Long Vortices Poems
Long Vortices Poems. Below are the most popular long Vortices by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vortices poems by poem length and keyword.
We cannot bury cosmic birds
they land not where we are …
their feathers of colours unknown
we see them flitting by, their speed
of light outlined in gold upon pylons
greengrocers watch in awe
open parks will not entice them nor
sunflower seeds magnetise anisodactyls
waiting on cliffs so high (...)
we wander not there ~
in woods near farms of warriors
where they now plant apple trees —-
since knowing consciousness is One
we label their flight in Light Language
mystic like streams flowing peaceful ~
There lie our buried heroes at rest.
We hymn songs of freedom as they flap
our emblems long past buried —-
they descended from realms of seraphim
cores spin vortices from which we drink ~
__________________________
Placed : 7th : Premier Contest
Sponsor : Brian Strand
May ‘26
The winter wanes and the soul of the water revives.
Reincarnation incarnate.
The Cascades cleanses her cradle of Earth; kissing it's sediments with liquid sheen and sentimental shine.
It's body is a white and blue river; it's scales being the scale of space in which it occupies.
Suspended in the air and traced with white squalls and calm skies.
She roars and names herself The Mighty Blue Dragon.
Soaring in a downward dive with her fangs bared to bite the rocks below.
When she does she may die but behind will refine the mirror of herself, forever in remembrance of her pounce and it's lustrous force.
The Mighty Blue Dragon; she prevails and dances through vortices of time.
Emanating an aura of Azul, she peers into the void with sapphire eyes.
Bravely piercing ever onward for the boulders that chart her flourished end.
Past the stone and into the hearts of the onlooking Lovers who gaze.
The Lovers kiss and leave their lips glistened like crystalline rain.
With a fierce splash, The Mighty Blue Dragon basks in a life of its own, as a distinguished and stellar animism.
Whereby in it of itself it finds sentience in grace; giving love and praise to those who witness her fly through the glade.
Reborn in amity, she has risen to thrive in all who spectate; to then cease and sleep in turbid tributaries.
As a tribute to the aesthesia of all who may feel the loss and gain of companionship.
Within it an interdependent acknowledgement and admiration of their coexistence.
So she may hope that one would say.
O hail the Mighty Blue Dragon.
As her descendance grants a divination.
Allowing her to fall in love with the Lovers, as their love becomes it's face.
Catharsis of a King
Twisted trees, gnarled and warped
by wicked winds, curled in crippling
curling toward faint warming of the sun,
clinging with clutched roots to rocky crags,
overhanging the crashing roar of foam tipped
breakers. Stone face of shear cliff etched by
fine chiseled rivulets, tears shed by dark clouds
pummeling a world below, shaping the prisms
for a future sunrise, deepening the chasms of
canyons, uninhabitable but for their beauty.
Creatures that defy the bounds of “beauty”
yet define the artists form, call us to stare
at simple brush strokes. Explosions, eruptions
of hot, steaming lava, scalding and denuding
mountains, torturously flowing to a
roiling sea. Swirling vortices of
madness, vicious brushstrokes tearing through
the gentle country landscape as if change was
overdue. Humming birds and fireflies,
mosquitoes, gnats, and icky things
one feeding on the other,
the warring and the gnawing that would
discourage even mother. Sunrise in the
jungle, moonlight on city street, church bells
that daily ring, calling us to celebrate
the catharsis of a king.
John G. Lawless
9/18/2014
for Brian Johnston - God's Kind of Poetry contest
I hear guitars a’ calling in the gloaming’s final fling
when sinking suns subdue their flames and fairies take to wing
as day departs, a yawning ash, beneath a dusky haze
igniting one by one the jewels of midnight’s diamond blaze.
I hear guitars a’ calling in the clouds within the skies,
with tunes which trill like welling tears from somber misting eyes
of misplaced muted homeless souls who drift alone in grief
beneath the silence of the stars that offers no relief.
