Long Weaving Poems
Long Weaving Poems. Below are the most popular long Weaving by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weaving poems by poem length and keyword.
Upon silver tracks, in moments held in suspense,
Gentle steps of angels are faintly heard, idly interlaced.
The vault of heaven quivers in translucent azure;
Through the eternities creeps a divine murmur, cold and alive.
The pure echo of the evening mingles with the sunset,
With the shadowed blue, that in the wing of night vibrates and rises.
The earth's labors lose themselves in a deep abyss,
And ethereal slumbers spread over meadows and frost.
In their stead, remains the alluring song of mystery,
Weaving its game through spaces, a secretive enigmatic wave.
From abstractions unfurl indefinite contours,
Like shadows of dreams, on the trails of cherished, holy days.
The stars, candelabra settled in the celestial decor,
Ignite in the night, reflecting the ancient corner of ray.
Whispered, the flow of hours weaves the threads of destiny,
Thoughts, like monks in candles, knitting their quiet chants.
Embracing infinity with a beam that pulsates discreetly,
Lighting up caverns of the soul, another secret universe.
A river of stars murmurs under the arch, an ancient stream carrying,
To lands unwritten where times of silver are forged, growing.
And when night unfurls its veil, an astral map envelops,
Revealing evermore depths, winter dreaming, time without bound in divine grace.
I am part of the chaos that once found me, intricately woven together,
Each fragment of the soul with which I had the chance to communicate,
Every skin I touched randomly carried by dreams,
All of these have made me who I am, a memento of gains and losses on the way.
I am still in pieces, anchored in the remnants of memories,
I am still that person from years ago, when I lost sight of who I was supposed to be.
I stumble and fall, only to land in the loops of my weaving,
Just to start again, resuming my destiny.
In the reflection of chaos, shards of broken glass reflect a universe,
An ephemeral dance of lights and shadows, a dark magic,
Where every butterfly wingbeat is an echo,
It's me, lost in the labyrinth of memories, seeking a red thread that leads to the ground.
Whispers of the past watch over me, gentle breezes in the deep night,
Every touch was a shattered dream, a hidden tale of melancholy.
In the flow of consciousness, I traverse seas of pain and ecstasy,
I find myself, unraveling and recomposing, in an eternal dance.
I am fragments of shooting stars, scattered across the sky of memories,
Lights pulsating, throbbing with the lost magic of who we were.
There, in the cosmic darkness of my troubled self,
The tapestry of destiny is woven, with threads of desire and wrapped regrets.
Oceans of denials and reconciliations embrace me,
In every fall, I find a new way to rise, to be reborn.
Under constellations of shattered dreams, I rebuild myself,
I am that eternal being, woven with the thread of chaos that shapes me.
In the silence of solitude, I hear echoes of forgotten whispers,
A recital of lost souls, telling ghostly epics.
I reconstruct myself from the remnants of those memories,
I learn from them to fly once more on wings of eternal hopes.
Every scar, a map of my journey,
Every failure, a step forward in the labyrinth of destiny.
I rise from the ashes, a phoenix with wings of shadows and light,
Embracing chaos, becoming whole, in a universe of melancholic magic.
Hot sexy beautiful awakening
Rising out from the ashes
Alone breathing silently in thoughts
an amazing dream begins to shine
I felt the sun with her gentle fingers
softly touching with her light
Stepping outside yawning, birds of all kinds
whistling in choir
Looking across the mountains
felt warm weaving love
Gently brushing softly
within a warm sweet gentle, kissing breeze
Looking down through the valley
sweeping out towards, the great Atlantic sea
So many beautiful colors in blossom
Looking towards the sky, white mother of pearl clouds
dancing softly across vision
Her color a Heavenly baby blue
At that moment in time, searching
inside wonderful thoughts
They were sweetly kissing you
far away in a distant paradise
Always and forever golden
treading these sands
To walk hand in hand with you
sweet angel of love
Warm are the footprints that treads
Softly landing on the deepest sands
Entering the heart
through the eyes of a soul
Captured in this vision
from inside out
A picture beautiful dream
sweetly smiles on you love
The blooms drip dew drops in misty moon light,
their silver leaves wave a gentle goodbye,
as delicate petals dream through the night.
Longing tendrils search with all of their might
weaving latticed lace, while in darkened sky,
the blooms drip dew drops in misty moon light.
Shadows darken and the flowers sleep tight,
awaiting the morning with silenced sigh,
as delicate petals dream through the night.
Cold, the wind's breath whispers growing delight,
as the buds thrill in their brushed rainbow dye,
the blooms drip dew drops in misty moon light.
Emotion's warmth grows in this lovely sight
and deep in desire she knows she must try,
as delicate petals dream through the night.
In the glow of her dreams, her heart alight,
she waits a time when we'll watch, she and I,
the blooms drip dew drops in misty moon light
as delicate petals dream through the night.
