Long Vivid Poems
Long Vivid Poems. Below are the most popular long Vivid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vivid poems by poem length and keyword.
Inspiration comes in breaths
Of lilac scented afternoons
Spent sitting on the front porch swing
Talking to Granny about everything
Her heart was always in the right place
Just between mercy and amazing grace
She listened intently to my every thought
Not caring that I was just a young girl
Miracles happen in softly falling leaves
That she rakes up into piles that sit waiting
For my smiling, laughing, running wildness
Jumps amid their vivid colored crunching
Her warmth calms my spirit when I hurt
And sends my broken heart into reverse
Allowing me to cry softly without a word
Because she understands me in every nod
Compassion grows like a blessing from above
Considering my worst worries and struggles
Trials that only Jesus can possibly get me through
Yet, she tries to help me with her intimate touch
Her youth was long gone before I even met her
Yet she holds so much wisdom in her mind I find
The time I spend sharing my heart’s dream with her
Is time that will always be carved into my memories
A shining light as bright as the morning sunshine
Welcomes me to her kitchen where we talk long
About anything that comes to mind, every word
Spoken fresh and spicy, like her tempting dishes
Her words shutter through my mind many times
Reminding me to offer praise to the heavenly Father
Who gave me someone I could always share with
Pieces of my heart that would never leave her presence
Only her heart would understand the reality of me
Expressing myself in words of anger, haste and wishes
Passions that she herself must have felt a while ago
When she lived through the world I was tending to now
May a month when trees display their many tones and hues
Adorned in their best all new and fresh; trees dressed to impress
Cloaked in many shades of green like emerald, lime or chartreuse
May a month when trees display their many tones and hues
So many shades of green are seen of emerald I effuse
Vivid like the precious stone emerald green can stand alone
May a month when trees display their many tones and hues
Adorned in their best all new and fresh; trees dressed to impress
Written 7th May 2019
Contest: Celebrate May with a Triolet
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Contest Strand Pick 6
Sponsor Brian Strand
HONORABLE MENTION
I stand alone and gaze upon the field full of crosses,
In silence, with an empty soul, I think of the days that have passed,
My pockets are full of sad thoughts, like faithful dogs,
I stand alone and listen to the rustling of bones, the echo of the past, of vivid memories.
The wind blows gently, like a caress of wings, over the wax bell of my thoughts,
It resonates in my soul like a call, an untold story, a melody of silence,
But at the first crossroads, at the corner of the first street, someone might appear,
Wrapped in a rain of light, with eyes shining like stars in the night sky.
And then, in an instant, I will feel captured by his divine charm,
He will have to cover me with his cloak, to shield me from the morning chill,
For a gentle rain or snowfall might come, as a gift of fate,
To envelop us in its tenderness, to embrace our souls and bodies, gracefully.
With him will also come a cursed sleet, people would say it's just cold weather,
But in our hearts, it will find fertile ground, it will freeze even the warm thoughts,
So, while the light surrounds our memories, we will remain here,
With bones freshly washed by all the tears and experiences, with souls open to life.
While the begging pigeons fly above me, in endless circles,
Philanthropists have put bread crumbs on balconies, but I think of something else,
In my heart, a millstone weighs heavily, a symbol of pain and renunciation,
But now, determined, I have chosen to leave, to start a new journey, another path.
I imagine that I start from a barn drowned in steam and twilight,
Traveling through dense forests, crossing endless expanses of greenery,
Until I reach a grove, a bush, where Sister Well awaits me,
I will lay my thoughts on the damp grass, I will lean against her old trunk.
I will lose myself in her deep gaze, in the clear and silent waters,
I will let all the sadness and unrest drain away, lost in the depths,
For in her presence, in her cold arms, I will find rest and comfort,
And the field full of crosses will become a place of peace, and my suffering will be conquered by love.
When clouds are slowly drifting by
across the heavens in my mind,
they lift my thoughts into the sky
in search of dreams I long to find.
I’m carried off to distant lands
when clouds are slowly drifting by
to pristine beaches white with sands
and palm trees swaying way up high.
At times a darkness fills my sky
as though the sun has disappeared
when stormy clouds are drifting by
and hiding hope with dreams I feared.
But then my vivid fantasies
that leave me on a natural high
restore my weary mind to ease
when clouds are slowly drifting by.
June 14, 2020
I took a long look in the mirror this morning and boy was I surprised…I think the best way to put it would be…I couldn’t believe my eyes.
There was a time my eyes were much bluer…a brighter…vivid shade…
when…I wondered as I stared…did their color begin to fade?
And when did the skin underneath them begin to droop and sag…when did my once youthful face develop old man bags?
At first glance, I admit, I was taken aback…I was shook…so I leaned into the mirror to take a closer look.
Up close I didn’t see the bags or notice their color had lost their sheen…up close all I saw were all the wonders these eyes have seen.
Yes, these eyes may have grown a little older…they may have developed a few scars…but they’ve also seen the colors of a rainbow…sunsets…the ocean…shooting stars.
These eyes have seen love as it’s unfolded in many a shape and size…love both given and received I saw reflected in these eyes.
These eyes have seen me make mistakes…they’ve seen me make amends…they’ve been happy as they’ve witnessed the beginning of life…and sad to see life end.
They’ve seen flowers bloom in Spring…Fall colors and Winter snows…they’ve seen many a baby’s smile…o moonlit night…they’ve seen my family grow.
These eyes have seen the joys of living…they’ve seen its sadness and its fears…they’ve been overcome with laughter…they’ve been filled with tears.
As I leaned back from the mirror…my vision seemed more keen…comforted and energized by all the sights my eyes have seen.
I walked away forgetting how much their color’s faded…or how those bags under Tham came to be…and excited to experience all the sights they’ve yet to see.