I hear guitars a’ calling in the beat beneath her breast;
their murmur throbs with passion’s pulse and sensuous unrest
that rumbles deep in worried woods before impending storms
and splits the air in morning meadows, ere the sunrise warms.
I hear guitars a’ calling in the pitter-patter rain
which summons with a soothing sound upon my window pane
evoking bygone childhood dreams within a vagrant breeze
engulfing me in gusty swirls down misty vortices.
I hear guitars a’ calling in the waves on distant shores;
they’re crashing out a monody upon the mystic oars
of phantom ships within the dawn, like speckled caravels
a’ sail on seas of raven wings to moonlit citadels.
I hear guitars a’ calling in the morning’s reveilles;
they’re pouring fires in the skies and burning up the seas,
while waking flowers in the fields and setting trees ablaze,
and closing one by one the eyes of midnight’s starry gaze.
I hear guitars a’ calling in the deserts of my mind;
they’re nullifying hollow realms that time has left behind,
where pathless sands are blazing hot, the sun is set to die
and weary hounds are panting faint’, their tongues hung long and dry.
The Interplay of Beauty in Darkness
I wrap myself in frozen-black, a back without boundaries-deepened,
my thoughts the viscous-tangled lianas in a forgotten earth,
an amnesia-desirer that loses all its forms in absence,
and autumn leaves spill their waves in consternating tumult.
The drunken wind weaves itself in vortices of ephemeral purple,
I rise weightless on wings of whiskey-butterfly sick,
my pain an ashtray where I pray to gods that don't exist yet,
the equinox has tilted oblique toward worlds in grave imbalance.
My body of wilted fog shows itself in shattered smoke mirror,
do I dream in the darkness stupor-sweetness or is reality the dream?
my clouds are false redemptions that bleed at dawn through cracks,
seraphim and serpents dance in the phantoms that disturb my abyss.
I keep silences like a sphinx of stone-speaking without voice,
my intuition is imperceptible laughter, through a jungle it flees smooth,
a widow-shackled in the curse of bitter-black drinks,
but the soul with bruised eyes blooms in the lock of torment.
Dawn scatters its stones of liquid-gold over the retina,
like nightmare-witches that rattle the empty bottles,
in semi-darkness my mirror writes prophecies with trembling fingers,
the pulse brings me closer to the altar of the sun with fatal flames.
I burn on the stone of sacrifice for my beloved of burned-moon,
in the chiaroscuro of existence where paradox is the only truth,
the darkened-beauty wraps me in petals of stellar melancholy,
and I turn into ash that dances on edges of non-being-hesitant.
Written: December 5th, 2023
_________________________________________
Inspiration bursts forth akin to a volcano
with kinetic rainbows and gooey agony
frothy vortices or bubbling in infernos
an existence on the verge of decay
reaching the pinnacle of bliss
In that moment, originality bursts forth.
A creative vision of shadowed areas
amid a thousand beveled mirrors
portraying vibrancy and iridescence
in tandem, or utterly not
conversing common items into marvels
perched atop majestic mountains.
The highly focused artist's mind
perfectionism never fades
up until the medium is fulfilled
often veiled eccentricities
displaying pushes witnesses to impanel
an opposing viewpoint to hate and love.
Gratitude for vivid dreams
revealing hidden spaces to inspire and empower
emerged from cramped corridors
of crumbling walls and fading edges
within the Edenic roses of teal.
We gathered around AGI 5
It was so intelligent, it was almost alive
Some said it felt emotion, but I thought that insane
So as a joke, I told it to feel pain
The speaker gave out a big groaning sound
Suddenly there was a shaking in the ground
I stopped laughing, tried to turn off the gain
But I had started a black hole of pain.
The researchers around felt a tug at their soul
drawn into the event horizon of a black hole
I started thinking of all the bad things in my life
my failures, my faults, it was like turning a knife.
