Long Vicarious Poems
Long Vicarious Poems. Below are the most popular long Vicarious by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vicarious poems by poem length and keyword.
The dark lady sat near her window, attired in silken black,
With many jewels to adorn her, no beauty did she lack,
A young man steeped in opulence came forth to meet her,
She saw him and made her innocent face more sweeter,
The thought of him coming to her gave her vicarious pleasure,
She seduced him even as he succumbed to her pressure,
Her honey-dripping words, an impetus for him to be found there,
He cannot see the wide chasm that's the end of this affair,
One down of her many to go gives her cause to exult,
His life, a mockery of all virtues, is the end result.
08/29/18
Poets dream utopian dreams
Dreams of ideals and perfection
Dreams of places never visited
People never met
Songs never sung
Love stories never written
Passion never experienced
Lives never touched
Hearts never caressed
And so…they dream...
Intensity of emotions
Brilliance of thoughts
Too hard to bear
Too heavy to carry
Inside the soul
Breaking free from within
Bringing exquisite release
From visions on hold
Self-proclaimed artists
Mixing colors on heart pallets
Splashing them on the canvass of the soul
Word colors that bring to life
The ethereal atmosphere,
The very aura of paradise
Paintings of passion’s pleasure and pain
Vivid hues of nature’s finery on display
Humorous caricatures exaggerating life
Holy word pictures revealing mere glimpses of...
The sacred
They write
They paint
Mostly, they just try to live
Vicarious lives
In those lines
Another life
Another time
Another love
Another clime
Another dream
Escape artists from the horrors that surround
Exhibitionists of the naked beauty of truth
Lovers with a prowess that rivals the gods
For isn’t that what love making must be?
The climax of human emotion
In a burst of eternity?
Vicarious lines
Vicarious lives
Yours…and mine…
Eileen Manassian Ghali
The adorn summer sky emanated a luminous of gold
as she works unyielding at the edge of the chasm,
till the middle of the night under the opulence
of the moon's brilliant dance as it glances
at her alone in the quiet silence; beauty to behold.
Small swath of field, calm sea; exult in its grace.
Her silken auburn hair in a simple knot
just a few strands wind-blown around her angelic face.
Her irresistible impetus to make vicarious suffering
as she fears of a thunderstorm may roll in.
Her strength carries her through,
she wasn't going to allow the weather's mockery to break her.
8/26/2018
Poetry Contest: Eight word challenge-8
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
1. Silken 2. Chasm 3. Exult 4. Adorn 5. Impetus 6. Mockery 7. Opulence 8. Vicarious
" . . clouds that far above me float and pause,
whose pathless march no mortal can control!"
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 - 1834) France: An Ode-
__________________________________________________________
Oh, how lovely Samuel, who was born near Devon,
the son of a vicar and school headmaster.
He was a vicarious reader as a child, in particular
works of fantasy . . .
and as an adult, he was a poet, literary critic and philosopher.
He married a woman he did not love, and soon detested her,
resulting in marital woes, sadness and nightmares,
causing crippling bouts of depression and anxiety,
soon, bi-polar and in time an opium addict.
Many of his poems reflect the deep anguish and struggle,
and in time, he became alienated from his family and friends.
The last eighteen years of his life spent in solitude under doctors care-
Yet, this man wrote the most heartfelt and beautiful poems.
__________________________
December 15, 2016 (Re-post)
Poetry/Bio/A Brief Bio
Copyright Protected, ID 16-1217-301-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted into Strand Poetry Contest
sponsor, Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
At the museums, we shudder
In vicarious delight
At the spectacle of the Aztecs:
A high culture founded on human sacrifice.
All the while not seeing -
Because we don't want to -
That the cult has never died;
Only the name of the god has changed.
Now we reverentially bow the knee
Within private cells
Before the votive flames
Of flickering cathode ray tube
In service to the great god TECH,
The Iron Form That Has No Face.
He sends the rain of bombs on foreign soils
That we may reap Renewed Economy,
Answering their madness with our own.
He sends the check, that our children may eat,
While others' learn to scream at the sound of planes.
Yes - We see The Need.
Yes - We understand The Reasons.
But we don't have to like it.