Here in our land where words take flight,
Where verses dance with pure delight,
Lies a poem, misunderstood, open concealed,
Its essence lost, its meaning revealed.
"The Most Misread Poem In America," is called,
An enigma, a riddle, a mystery by all.
Lines crafted with care, like a delicate thread,
But tangled interpretations cause it to be misread.
Oh, how the words do twist and turn,
In the minds of readers, hearts eager to learn,
They skim the surface, blind to the depth,
Missing the treasures this poem has kept.
They search for the literal, the straightforward rhyme,
Yet this poem transcends the limits of time.
Its metaphors dance, its symbols transcend,
But they remain unseen, they fail to shine.
The opening stanza, so beautifully designed,
A call to awaken, to expand one's mind,
But they rush through, in haste to the end,
Unaware of the message it intends to send.
The middle verses, with their enigmatic prose,
Unfold a story that nobody knows,
They brush past the imagery, the vivid scenes,
And wonder why this poem remains unseen.
The closing lines, a crescendo of thought,
A plea for unity, for battles to be fought,
But the readers, they miss this call to action,
Their eyes, blind to the poem's true satisfaction.
Oh, America, how you misread,
This poem, so timeless, it yearns to be freed,
From the shackles of ignorance, of shallow minds,
To be understood, its beauty defined.
So let us pause, take a moment to reflect,
To delve into this poem, to truly connect,
For within its verses lies a truth untold,
A story of a nation, waiting to unfold.
"The Most Misread Poem In America" it may be,
But its power, its essence, can set us free,
Let us read with open hearts and open minds,
And rediscover the treasures that this poem can bring.
Assume, for a moment,
That yesterday wasn’t quite as it seemed.
You found yourself in a state of reflection, where you glimpsed the light,
Only to awaken from what felt like a troubling dream.
The sky appeared less vibrant, taking on a gray hue.
The individual in the White House was absent, unseen,
Leaving the populace with little more than their hopes.
You may recall having read somewhere
A poet often comes to terms with their own emotions.
Perhaps that’s why some verses find resolution in an Amen.
I fondly remember sitting in my small chair during preschool,
Anxiously awaiting my name to be called,
Hoping to hear it pronounced correctly.
Yet, my teacher sometimes faltered—Waverly, Wabney.
Imagine, for a moment, if I had stood up
And confidently declared it, without hesitation.
I often felt a heavy heart when my best friend’s name was called,
And she wasn’t there; I tended to presume the worst.
I often found myself in an emotional state, attuned to the feelings of others.
From a young age, I expressed myself in vivid colors.
I held tightly to my crayon box and silly putty,
Creating representations of my emotions.
As adults, we sometimes hold onto grudges and bitterness,
And I recognize that I am not immune to this; one wonders when it will truly end.
As cotton clouds fade under blank blackness,
I sigh as stars stare at my moon.
My breathless quill feels no pulse, but it beats,
unable to find admiration for an empty page.
I bleed tears. I've not yet cried like wailing walls,
through expressions with silent connotations,
where my life resembles personified poetry.
But, not all verses are expressed effortlessly,
as my muse's heart is misplaced in mahogany mist.
Once, I used to sprinkle magic over dead roses,
but my chiseled charm is now at war with words,
wandering among weeds in my withering flower garden.
Vinegary rain with sour snow has immolated my vocabulary's flaming blooms,
as memorable metaphors abandon me.
Pierced from thorns worn from a crown of sonnets,
I fear myself when my rhymes feel like childish crimes.
Now I cry without tears, a lifeless poet,
lost in a paradise of vivid imagery,
but powerless to write verses with substance,
so I let my words rest in peace - deceased.
It's a winter colder that the others
we lived yesterday, never thinking of any sadness;
our winters were mild and we wanted snow
to hug each other closer and watch it fall!
It remained a wish we made by an open window:
wasn't the quite evening a vivid recall?
I stand outside frozen as a lonely snowman
and wait for your warm kiss to melt it away,
we can build our castle and be happy;
nothing went as we had planned,
what an unpleasant setback to realize
the many tries that failed twice...
and again we laugh and pretend
as if no wish has ever changed!
It's a winter colder than the others,
loneliness makes one cry, closeness
sends away all blues piled up inside;
ice to melt needs lots of sun,
renew my joy and begin to run:
your hug can give me back all pride!
I haven't loved anybody
or promised to stay with someone anyhow;
I'm running to you to feel alive and worthy;
not staring at the unhappy moon,
and hear wanderers that swoon!
Isn't my wish to spend the starriest night
listening to the silence around,
hearing only you sighing upon my chest
and be forever heavenly-bound?
It's a winter colder that the others,
never ask me to stop kissing you passionately,
never deny me the need to fulfill me completely;
I'll make you my queen, the happiest woman
who I have ever loved with desire and passion:
I want nothing but your faithfulness!
In my somnolence,
I dream of a world that only exists in my deepest thoughts.
A world where the firmament
stretches far beyond in its majestic blue colour
A world where even the air is pure and immaculate,
So pure that it gives you fortitude just by breathing it in.
A secret world known only to me.
That rejuvenates every cell and fibre in my body with every breathe i take-
eliminating all unwanted pollutants of doubt, shame and fear.
Foul winds may blow from time to time,
but nothing shakes or breaks-
all stays firmly rooted in its place.
though fortitude it brings,
powerlessness also comes-a-knocking.
Powerlessness brought about by reality-
NO AIR IS EVER FRESH AIR
As melancholic as it may be,
my dream will not cease to exist.
day after day it becomes more vivid
and draw closer to reality until...one day...
A dream it will be no more!
Finally, i open my eyes,
gaze up into the sky, and realize with contentment and gratitude
that the air, though not entirely fresh,
is still my air, my dream and my DESTINY....