Long Vermillion Poems
Long Vermillion Poems. Below are the most popular long Vermillion by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vermillion poems by poem length and keyword.
half seen in the shadows
a film of images
monlit velvet. blue deep
a pale stone in the dark
a glitter of water:
the days end
voices far afield
light of sunrise
the stillness
a rainbow awakens
more pleasure
down to sunset:
after the brocade of night
& the ornate
shield
a sable ribbon in a chronicled
painting of Spring
in fiesta
yelow turquoise vermillion
rising
crossing
then gathered
clinging staggered
a continuing thread
together again
in marked sculpture
fragments moderated
around
an arbour of stone
beauty just beginning
a process
taking form
a mongraph dwelling
as it were
in the air
moving towards certainty
an obscure need
flowering
as a neccessity elsewhere
out of the night langour
out of the darkness no form
nothingness no movement:
time drifts
between pleasure & peace
splendour&habit
dwelling in a natural manner
always
precious
memory
full of detail a catalogue
a kindled
measure of sensitive
conversations
a compromise of the constant
a disposal of reason
a deposit of the repetitive
a voyage to the distant past
still
liquid customs written&
understood
matter still
in place
through it all
the priviledged remain here
spinning
empty pledges
in a procession
offering their measured
magnificence
to implement particulars:
meeting together
without real participation
Approachable the heavens,
upon mound of heightened sphere,
bid you closer to the atmosphere.
Starlight in singsong.
Lungs of operetta moon strong.
A white veil cascades over your intricate ark.
You sail the calm seas of blue
with heaven’s spectacular crew.
The open jars of lightning bugs.
Sunflowers on bended knees.
Your eyelids in crescentic freeze.
Dreamy colors inflame your mind,
as the days playfulness you rewind.
Sweet infusion of colors collaborate ~
watermelon, honeydew, and lemon.
The flicker of twilight slowly fades.
Daylight wanes behind your shades.
3/7/18
Vermillion Scythe’s Lullaby In The Sunset Contest
Summer's hunter-green fields yielded to autumnal beige
and vermillion,
soon came the frosted air and cardinals singing in
snowy pine boughs.
Deer shyly emerged from woodlands edge for feed
families left out,
winter sonata of our melody of long ago.
Your chestnut beard sparkled with ice crystals,
your large sienna-brown eyes of merriment.
Nearby home's smoking chimneys heavily encased
with snow and ice,
we'd playfully toss snowballs,
when our youth we thought of as lasting.
Crackling colored firelogs,
hot cocoa and pajamas,
cuddling neath a red plaid wool blanket.
Oh, the laughter,
the kisses of Christmas love,
watching the Jimmy Stewart-Donna Reed
movie, "It's A Wonderful Life,"
in its classical timelessness,
pearlescent doves and angel hair round
the tree.
Several snowbound days together,
we got to know each other in cherishing
of time as a newly bonded couple,
and welcomed our baby daughter the
following November.
Sweetly now,
as December is days away,
wishing you could walk over the
threshold again,
scent of Grey Flannel,
singing in baritone.
I can smell the burning hickory wood
and see our three stockings hung on the
hearth,
as wintry songs in the wind,
fill my hours of remembrance,
winter sonata of our melody of long ago. ~
yellow bird is back to the tranquil meadow
where my soul finds a true repose,
she didn't leave me....
I speak to her every day,
she tweets back with glee!
we talk about the illusory flamboyant days
which tip-toed away in a veil,
the glistening saffron-hued days ~
when I was twenty-one,
with trancelike beat in my feet, enthralling song in my heart,
dreamy eyes unfolding beauty of love!
with amber kindness in my soul,
with tangerine hope in my voice,
with azure grace in my walk,
with vermillion exuberance in my dance.
that twenty-one is never really gone,
I feel its demure whispering,
the hope, the dream, the cadence, the beat,
it's incredible! never left me
~
Among watching forbidden archangels saunter sullen paths
I reflect mandragoras through evanescent gleams of orrery elegies,
whirling into significant distraught dizain stanzas of my obsidian paint
in halcyon hopes my expressive ekphrasis will bloom alongside aureate tulips.
Under opal moons shading dozens of writhing languid lavenders of mauve,
a hushing zephyr cuddles lost villanelle verses of my nocturne lilt heart
shaping obsidian thorns of withering torment into eloquent paradelles
gifting me picturesque promises of prospering ovary triumph over obsidian odes.
O, how I dream vermillion serenade reveries of idyllic illusions
whilst pouring out serpentine verses in poise patterns of bewitching ballads,
perhaps yearning celestine fantasies to be painted in aureate ruby recognition
are as asking one to grasp glazing pearl stars under an elixir eclipse.
Upon scrolling night's interrogating introspective sighs of myrrh melodies
I refocus labyrinthine lilacs of drizzling determination through ethereal epics,
for it is through periwinkle poetry I've learned to set palindromes forward
and through vignette vellichor musings I'll leap amethyst acrostics.
~
NB: This is a repost, originally deleted.
The vermillion sunset has long dissipated
Over the marine persimmon horizon afar.
In the deep subterranean silence of the charcoal night.
Obfuscation confuses the illogical mind,
And conjures titanium dreams or harlequin volitions.
I feel your power descend upon me,
Subjugated surrender becomes inevitable
As I become malleable like puce plasticine.
