Long Voile Poems
Long Voile Poems. Below are the most popular long Voile by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Voile poems by poem length and keyword.
Rose and crimson-hued petals look ethereal
In the pouring chromatic wizardry darkness
Golden silken colors are included in the boreal
Every red drop of a vivid array, cut starkness.
In the pouring chromatic wizardry darkness.
Rejuvenating the gaze of magnificent seawater
Every red drop of a vivid array, cut starkness
In the thriving watery depths of Angel's wonder.
Rejuvenating the gaze of magnificent seawater
A chaotic labyrinth destroyed goals and dreams
In the thriving watery depths of Angel's wonder
Empty deserts with no sign of sentient streams.
A chaotic labyrinth destroyed goals and dreams
On an ocean floor, shadows split up Eden's soil
Empty deserts with no sign of sentient streams
In celestial, no mycelia weakness in dazzle voile.
On an ocean floor, shadows split up Eden's soil
Golden silken colors are included in the boreal
In celestial, no mycelia weakness in dazzle voile
Rose and crimson-hued petals look ethereal.
Written: May 08, 2022
In the center of a fresh pageant,
she throttles like a mythical woman
quick to dance among open flowers,
whirling like a hundred stars
with curves round and breasts oyster pink
as the trees, ovules, candles in her eyes
open the fingertips of near April.
Wild tempo vibrates on wispy notes,
until eyes of fire melt nightfall's brew...
for primal and young is this Aries goddess
holding a voile skirt that lifts
into a twirl while the moon
hangs like a violin... eager to wing
this lady's reggae jigs
drifting on brocade of her springtime arms:
And if every detail of lace in a gown
can be sewn in the light touching her flesh ,
this she shall bring too... this near April debut.
Contest: Your best poem in the last year
Sponsor: Silent One
Written 3/6/2017 Re-submitted 2/5/2018
To wander beneath lush morning trees
Imprinting varnish of leaves, anew
When July casts its charm with such ease.
~The mantle of summer decked in reds,
This cycle brings dazzle, to imbue
A warm gust embellished from voile threads.
While meadows parade their sizzled grace ,
I romp along grasses' mellow view
Till sunlight weaves its pour of embrace.
Brooks temperate quide these nimble toes
Lingering on, buds trickle on cue--
My arms tossed in whimsical repose.
Until night gently inks this wild sway ~
A prayer, a moment , this debut
Enthralls my soul...tinged by heaven's ray!
Maiden alone on the misty beach
Dressed in fine voile like fabric and hat
Is your desire for your sailor a miraculous feat
Wishing him home and close to your heart
The waves are slow and gently crest
Clouds are close and filled with gray
Closely you look at the sand and express
The desire to see if any boats enter the bay
How many days do you spend this way
Sitting on the soft damp sand in the gray
Or sunshine hoping that the ships may
Come this way and there be a wave
From the special one the one true love
The sailor who spends time on deck
Cleaning, scouring, scrubbing above
Hoping to see maybe, just maybe a speck
Of land where there sits his maiden
The love and desire of his heart
Who on a shore does sit waiting
For her sailor to come home, never part
("Iphigeneia at Tauris" 1893 Valentine Alexander Serov (l865-1911/Russia) Oil on Canvas".)
A thousand dots of bulbs flutter wildly
exploding into my summer’s redness
to gather awed murmur upon these lips,
my amazement tossed beyond open sills—
How I watch you glitter from a dance
as late afternoon spreads the outline
of your voluptuous curves tapping
beneath warm sunset now giving way
to that quickened female rush ...Just then
against gauzy light—a steady pause,
another different movement quite innocent--
weaves on fine voile of your tiny bosoms...
Until comes the stillness. The nobility
enhanced by caressed petioles
delicate as slow flame unto night’s halo:
I claim tranquility. I become meditative
unaware that grind of day tears my sensibilities.
O you, dear Asian vine grant quiet radiance
hanging leisurely through my window's slumber.
4/03/2019
Written for Craig Cornish: Bougainvillea Contest
Moonlight is my favored language
It shades misty ,
Though cold night etches wilted boughs
Raking the muddied fields--
Lean willows change into argent gold:
In dripping furrows of hollowness
Fragile roots and stalks
Glimmer against pale weeds
As tassels of orb’s voile thread
Embellish autumn’s mourning grass.
This is moonlight, yellowing the eve
Across the stark open... In my aloneness
I watch it flicker through shadow play
That my essence breathes awhile --
Beams somehow speak to me
about howling pain and lilting quietude;
As a crescent trace draws a hint of radiance
To awaken my inner poise , now
...slowly embracing the wonder of new worlds.
A trellis of leaves flutters so naturally,
reams hanging free… timeless in a swirl
on the curving breasts of night. And they dance,
prance without restraint
onto altitudes of orbital light,
glistening through their
russet-gold flesh…
Somehow, these leaflets enter into my
dazzled world as if to murmur:
“We are here, but not for a long, my dear
so you must learn our celestial song ,
unfurl your wings across melodious rivers--
come dance with us ,your beauty fills…”
And my hips jut out like a riot
of dragonflies, butterflies, fireflies
towards the same aurora, draped
in a voile-skirt's embrace; my
arms and limbs circling in shapes unknown...mysterious
as autumn's moonlit croon,
while leaves flicker into a hushed
tempo of nightfall's revelry,
deliriously untame..
When you see a white sail in the harbor of Brest,
A sail under a burning sun,
It’s a nagging sail,
She has not the tranquility of a sail on the Nile,
Her mind is not at peace, her conscience torments her,
This sail flees life; it does not enjoy life,
So are most of the things we like
In This country.
Quand vous voyez une voile blanche dans la rade de Brest,
Une voile sous un soleil ardent,
C’est une voile agaçante,
Elle n’a pas la tranquillité d’une voile sur le Nil,
Son esprit n’est pas en paix, sa conscience la tourmente,
Cette voile fuit la vie, elle n’en profite pas,
Il en est ainsi de la plupart des choses que nous aimons
En ce pays.
An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.
It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.
“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s dirty.
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.
There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”
There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a jury.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.
There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.
.
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slang: updogged = to continue a conversation trend and maybe improve it.