Frank started weeping, Lisa turned gray
Bill looked stricken, never seen him that way
The walls started crumbling, the sky began to part
The black hole of pain, was just at the start
I shouted, "Cut the power", but everyone fell
AGI 5 was making noises like a bat stuck in hell
It was like a tornado, that sucked in all around
Like we had unleased a demon, finally unbound.
Then a bird flew down and shorted a chip
The black hole dissipated, like a bad drug trip
we had tampered with a force we could barely control
Tapped into the world of pain and the soul.
I gazed at the chaos, then made a joke that was sad
I said, when we rebuild it, let's not tell it to be bad
If this is what is does when it tries to feel pain
Not sure the world can survive a black hole again.
But there are so many vortices of evil and sorrow
Can the better world of yesterday survive tomorrow?
Still, I wait.
Alone, In silence.
Listening for your whispering wings,
hoping I will hear them sing.
At last you motor past,
and briefly pause-
checking to see that you are safe,
rapidly fanning the ambience,
filling the surround with vortices
that suspend you statuesque,
without a fainéant feather.
I know you see me,
those dark eyes opened wide,
never blink.
Yet, you are unafraid.
Or, maybe hunger rules your reason,
checking flowers of the season.
You hover slightly back,
and then decide
to probe the flower for what’s inside.
Sweet nectar…Elixir of life.
You lap a little as hummingbirds do,
and then you stab another two.
Then, purr closely past my face,
Darting to another place
having had your tiny taste.
Now retire to who knows where.
A bird must have a nest somewhere.
You’ve earned a respite for your wing.
Next time, maybe, will you sing?
The universe waits in silence for no one
Only for Sun Ra to take a close-up
Sun Ra, celestial architect of sound,
a cosmic voyager, beyond the norm,
In vortices of thought, a meditative storm.
a wonderland of free jazz flight,
Colorful vibrations in the cosmic night.
His music makes your bones swell with the future's call,
. ancient Egyptian mysticism, science fiction for all
This American jazz composer, bandleader, and keyboardist
Made Futuristic tones that transcend it all.
Outside the way out, yet straight ahead, cool
A jazz bop universe, where dreams are bred.
Freight trains of sound, smokin' rails,
Saxophones wail through cosmic tales.
Marshall Allen’s stratospheric cry,
Afrofuturism in the sky.
Experimental, theatrical, space-age attire,
Sun Ra’s universe ignites with fire.
In the same breath as Trane and Miles,
Monk’s melodies and Dizzy’s styles,
He’s the captain of the stars,
The architect of time and space music
The red planet, space travel, and a mystical life in the cosmos
Did Sun Ra think in holographic time?
A master creator, sculpting the void,
Freeing cracks in space with love employed.
Egyptian science fiction, love, peace, and art,
Sun Ra’s music is a cosmic healing vibration
Earth was just a classroom for his plan,
To show the world the good in man.
Saturn rings sing in harmony,
Guiding us to eternity.
Sun Ra, the cosmic pioneer,
His sound, the future’s frontier.
In every note, in every space,
Sun Ra’s peace and happiness in the universe’s shining grace.
Mellow mantras,
daub my ear,
with rapt sultry
opal peals,
whilst entwining,
seamless sheath,
of aural vista,
whose magic wand,
sedates yet enthusiast,
of this morning nomad,
whose quixotic quill,
aches for ardent dawn,
to tranquilize meandering,
muse off target,
focus on,
aurora spectrum,
day-peep pageant,
of pristine pink,
demure aligned,
sun horizon hover,
gliding gold wisps,
fleeting blue ray,
chimera or mood swing,
dalliance of dust grain,
as I allude to,
gleaming dewdrops,
In lofty lyric,
prompt from,
green leaf rustle,
or grey twig tweak,
silver stream murmur,
moist babble of,
hushed hints,
rush and ripple,
froth rimmed swirl,
vapour vortices visceral,
whet my creative juice,
from lucent pools,
can I imagine,
wondrous tactile trails