06-19-16
Villanelle Me A Flower Contest
The detritus of a household of smokers was a joy to the young child, stifled in a family he believed he had outgrown. Matchsticks, by the score, he used to build magical castles with towers to climb or Spanish Galleons to sail away to places far. A live match found was a rare treasure, a pregnant opportunity to destroy--a secret power. The best were the small cardboard matchboxes with their slide-out tray, which he arranged like a chest of a hundred tiny drawers. Each drawer contained a precious item, a pebble, a penny, a bloodstained band-aid, a tooth, four-leafed clover, a tear-stained note, a lock of hair. . .
weaving
a smaller web
spider in a box
Like A Child Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Date wrote: 4th July 2022
Watching the empty streets
As a heavy rain wash the dirty town.
Deep darkness drape the drives
That lead to dead ends.
Drafts of wind dash hanging pots,
Ruin is the reign of the time.
She barely breathed a farewell.
No whisper weaving a soft adieu
Not even a hug or a parting kiss.
My heart echoes a hollow hum.
It beats like the harsh wind outside.
Life is so hollow, so non-descript.
And sleep has fled. I’ll find no rest.
Sorrow does not sleep. Shadows fill my room.
No moonlight penetrates the heavy drizzling clouds.
Suddenly I leave my forlorn house
And wander right into the rain. Wet and cold,
I feel cleansed and I return, the past washed away.
That night I slept deeply.
This is a garden of sunshine granted
each an escape from our everyday trials.
Where sadness, anger, or lies aren't planted
because we all need a garden of smiles.
Where are poems found in this garden?
A few where Summer leaves barely a trace.
Some on life's dusty olden path less taken
or on a wagon wheel sorely misplaced.
I found several on butterfly's wings;
A short one atop a ladybug's back.
A Haiku found on Japanese maple.
In a rose garden, you'll find a whole sack!
They nibble nouns on lavender leaves
often spied sipping the nectar of gods.
Their words elfin messages in the sand
or hidden among weaving goldenrods.
They're where sprites play tag in the tallest grass
where crickets and grasshoppers sometimes sing;
and faeries dance from midnight till way past,
leaving faint notes written in fairy rings.
You'll find poems among soft cloud faces
They catch a ride on drops of summer rains.
They sing in spider webs' lyrical spaces
while lady spiders spin lacy refrains.
Garden faeries write words with flower dust
sending them whispering into the wind.
They toss and float til finding verbs to trust
so poetic thoughts may, at last, begin.
Words from my memory of poems I've read
are blossoms to be treated tenderly.
The thoughts they evoke are poems just bred
and add emphasis to poems to be.
I hope you'll enjoy my poetry garden
and find a few blossoms waiting for you.
If I left the rake on the walk, pardon--
I had some synonyms to attend to!
Wicked whispers, like hisses,
slithered throughout the office
when the disliked departed for the day.
Rotten hysteria blared
like beastly blasts.
Louder their voices leaped
as they could see that she was gone.
Like following lost sheep,
on and on they'd bleep
about her crazy ways,
her annoying voice,
her ogre odor,
her misfit outfits and
a myriad of mindless ramblings.
My conscience wanted to stop them,
to stomp on their every word,
but my speech was stilled
in impactful silence.
Suddenly she scampered back,
secretly weaving toward
her forgotten sweatshirt,
draped upon her rolling chair
where whispers
gnawed like moths.
She grabbed it with a snap
then whisked away.
I wondered, with
empathic embarrassment,
how much damaging slander
she had overheard.
12-13-19
Where Carnatic's notes on temple walls reside,
A melody awakens, draped in Kalanidhi's pride.
T.M. Krishna, a voice that cuts through time,
Weaving music's magic with a spirit so sublime.
His renditions, rivers rich with history's flow,
Not just in rhythm, a conscience starts to grow.
He shatters gilded cages, tradition's aged decree,
Embraces justice, a symphony for all to see.
Like verses etched in Ashoka's weathered stone,
His music speaks of rights, where every soul is known.
Equality's raga, a soaring bansuri's call,
Echoes through the chambers, dismantle caste's high wall.
The mridangam's thunder, a drum for sacred ground,
A plea for balance, where nature's peace is found.
He sings of forests, emerald lungs that gasp for breath,
A protest is echoing, defying nature's death.
His voice, a metaphor, a veena's soulful cry,
Strikes down injustice with truth that cannot die.
Democracy's anthem, a jal tarang's gentle chime,
For freedom's nectar, a melody sublime.
The Kalanidhi, a weight that honours all he's done,
A recognition, not just for music, but the battles won.
To keep the raga pure, its message ever clear,
A symphony of conscience, year after a challenging year.
So let his melodies forever inspire,
A fusion born from tradition and righteous fire.
T.M. Krishna, the Kalanidhi's light shall gleam,
A testament to progress, a voice within a dream.
In the sunburst sensuous hued dawn,
the surging stream within my heart
cascades in the vale of chromatic joy,
while on the beguiled banks of yearning
you turn into a flitting butterfly.
I flow with the surge of foaming fervor,
and you fly alongside with flirty flair,
cross the plateau of passion together
to the blooming dale of flowers yonder,
laying threads of spectrum to brace us.
Before I reach the bay of the twilight bliss,
meander awhile on the slope of quietude,
weaving the tapestry of designed dreams
with the lilting lattice of your charm dipping
in my flowing heart, making a lured splash.
June 4, 2020
Contest: Splash
Sponsor : Kai Michael Neumann