Long Wax Poems
Long Wax Poems. Below are the most popular long Wax by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wax poems by poem length and keyword.
My once passionate life,
Charming crayola broads.
Came to a halt,
When she was sent from God.
But heartbreak burned,
As I dripped to the floor.
I cried waxy tears,
Like never before.
She still crosses my mind,
Though a little bit darker.
She ran off with him,
A crayola green marker.
Now tears of red,
So frequently stream.
As the pain of my heart,
Is so easily seen.
These ardent veins,
That gushed passionate red.
Have no reason to flow,
Since my burgundy fled.
Shades of maroon outline,
This broken carmine heart.
These crimson thoughts,
Want love to embark.
But my burgundy dreams,
Will never comeback.
For all of my happiness,
Has melted to wax.
Staying near to light my way
now that there is no more day
You're needed to so brightly burn
before to black ashes you return
Flames dance high upon your wick
and fall across the well-worn brick
Like those flames once in the hearth
when you go out there is no rebirth
My mind alight with persistent thought
beaming from an inspiration caught
In ink my quill takes another dip
my eyes watch your melting wax drip
Furiously now my script does flow
to finish the lines before out you go
I can do no more, there is no time
my slowing pen can no longer rhyme
The ink still wet, not even dry
as your glow continues to die
Words on the page begin to fade
while creeping darkness starts to shade
Wax and ink overtaken by night
and devours all your candle's light.
I've been collecting ear wax
Since the belly button lint dust fire went bad
I lost all my dignity in that fiasco
So ear wax is all that I have left
Believe you me, it's not easy
Coming up with another scheme
After burning the whole town down to the ground
To get a single soul to look or even listen to me
But that fateful day that I dug deep
And pulled a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of my ear
I knew that fame and fortune lay before me
My time had arrived, my time was here
Who should I call first over my artful discovery
The Post? The Enquirer? The Times?
No I would call The Museum Of Modern Art in NYC
For the Art World would soon be mine
I knew I had to ratchet it up a notch
One piece of ear wax art might be a fluke
So I got out my brush...the Q-tip
And removed a portrait of John Wayne AKA The Duke
Since I live in a hippie commune in the woods
Little furry creatures would always stop by
To gaze upon the artful process
Squirrels can be the best of critics...no lie!
Which gave me the idea with all the left over ear wax
I sculptured a mini-amusement park with mini-arcades
And charged the woodland creatures nuts and berries
Which helped feed the hippies with whom I stay
It wasn't long after that I received the letter
Stating that art had a need for me
I've become known as The Andy Warhol of The Art World
With abstract ear wax being my specialty
Now I go to all the major "Who Does"
Where everybody knows my name
As I create masterpieces right before their eyes
Just don't hold it to close to the flame
Who would have ever thought that ear wax
Would be the perfect medium
To jet propel this Simpleton
To Art World stardom and beyond
THE WAX CRIES WITH HAPPINESS
Mom’s up early with the plucked bird, stuffing it.
The bare rinsed butterball, portions for six.
All day our mouths water, stomachs pitching a fit,
as we wait for the skin to crisp...delicious drumsticks.
Potatoes peeled and pressured, mashed, stirred
with butter, milk, salt and pepper...licking lips.
Jolly Green Giant beans heated, (sixties were absurd)
Likewise the floop from a tin can...cranberry flips.
Father and son, thankful for the football game. I
just hear static. Mother’s in her apron, sweating.
I just remember sights, smells, sounds...I sigh.
The basics of love — the cornucopia begetting.
Afterwards our bellies ballooning, but there’s pies,
piled with apple, rhubarb or cherry and Cool Whip.
The table adorned with long candles - the wax cries
with happiness. The unsetting done with thankful lips.
11/11/2019
Thanksgiving Memory Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
Rooting for gems in the devil's left hand
trapped in a flesh cage, there's no escaping
each etching upon the face telling tales of greed
tossing aside family-making love to dead "things"
greed is a fanged drug with no hope for antidote
say for a rope to the nape or a bullet to the soul
old man sits on a throne made from bones of regret
pinching out the last candle without family or friend
wax dripping over a hollowed-out heart, chanting...
oh
what could have been
oh
what could have been.
Through a world of wax and shadows they ever wander,
Secret auditors of inner voices, clear as crystal,
Following them like music throbbing through the veins of a slumbering city,
Whispering hidden paths - some call madness, others, myth.
Within them wrestles a muse born of the depths of being,
Singing a wordless melody, yet full of ancient meanings.
Under their steps, the earth trembles, hearing the same summons
That makes these visionaries dance on the wire between genius and downfall.
The wind steals their thoughts, scatters them across the world like the seeds of a forest,
They leave behind rhapsodies that blossom into legends, or just ash.
They are knights of disquiet, tamers of inner sirens,
Bearing the burden and the gift to see beyond what is mortal, ordinary.
Oh, how thin is the thread that binds vision to the cry of silence,
They soar, they dive into the ocean of stars within their own minds,
And the world watches, wondering whether to crown them or forsake them -
Some will melt into the void, others will rise to the level of tales rooted in horizons.
Thus, each step of theirs is an unwritten poem, an act of magical being,
Where each choice is an arc over the abyss, a flirt with immortality.
Leaving impressions that weep and laugh, cry out and whisper,
These souls become a book to be read with the heart, not the eyes; theirs is the undying story.