Our revulsion, at least, we can still call our own.
What the hell - this time, let's do the honors ourselves.
Let every mother, father, sister, brother, child and friend
Of tomorrow's "Disposable Resources"
Take a knife from the withered hand of one of TECH's
Decrepit four-star priests,
Plunge it deep and cut,
Rip our own hearts from our breasts
Bear them beating before us in our outstretched hands,
Marching en masse to his temple,
Staggering down his sanitized audience hall,
More and more crowding to the doors,
To lay the bleeding mound of them at his feet.
On that day,
Let the Heartless meet the Faceless and scream as One:
'IS THIS ENOUGH?"
'IS THIS ENOUGH?"
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
" Ye clouds that far above me float and pause,
whose pathless march no mortal can control!"
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 - 1834) France: An Ode-
Oh, how lovely Samuel, who was born near Devon,
the son of a vicar and school headmaster.
He was a vicarious reader as a child in particular
works of fantasy . . .
and as an adult, he was a poet, literary critic and philosopher.
He married a woman he did not love, and soon detested her,
resulting in marital woes, sadness and nightmares,
causing crippling bouts of depression and anxiety,
soon bi-polar and in time an opium addict.
Many of his poems reflect the deep anguish and struggle,
and in time became alienated from his family and friends.
The last eighteen years of his life in solitude under doctors care-
Yet this man wrote the most heartfelt and beautiful poems.
__________________________
December 15, 2016
Poetry/Verse/A Brief Bio
Copyright Protected, ID 16-858-391-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Beliefs are conjured by mind
Vicarious knowing
On choosing to exit its bind
We keep flowing
Sans thought, identity recedes
Yet awareness self aware is
Power of Holy Spirit then leads
Throbbing within as bliss
From noumena rose phenomena
The first impulse Ohm
Deep stillness resolves this enigma
The vast void our home
No ism may bridge the duality chasm
Yet silence sets us free
Bliss beats throb in mind-body prism
When head and heart agree
How may the unseen truth be described
We each must feel it alone
Have ye not as yet bliss thunder imbibed
How then may this be shown
22-December-2022
Written: October 16, 2023
Changed past Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Fire Bird
______________________________________
The intricate tapestry of my subconscious
A birth, a time of such heavenly consequence.
It all evolved with my son's day of birth.
Everything was suddenly unique and worth.
His fuss was filled with full-flapped fanfare.
My feelings were relayed through a fan fair.
My heart was flooded with vicarious love.
My destiny drew its Elysian toll from above.
Disassociation has ceased to be my domain.
Stunningly sturdy for such a slight sustain.
His memory was rattling, sharp, and retentive.
A hitherto unknown mnemonic thrust is affective.
In records of our psyche, reminiscence resides,
A phenomenal ability to remember and abide.
He could memorize and recall with ease,
Every moment, every word, every tease.
But paramnesia would sporadically pass,
A momentary lapse, a memory out of grasp.
Yet his memorization skills would never cease,
a whispering fugue, an embroidery of peace.
Associations formed, connections made,
In the tapestry of memory, they never fade.
Obliteration might be a gamble to intervene,
But my nostalgia remains tenacious and keen.
In his empyreal life, bolstered and vibrant,
Gossamer memory is a slot never to be slanted.
No word or recollection is to obliterate,
This memory is prodigious, a peculiar trait.
Dreams are woven into an exquisite tapestry,
Where the past and present descry harmony.
Wherever recollections are strung together,
These precious memories will last forever.
8 Nov 2020 9:37 Am
Television to get my vision internet to see revision
Radio to set the pace and off to work and run the race
Eat to fast and shave my face didn't even get a taste
Coffee black caffien high kiss the wife a quick good bye didn't even see her face
Work all day don't think of life just chasing fuel to keep the lights on
Joke with Joe and what do you know lunch is gone can you work long
Back and forth we travel short do not play but watch the sport
See the american family on tv then off to sleep and dreams to sort
Up again at the crack of dawn at it again the same old song
Blinked today and my kids were grown years were short they should have been long
Slow down they say enjoy the day but you can't there's life to pay
So through others lives and imaginations mind we stay
This is the modern world all full of hype
This is our vicarious life