I discern my wife approach, shimmering in thin air,
Dressed in a dark turquoise threadbare gown, in the pale rays
Of the chartreuse moonlight, resembling an enigmatic ivory ghost
Drawing near in a flimsy wisp of a nocturnal mist.
Come closer, come, I want you near me,
Sing an echoing mesmerizing mermaid melody for me,
Or slide into an enticing dance macabre.
I thrive upon such inexplicable endeavors,
Where nocturnal indigo sprites whisper dreamy antics
So pleasing to the provocation of the mind,
Combine to please the sybaritic nerves
Of this old and senile useless mind of mine.
HEAVENLY NIGHT
Nothing so right
As a heavenly night
Darkness reigns down
Midnight comes you are the one...
Heavenly
Verse 1
I am delighted,
of the sight;
To see you at night;
ooh, ooh, Oh!
It's ever so right, (ever so right)
The view, of you;
The beauty, so true...
You're among the stars (you are);
Your in the darkness;
And the darkness you're beautiful;
I stand in awe all because I love you, heavenly night;
CHORUS
You shine, you shine, you shine;
and your glory rise,
your fine, so fine to be mine...
your silhouette, heaven sent, in front of the stars you're so right my
Heavenly night;
Verse 2
I'm excited;
Of the flight;
To soar with you tonight;
ooh, ooh, Oh!
It's ever so right, (ever so right)
The view, of you;
The beauty, so true...
You're among the stars (you are);
Your in the darkness;
And the darkness you're beautiful;
I stand in awe all because I love you, heavenly night;
CHORUS
You shine, you shine, you shine;
and your glory rise,
your fine, so fine to be mine...
your silhouette, heaven sent, in front of the stars you're so right my
Heavenly night;
your sillerette, heaven sent, in front of the stars you're so right my
Heavenly night;
FOR CONTEST: HEAVENLY NIGHT
Sponsored by: Vermillion Scythe
In the shade and slip of paternal seas,
a daughter dwells, known to all,
consumed in thought by maternal deceits.
Angel's flared bells blow a squall,
in protest of her love for only me.
I was a father, and she my child,
a fated mistake incarnation,
an angry descendant, the sea grows wild.
Waves of revulsion, attempt at purgation,
in disgust of her love for me.
Seraphs and hell-dwellers covet alike,
lissome Anna, they claim as their kin.
Honey-vermillion fledglings make seiche,
as expiation for the sin,
of her love for me.
Blue as humans, angels with disdain,
hatched a terrible plan ill-conceived,
sent a cyanic wind, Anna's breath now is slain,
leaving the whole of creation bereaved,
in spite of her love for me.
A father sees the reason of heathens
(as all men call rapacious saints)
that blew onto Anna the poisonous breezes,
and imposed dirty deathbed constraints,
on her unnatural love for me.
Surprised then they were, no wiser than thee,
realized they can never dissever,
despite how they tried from my Annabel Lee,
my soul tie to her is forever,
held fast in her love for me.
Sour lemon moon now stealing my dreams,
of a once devoted daughter.
Dark, starless nights capturing screams,
lamenting angelic slaughter,
of the love they snatched from me.
In burial chamber's embrace, my Annabel lies serene;
still strange affection lingers in her remains.
Neither angel nor demon could have foreseen,
the futile attempt of death's chains,
to restrain her love for me.
Even at end, entwine of despair,
our bond persists beyond the cold air.
Sick silence of tombs by the sea,
soft echoes of endless decree,
Annabel whispers her love, still, only to me.
after Privilege of Being by Robert Haas
A tipping point of too many
are talking harshly. Down below,
demon-dead in the unstirred inferno
and perdition of animal thirsting
are coiling one another's tails in response.
They are honeyed vermillion and covered
in trim the texture of hot picamar.
They espy up all the time
at the graceless rapture—
it must sound to them like cold butter
dancing across a cast iron skillet.
Then one voice—she is about to shout—
takes the man's rigid hand and says,
listen to me, and he does.
Or is it the man caressing loose
the gravelly noose of anger?
Anyway, they do,
they listen to each other:
two minds with matured mediums,
hungry to be heard, to be fed by the frisson
of recognition, their skin sizzling with it—
brutal words turned into kindness
by well-intended touches,
and the gossiping, nosy dead are derelict
and growing deaf. They hate it.
They scream a chivvy about injustice
that breaks no skin, but frays the veil
between
what's bone and broth—
a warning, a dirge, a hiss of envy
worse than silence.
Crescendo Against Heaven
by Michael R. Burch
As curiously formal as the rose,
the imperious Word grows
until its sheds red-gilded leaves:
then heaven grieves
love’s tiny pool of crimson recrimination
against God, its contention
of the price of salvation.
These industrious trees,
endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves,
finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing
themselves to bits, washing
themselves free
of all but the final ignominy
of death, become
at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb.
Together now, rude coffins, crosses,
death-cursed but bright vermillion roses,
bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire
together with a nearby spire
to raise their Accusation Dire ...
to scream, complain, to point out these
and other Dark Anomalies.
God always silent, ever afar,
distant as Bethlehem’s retrograde star,
we point out now, in resignation:
You asked too much of man’s beleaguered nation,
gave too much strength to his Enemy,
as though to prove Your Self greater than He,
at our expense, and so men die
(whose accusations vex the sky)
yet hope, somehow, that You are good ...
just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood.