in 1974 after Nixon left office
“Disgraceful.” She had said both to his ashes, and the set.
A part of her husband remained to dwell with her;
the homunculus felt like a much-chewed jaw-bone
rattling in the urn.
She began to dream.
His tweed suit walked from its closest,
to make love to her,
sleeves caressed sensitive pockets.
When she awoke she smelled of mothballs,
Brylcreem and Old Spice.
The television came to life;
the blue monochrome face of Nixon appearing -
he was crying.
his permanent five o’clock shadow damp with tears.
“Sorry Mabel.” He said.
“You should be.” She retorted hotly,
yet her heart skipped a beat as the screen died.
She was troubled.
She broke the glass front of the TV
placing her husband's urn inside.
The urn grew greener as if it were full of Ohio River water.
She saw herself as a young girl swimming;
the river as refreshing as a lime phosphate.
The urn glimmered as new images surfaced,
a tenderness gnawed at her.
Her late spouse teased her with fingers
plucked from her own lap.
He brushed her lips with threads of gray.
Her bitterness
become a speck she kept in a jar of Pond’s facial cream.
“Just in case,” she thought.
In the tenebrous, xenial realm of the lake, where human cadavers oscillate, suspended by verdigris chains, a lamia of unholy provenance, orchestrates a gambits cavalcade.
Each mortal she ensnares, a lugubrious, ghoulish spectacle unfolds, as if the very essence of the lake itself had been vitrified, its aqua viscera now Elysian repository of forgotten, memento mori-bund.
Haunting gaze, a diaphanous, cerulean abyss, draws in the unwary, like a siren's deadly, mellifluous call, beckoning them to surrender to the lake's funereal, abyssopelagic depths.
Her raven tresses, a susurrant undulant cascade of nocturnal umbrageous beauty, frames a visage pulchritude dolorous dirge, an oxymoronic, surreal juxtaposition of the celestial and the sepulchral.
As she traverses through the lake’s tomblike, profound silence, her every stride, a calculated, deathly, stiffened rhythm, stirs up a whirlwind of syrupy, piscine abominations, skulking beneath the surface, their gelatinous, depths forms writhing, akin to some perversely, marine, infernal mockery of a waltz.
In this eerie aquiline lacustrine domain this being reigns supreme an anathema, a brobdingnagian female personification of these dark bubbling benthic, viscous, and malevolent sentience, a monstrous xenophobic quintessentially wraithlike entity, forever doomed to haunt the twilight, abyssal, and dreamlike shores of the lake of human mines.
CHI - RHO IN THE BOOK OF KELLS
A millennium and more since it left the Scottish shore,
Chi -Rho Christ’s name
Swirling in an anaesthetising trance induces
The soul-memory back to an isle,
Called Lorn settled by St. Columba and twelve.
Fleeing battle to Kells abbey and to beehive cells
From treeless Iona where Scotland’s fingers
Are first touched by the Atlantic combers -
These first saints, touched by the spirit of the
Beatific vision slanting through beehive window slits,
Imagined that eternity : and each day created a vision
In the eternity of their loneliness and isolation -
Passing a lifetime bringing a second beginning
And illuminating our darkness.
Color alchemists turning orpiment to yellow,
Spirit alchemy distilling green verdigris from copper,
Drying woad for blue powder -
Celtic face-paint in the name of battle; and decoration
In the name of Christ.
.........................................
I'm afraid this poem might seem a bit esoteric. It deals with the physical and philosophical evolution of the famous Book of Kells in Ireland. Perhaps the most beautiful and profoundly moving page is called Chi-Rho. For believers, this book ranks as probably the closest you can get to the word of God.
The house on Elder Street is old,
menopausal in fact,
with no signs of children at play.
A lovingly maintained lawn
rolls gently from front porch
to the vine-covered mailbox
standing guard alongside
the blacktop pavement.
No fences hinder a visitor,
four-legged or two.
Built of strong stuff,
possessing a concrete foundation,
its exterior is real brick - not veneer.
Belonging once to a king,
this castle’s only turret
is a mighty stone chimney
capable of warming hearth and hearts.
Inside, a man could serenade his wife
while she let down her hair
without the neighbors hearing.
Then why the carefully stenciled
‘Reduced for Quick Sale’ sign
plunged deeply into the earth
near the verdigris number marker?
Why not instead,
‘Costs More – Appreciated with Age’?
Weathered house or leathered man –
fewer days of existence
makes one more desirable,
they say.
Sometimes outward blemishes
become more a factor in determining worth
than warmth, character,
and undeniable inner-charm,
but true value can be recognized
in the beauty of a deal, not curb appeal.
101 Elder Road would be a good investment.
The spirit within comes free.
One day a Starling did speak with his brother
He twittering and whistled ten minutes or more
On and on about preening and bees,
About sly cats that hide in the trees
How he lost brown bread by the blue porch
'twas a small piece he said, seriously, not much
The wind pushed and pulled at one feather
Life was generally good - except for wet weather
With the verdigris lines beneath their sharp feet
The hounds of winter waiting below on the street
This conference was held a bit after six
Every evening they'd meet just to sharpen their beaks
High voltage lines swung back and then forth
Humming some tune about the cold further north
And while he bobbed on the high tension wire
He sang his sad song with terror and fear
“The bell would toll on a late autumn day
The bell would toll and the dogs still say”
“Only humans and fools butcher then weep
Like dogs, they dream, and cry in their sleep”
“When mankind's wars are all long past
Bones like crystal chime in the tall grass”
“Starlings will gleefully sing as they must
The Bells toll poorly when covered with rust”
Form:
The distinction is of no relevance
It is one and the same in my eyes.
Lime, Forest, Hunter and Mint Green ;
Sage, Seafoam, Olive and Pea Green;
Emerald, Jade, Chartreuse and fen Green;
Verdigris, Celadon and Spruce Green;
One truth remains: it is Green.
It represents nature and harmony,
A symbol of refreshness and renewal,
A beacon of eco-friendliness and sustainability.
It calms my nerves and breathes serenity,
It projects growth, abundance and prosperity.
It raises the bar of optimism and hope,
A full, balanced meal for my emotional stability.
Time and again, i find myself at the crossroads of uncertanity.
The room before me houses two colours,
Each holding the unknown.
I tremble at the thought of meeting the unexpected.
With the keys in my hands and my name stamped on its doors,
I stand still, like a tree in the absense of wind.
I contemplate the quantity and quality of the ingredients i mixed,
were they enough to warrant the colour that i seek?
What does it mean, to be green,
Referring to color, not politics or emotions.
There's some tints or hues, between yellows and blues;
With a lot of room, in between, for so many types of green.
There are some greens that actually say green:
Blue-green, yellow-green, light or dark green.
Other greens are just as real, for example: veridian,
Verdigris, chartreuse, teal, mantis and harlequin.
We've also seen, place names in green:
Dartmouth green, India green, forest green
Pakistan green, Paris green, sea green,
Cal Poly green, Persian green, office green.
Plants are mostly green, so many plant colors follow:
Artichoke, asparagus, honeydew, and avocado,
Apple, fern, lime, mint, olive, shamrock, forest, pistachio...
Anyone ever heard of phthalo?
What does it mean, to be green?
I, personally, get a thrill, out of chlorophyll.
All these greenish strengths, are really wavelengths
Of reflected light. We define which green is right.
Form: