Long Vintage Poems
Long Vintage Poems. Below are the most popular long Vintage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vintage poems by poem length and keyword.
You have been on my mind
Since I saw you last night.
Lying there on the shelf,
So innocently.
Your orange wrappings
Caught my eye
And never let go.
I walked right up to you,
Held you in my hands.
For the first time
In twelve months.
Your fragrance, the same.
There is something
So vintage, so nostalgic
About you...
The scent of warm honey
And sugary vanilla.
Old fashioned, yet distinctive.
You know
I cannot resist you.
Cannot deny
My sweet tooth.
The agony
Of a year without you
Was too much...
And, only a few bags left.
Clearly, someone else
Was missing you, too.
Candy corn cravings
They come...
Earlier and earlier
Each and every fall.
There was no stopping them
Or me...
Nibbling, nibbling.
At the white...
At the orange...
Then the yellow...
Savoring, savoring.
Your smoothness.
Your sweet, creamy flavor.
Nibbling, nibbling.
Until I was left with
Nothing but crumbs,
Empty hands
And twelve more months
Of candy corn cravings...
Fall Flavors Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Theme: Eating candy corn
September 15, 2022
Dedicated to Ed Sheeran
Inside the glass the dry leaf was manifested, as a skeleton is prominent with all the inside structure and artistry.
I went to the voting center. I had nothing , completely nothing in my mind. Beto O'Rourke, some democratic other names , but I was not daydreaming, I was not dreaming at all, in a grown up body, I learn so little, after putting so much efforts, I feel I am getting washed away, and nothing sits there, nothing gets deposited there, as silt, sedimentation of particles, nothing too much sensual either. It gets washed away, as the river flows, as a present body embedded in the nature, out in the flora and fauna.
I had a ride. She is a beauty, with headscarf and white skin, she is a mirror of the past. flavor of cooked mosul of next door neighbor, where we had a big big masjid on the other side of the road, the name of the masjid was Minar Masjid.
The minaret was truly beautiful, and the curvature , also. Older days, in Bangladesh.
We reached the destination. She met a random person. I had so many complicated nuances in my introspection that I hardly talk about that. There is a narrow lane to be tagged as inferiority complex, and opening up about truer issues, where lights are making the pathway as our intentions are reflected on that.My mom was a old fashioned beauty, an old one, but vintage enough like the most delicate motif, as I touch the threads beyond time, without cherishing too much, without mourning too much for perishing either.
She was never an outspoken person. My older sister had a maxi, a long gown, a greenish one. Amma mended the gown for me, a downsized one, and did embroidery on the chest with pink and green threads. Her knitting was with a style, a reserved one.
Not every morn brings her back. Not these days. Not too often.
The delights of strolling through green parks,
to observe pristine lawn and serene pool,
interact or mingle with fellow ramblers,
share the joy of radiant sunshine,
and warm cheer induced by conversation,
sparked by kind stranger one never dreamed of,
nor imagined at the onset of a morning,
whose divine agenda set by vivid sky,
one might eschew whilst awash with visual,
scenic trees, shrubs, hedges, beget relish,
but without human contact and shared slant,
adornment on footpath, green pond insert,
quaint but charming cafe whose gourmet fare,
espresso sip and muffin tinted natter,
recall of vintage episode now whetted,
with zeal, zest, and zigzag zip,
a textured fabric of city grandeur,
bookstore whose friendly staff ooze warmth,
that well nigh impossible work one seeks,
or some shrewd advice from chance encounter,
Oh the joy I feel when I mingle
We hear the engine whistle
The hissing of the steam
The hairs on our necks begin to bristle
As we meet the arrival of a dream
We didn't think we had a chance of winning
Entering just for fun I guess
but thanks to simple poem we are grinning
As we board the Orient express.
London to Paris, what a dream come true
I never dreamed the sparks would fly between us two
The fireman stokes the boiler; and releases a jet of steam
The guard collects our tickets and we begin our dream
Days and nights together on this magnificent train
Travel through beautiful places, seeing new terrain
Enthralled at the elegance and beauty of the carriage
Will our trip together end up with our marriage
Looking so handsome in your new dinner jacket
Glad you won this holiday; it must have cost a packet
The ambiance of the surroundings is utter bliss
We seal our relationship with a tender kiss
Holding hands so gently we share a vintage wine
Sitting in the Pullman coach you rest your head on mine
Velvet blue sky and shining stars start to cast their spell
The romantic seine has such stories to tell.
In Paris we visit the galleries of fine art
Holding your hand I realise you have captured my heart
We pass through the Arc De Triomphe and climb the Eiffel Tower
Now I surrender to your feminine power
Retire with me to the Napoleon suite
Sharing in the splendour of this romantic treat
Promise to be my Mam'selle Josephine
Or expose my heart to Madame Guillotine
You look so beautiful and smell divine
I kiss your lips, They taste of fine wine
We are lost in the flames of passions fire
As we quench the thirst of true loves desire
Our bodies rise and fall as we entwine
Oh I’m so glad that you are mine
All those feelings denied and for so long suppressed
Come to the fore aboard the Orient express.
Passion abates we are wrapped in each others arms
Darren wants more so I succumb to his great charms
Our fire ignites with desire and great passion
Hour upon hour – this man I can’t ration
Finally we reach the end of the line
Our love making session has been so divine
Arm in arm we head out of the carriage door
So hopelessly in love – who could ask for more
15th April 2014
Jan Allison and Darren Watson - 'JaDazzle'
Please also read my Blog about our collaboration
You were the sugar in my Lipton tea,
You were my exaltation and delight
Like April blossoms on a cherry tree
You made new life from water and sun's light.
I came to you and played inside your shade
And in your soft and gentle aura bathed
I sang to you a starlight serenade
And underneath your leaves my soul misplaced.
I left it there, and it is there still
But I got lost and can find you no more,
Was it the inspiration? Was it will?
I'm shorn of everything that I adore.
I saw in you the energy of love
And everything that's holy and divine,
And I can't say "my darling one" enough:
You were more tasty than the vintage wine.
Now I will never hold your hands again
Or press my lips to you or touch your heart,
I'll write you many poems, all in vain,
And we are many, many miles apart,
My soul is lost - where will it reappear?
I cannot find it - will you help me please?
Will you remember me or shed a tear
As I am calling you among the trees?
You lift, alight, become airborne and fly
And lift my soul where it would never go,
And as I look at you and ask you why
You only answer me, I told you so.
But what, alas? I'm gazing from afar
And maybe it is better off this way
For you, by now, have become a star
And I now dream of every yesterday.
Happy couple
Old man and old lady;
Eyes like newly weds
Old sepia photo
My mother stares;
Lost in a glimpse
One from the moon
The other an alien;
Two lovely strangers
Another sepia moment
My father stands;
Old flamboyant tree
Old fashion ideas
From another era;
Black and white tones
Digital pictures
iPad photos;
Edging sepia shades
Wet market floors
Slippery footsteps;
Fish mongers laugh
Vegetable vendors
Offering more greens;
Sultry beauty looks odd
Joy ventures here
Food court salvation;
Sensorial ingestion
Shop for seafood
Meat and poultry;
Food commotion loiters
Fancy vintage shoppe
Miniature books galore;
Rare collector's keepsake
July wind taunts
Wet fragrance swirls;
Grey skyline looms
Leon Enriquez
12 July 2014
Singapore
In every heart that opens wide,
there burns the flame
The beloved comes and goes,
but desire fans the flame.
They say that loss is grief,
but I have learned its grace:
Each absence is a prayer,
each memory a sacred flame.
Pour wine for what has passed!
The vintage sweetens with time
The years between us glow like embers of the same flame.
Your leaving carved a temple in the hollow of my chest
Where I tend the altar of what was, and bless the flame.
To love is to release
the bird, the season, the perfect word
And celebrate the flight,
the fall, the freedom in the flame.
In parting, we become more than we were in holding on:
The poet learns that loss itself can bear a singing flame.
It began when I was a young girl, oh I did not scavenge,
in the mud or float in the river but I was known to collect;
rocks and shells by the shores of lakes and rivers, and ocean,
but, one of my favorite things to do was to go on a scavenge,
hunt in the woods, I was like any good Mudlark seeking a treasure;
I called this an adventure. "Where are you going?" mother asked,
"on an adventure !" Was my reply . . .
Now, I am grown but I am still gathering things, I love to skulk,
and prowl second hand book stores and all the junk stores;
and I am not opposed to getting on my hands and knees to explore,
a hidden tattered box, and finding a treasure within making my day;
and once I bring these things home- like an old book, vintage jewelry,
or dish of some sort that becomes my treasured possession . . .
My motto is "just because something is old it still has value"
________________________
April 5, 2020
Poetry/Narrative/Scavenging for Treasure
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1241-647-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
the roaring tides rolled in anger
sat beside me nothing else as I
began to slowly slip into my self
consciousness consoling my inner
most thoughts catering to a rather
chafe metaphor beseeching counsel
embracing righteousness anxiously
covenanting bitterness wildly tamed
emotions creating solitude a vague
rapture mastered my minds eye
withering madness sunk into a sultry
need for wrath in a strange time of day
capturing malice reaching morbidly
for candid cries the seas mist kissed
the shore once more balancing upon
fragile shoulders of vintage broad banks
slashing stone into the rivers edge
entering myself hence soothing the Nile
Written 7-16 -2022 by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Into a vase I placed twelve roses;
I watered them with my love;
I chased away for at least awhile
The pain that kept her from smiling.
Upon the mantle of her heart
The roses bloomed with warmth
To start then faded into memory.
As we talked our friendship grew
The hours became far too few.
We placed aside the ordinary;
We traveled to distant shores;
We tasted Europe’s finest foods
And drank from vintage stores
Of wine and scenic interludes.
Each day hence I felt her less
Her mind was slipping into rest.
There were days, though few
When we again walked anew
Where joys of life were brought
To mind, where life seemed so sublime,
Far from the grasp of time.
Then one day she told me plain
That Jesus would her soul sustain,
That I not worry about that day
For which she often prayed.
Into a vase I placed twelve roses;
I watered them with my love;
I chased away for at least awhile
The pain that kept her from smiling.