In the cells of silence, where dreams freeze in wax,
Lone women walk with hearts as hard as bitter stone.
A flame of pure pride, in their veins runs hot,
Thinking of a dreamed prince, whom longing carries in the mind.
In their hidden chambers, embroidered with restless longing,
Trees of memories grow, that have not borne an answer,
Walls of illusions rise, built by the hands of myth,
From archaic depths, expectation defies without reprieve.
There are crosses in the march of days, ticks of old clocks,
And every beat seems like a bell tolling in the altar of cold nights,
Where crystalline tears trace their paths on the cheek,
The inner seas of yearning seem to suck them in, a burnt impression.
They gaze at the moon, the celestial bride, in her gown of pure silk,
Wondering, in her radiance, if just a mirror is her fate,
If the prince appears in the comet's passing, in the cosmic thread to show,
Or if the beaded sky in dreams pretends to be a ladder.
Oh, how easily the wind whistles between branches of doubt,
When the leaf of waiting falls, like an autumn too soon.
Stuck to the star of their path that towards the unknown carries them,
Do they, they wonder, deserve to dress their soul in hardship?
But magical is the evening veil that heavily descends upon their world,
For in its darkness, it carries also the chance of a fortunate eclipse,
Which, once illuminated, would reveal the prince is not that one,
But a warm breeze, a word, a shadow that appears towards reality.
Now, in the altar of dream, the fire of hope burns softly,
And thousands of petals of questions scatter their scents into the air.
If they were to open the gate, would the prince come any differently,
Not on a silver horse, but in the noisy silence of what is enough?
I stand in my candle holder
With a wick upon my shoulder.
My place is by the window...
Listening to the wind blow.
Seasons come and go with pass...
Changing opposite the glass.
Sunrises through to sunsets...
This candle never forgets.
Pending, you are source of fire...
When you strike, you spark desire.
We are a match - you of your match
And I, the candle - what a catch.
We sit upon the window sill...
Waiting for the time until
We come together - in joined force
Throughout our combined intercourse.
Eventually, we are both able...
Finding place upon a table.
The time has come to lighten up
Within my candle holder's cup.
Following your matchbox striking,
To my wick - you take a liking.
Our fire is now burning bright...
Romance in its candlelight.
This, in turn, stands tall and straight.
Soaring to the sky, but wait...
As well as your flame being felt
In all my stance, I start to melt.
As I cry, I am not sad...
Sum of the time that we had.
As time passes, furthermore...
Melting and crying is in store.
It seems that we have reached the end
As we start to burn out, my friend.
Within volume of holding space,
We find our final resting place.
As our romance comes to cease,
You and I are both at peace.
Melts and cries come to relax
Of this, our newfound house of wax.
Aging baby boomer
no longer fit as a fiddle
accumulating extra adipose tissue
around the middle
ain't no impossible mission
whence thumbs I twiddle
to shed unwanted
weight methinks exorcise to unriddle.
Call to action necessitates
yours truly to acclimatize,
calling fitness trainer
whereby honed toned physique
(tubby synonymous with Adonis – ha)
benefits begetting courtesy to aerobicize,
nsync dumbbells compliment exercise,
whereby brutal daily grueling
regimen will also comprise
boot camp rigorous discipline
strength to pilot (minus paunches)
shouldering, managing, hoisting crucifix sunrise
to sundown will non verbally advertize,
verily intolerant to chastise,
hence no bully best better mess
mine mean mien guise
will enjoyably capitalize
zing might equals right to authorize
self defense without need to apologize.
Back in the day, I
presented pitiful sight
self worth equated on
par with botanical blight
buffeted along boulevard
of broken dreams
depressed body language
bespoke head to foot
encompassing enfeebled edifice complex
scrawny measly gumby,
hokey pokey height
how I presented such sorry spectacle
courtesy excellent twenty/twenty hindsight
analogous to an emotional black hole,
never exhibiting courage to fight,
rather yours truly immediately took flight
and/or stood dumbfoundedly
in imitation of deaf mute wishing to alight
bajillion miles away, versus
active stance to fight
preferring the incognito
guise pitch dark vested gentry
donning luxury invisible
accouterment shade o' midnight
proffered, though natural camouflage
infrared crosshairs nonetheless did sight,
when scaredy cat sacrificial scapegoat
experienced his sealed fate, a heavy smite
upon me noggin scrambled outlook
seeing stars courtesy topflight -
(bare in) strong arms hoodlums
brandishing razor sharp dagger
type like fangs able, eager,
(think) bloodthirsty 10,000
homicidal maniacs
ready and willing to bite
simultaneously trumpeting
hate speech to excite
curious madding crowd
glomming to render airtight
any possible safe escape,
yours truly turned white
as a sheet.
coins ring laughter born of war babies buy bombs
liquor in a dying bum’s throat chocking on tears heaven
is a wink and a dollar-bill rabbits in the dark sex in the park
chessmen move in minds of shadows dressed in suits with gin
in hand the mice run cheese severed tales of another rabid blessing
the worm-hole moves through your eyes a ghost runs fingers through
your hair dangles in the still mid-night wind exploding generations of
soldiers painted green with philosophy plastic guns painted children modern
mother earth awakens visions drum smoke into the storm of stares glancing
choruses cracking churches changing shattering showers of sun slipping acid
-tears tear rain music hears ears gasping deaf white winter birds flap red death
-bed angels leading hands crying glory with glowing lips sealed the wax wanes