Long Weaver Poems
Long Weaver Poems. Below are the most popular long Weaver by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weaver poems by poem length and keyword.
I gave you my heart
thought this would be the start
of the journey that would lead us
to 'till death do us part.
But I was a fool,
a damn fool who had to learn
my sincere love for you
would never be returned.
When I met you
I thought my dreams had come true.
I loved you so much
I literally would've died for you.
But I was a fool,
a damn fool who you trained
who you taught in your el yes
love is nothing more than a game.
You were a liar and a deciever,
an unremorseful cheater,
a heartbreaker and hope destroyer,
not a dream weaver.
But I was a fool,
a damn fool who had to learn,
the longer I stayed with you,
the more times I'd get burned.
Yes,
I was your fool,
a damn fool who had to learn,
nothing would ever change,
till I made the tables turn.
Then God intervened,
came to me in a daytime dream,
reminded me I'm too blessed
to be this stressed,
and it's time I split this scene.
God whispered, "be no man's fool,
take my hand and I'll help you learn,
he's not worth your time,
he's too ignorant to discern,
that you are a woman of worth,
the salt of the earth,
a diamond meant to shine,
a thinking man's new birth,
you are no man's fool".
Yes,
I was your fool,
and the key word is WAS.
Her name was Susan and she was breathtaking.
She could spin a poem into a spider’s web strength and ethereal wisps.
I was smitten beyond reason.
Captured by lust quickly tuning toward love.
Then the however happened.
However, Susan was adept at spinning a gossamer web
Silently, she captured victims blinded with lust
like this one whose idea of loving her went bust
Susan was a mean girl, a Black Widow weaver
she encased him in a silk cocoon...
until her appetite for a meal woke her from peaceful rest
A smile on her face, legs crossed... all eight of them.
Patiently, she waited while giving herself a mani/pedi
Susan sat drooling at the thought of lunch
She decided she better dress for dinner
after all…
her lunch date was just hanging around.
She looked such a temptress
With scarlet lipstick smeared over her face
And perfectly manicured talons
She set to work unwrapping her prey
Ready to nibble him down to the bone
Susan’s prey appeared all debonair with bells on
She could see through his charming but fake façade
He saw her eyes glimmer, her lips red and inviting
She offered him a kiss as she wrapped her eight legs around him
His eyes bulged as she kissed his lips while suffocating him in her web
He begged her to stop as she drank from his mouth,
until he was silenced
The above verses were inspired by a prompt given to poets, Jan, Tania and Lin, by Arlo Parker, who wrote the first verse. We give credit to Arlo for inspiring us to write these verses; a joint venture of Arlo Parker and the mean girls.
In the cathedral of time, where seconds drip like holy myrrh on the altar of eternity,
We stand, creatures of light draped in mantles of shadow and doubt,
With golden hands weaving the veil of reality, yet eyes covered by scales of ignorance,
While the Great Weaver watches silently from behind the cosmic curtain.
Our ship of destiny sails on the ocean of infinity, with sails made of unwoven dreams,
Blind helmsmen, crowned with thorns and wielding scepters of smoke, lead us to illusory horizons,
While deep in the hold, pearls of wisdom and diamonds of knowledge wait to be discovered,
Guarded by sirens of doubt and hydras of fear, fed by the tears of our lost hopes.
In the garden of souls, where trees of knowledge stretch their branches towards the sky of consciousness,
We dance a frenzied waltz with shadows of our own unfulfilled selves,
As angels with wax wings and demons with crystal hearts whisper the secrets of creation,
And we, blind and deaf, continue to weave the tapestry of destiny with threads of regret and nostalgia.
The full moon of enlightenment pours its silver light over the temple of humanity,
But the ignored priestesses of intuition and exiled prophets of vision stand in the shadows,
While on the altar, clay idols of mediocrity receive offerings of unfulfilled dreams,
And the smoke of our futile sacrifices rises to the indifferent sky of history.
Yet in the depths of the collective soul's cave, a sacred flame still flickers,
Fed by droplets of hope and the divine breath of our boundless potential,
For we are incarnate stars, carriers of the cosmic code in every cell,
Awaiting the sacred moment when we will pierce the veil of illusion and step into the light of eternal truth.
In the cosmic dance of creation, we are both dancers and music, both stage and audience,
Caught in a mystical hora of becoming, our steps measured by the heartbeat of the universe,
And one day, perhaps, we will remember the primordial song of our divine soul,
And weave anew the tapestry of reality, this time with threads of pure light and unconditional love.
An amalgamation of the five senses
I am lying in a field of flowers, between four others
That was not supposed to be multiple colors
But so long to the fences
I speak a language that has forgotten its three tenses
My eyes are still two but they no longer blink
For the same reason as others do
The lashes will interlink
Merely to capture you
My pupils are like blades
Stacked on top of each other, in a centreless circle
They sync when you come my way
Only to spiral
Whenever your figure fades
When you wave your hand, as you walk away
You changed the function of my brain, it no longer thinks, it can no longer retain
One thread of reason, when a thought of you is bound to reign
I do not complain
It became a fiction weaver
Of pleasure and pain
It calculates no equation, it processes no information
How could it when I am afflicted with such a fever
That I do not remain
I am dead, my heart does not beat
To the same tune as others
It does not eat, from the same spoon as two brothers do
It does not drink from the same red lagoon
It pumps blood when it feels your heat
And you would know if it has ever stopped beating
For you would not have these words which you are reading
Flood you with warmth from your head to your feet
My skin is a hot mesh to keep you warm
It stings my flesh like lightning in a storm
But do not be afraid, I have sworn an oath
That if it ever harmed you, I would walk forth
Onto a hearth, and into ash it shall transform
My fingertips leak ink whenever I think of somebody who
Could be terrified at the sight they witness
Someone so beautiful as to never inspire ugliness
I am a beautiful monstrosity through and through.
Written: September 29, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
*************
In pavonine dusk, she composed—
A letter sealed with crimson wax,
on velvet parchment,
a mosaic of sighs unfurled.
In the crest of ecstatic swirls,
each word an anagram of longing,
hidden at the start
and the cease of each slash.
Inside: faint violet grapes,
nectar balm for the worthy,
on an idyllic steed embossed
with topaz sparks—
solace for those who tremble
at the edge of heights.
A soothing draught for swollen hearts,
pierced by dazzling rays.
Follow the trail of lost words—
a ductile prayer to the empyrean,
the veil-maker of celestial mist,
a weaver of dulcet dawns
amid the soaring storm.
For the nyctophile: a tale on cambric linens.
Iconoclasts embrace angelic ache.
Her soul yearned for joy.
An idealist cultivates love
within a glistening haze.
Circumvent the storm of memory.
Behind an unusual confession—
not bucolic, drabness, or triviality.
Supplication in silence, in ache,
of your rekindled awareness.
To shape you, to yield you.
Climb as a phoenix toward eternity.
Without hubris, blame, or bias,
she traced her scorn in a smear—
as the untamed primate’s roar.
Freed from that vile sweat,
from the heat that others dread.
Because you will not
shift her spinning thoughts.
Hypoxia in mirrored forms,
and their inverted shapes.
A tinge of prosperity, a rush of truth—
Not every wicked soul can grasp
the weight of lifeless ghosts.
The king of calm purple,
shrouded in serene shadow,
set near the heart of star clusters.
A servant in utopia,
unaware of the katabatic chasm.
One of the four sons of a wool-weaver,
Christopher Columbus became a great navigator,
who went to sea to learn the sailor's skills
and later to discover a land filled with riches;
rejected by The King of Portugal, he appealed
to the Republic of Genoa and Venice...to return empty-handed!
Finally, King Ferdinand II and Queen Isabella of Spain
agreed to make him the " Admiral of the Seas ",
and Columbus departed from Palos, Portugal with three caravels:
the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria for a slow and long voyage...
to find spices, and gold in mines and rivers and in other places;
and when one of his sailors sighted land,as if in a mirage,
Columbus thought he had reached the East Indies,
not realizing he had discovered the New World's shores!
humidified life
nourishes a thirsty mind
like poetry it settles
on a leaf of emotion
transpires ideas
while insects feed
on nectar
and manna
from somewhere appears
on reason and feelings
inlets and outlets
cascades of poetry
set free and
captured in the moment
another droplet
lowers the guards
hangs on to a twiglet
for weaver birds
to build a nest
to rest and nurse
the young ones
a web of inspiration
such ambrosia
I would not trade it
for a pot of gold
a quiver for arrows
ink for the pen
a fountain of inspiration
a well in motion
nature’s tear of joy
just a drop of water
O river of moon roses
ferry me home....
I weep in quivering quiescence
like a weathered wild petal~
healing and hurting
in my p o e t i c recluse..
perhaps there is no word
to depict your thunder-struck garden
as breathless stars
shiver in solitude
tasting the pulse of betrayal
from the veins of grieving gravels…
I ponder ~ must I brush
skin of dusk
with angst of dawn
believe in self-spun delusions,
and drown in dahlia deception?
I have known truth as a masked lie
fed from familiar hands
of superficial solace...
I trusted the darker face of twilight
oblivious to the
sage flickering within...
following the fading silver
of the fickle Luna~
a willing mistress
to ethereal torment…
forgive me
I have no adjectives nor rhyme
left to right the love turned cold
I wove across
hyacinth horizon
that
feels not silent sighs
remember
you'll search for my silhouette
in valleys of vain violets
wicked-white winds
when the sun blemishes the sky
with colors of
ice-blue
r e v e r i e s
O dream-weaver
soul-kisser....
Today is woven with yesterday's thread
spun by restless fingers on life's worn loom
this tapestry will lay on your deathbed
woven from the knowledge learned you'll consume
to be hung framed on your life's traveled hall
of what was to the weaver to remind
tomorrow's thread has not been spun at all
as the new day's threads finally unwind
you'll weave in all the things your life has sought
woven from memories cut and knotted
a lasting reminder of what's been taught
and record the purpose time allotted
to knit this tapestry without design
unravels majesty and leaves but twine
1/30/22
Weaved by the spider
The webs were supposed to be strong
Connecting points on the wall
With the arachnid, there and tall
Once it hunted the ants on the ground
Now tried to get flies surround
The webs he built were tough and sound
The walls were there, there and around
But the weaver thought of the points
To be strong like his joints
Unaware of fragility of webs
Caused by the slippery points
The points were unhinged
Tangled was the poor eight legged
Cuffed in the webs he weaved
But even then he never begged
Remade cobweb once again
Now checks the points' oil in rain
Tries not to let his guard down
But still fears the tangling sound