Long Weavings Poems
Long Weavings Poems. Below are the most popular long Weavings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weavings poems by poem length and keyword.
Thrill knowledge with the desire to spread
Ideals across heads like grains of sand
Sprinkle little rays of brightness
Into cups full of vanilla ice-cream
If the sun doesn’t sparkle
Then there is no one to blame
But one’s own eyes
Blind to the legacy that showcases it’s prize in the middle of the day
If the moon’s enchanting lullabies don’t soothe the soul
Open up the heart and let winds
Change the currents and ease the turmoil
Tealeaves soak in small kettles over the stove
Passionate inferno and a stream of serenity
Measured into china cups and a sugar lump in each
To put into a smile and a twinkle of the eye
Do the world a favor and breathe between bamboo shoots and bowls of rice
While Time runs his hand over the strings on the guitar
And plays Life a love song
Time is not eternally handsome or young
Life is not always bearing silk and jewels
But the hourglass keeps flowing and love grows despite the looks and pearls
Arpeggios play slowly while dusk draws further away and it’s another day
I could hold your hand and run forever through lanes of cherry blossoms
Racing towards storms of crimson flora that from a hurricane would be shamed
Falling down as I open my heart and let them rest in memoirs
Whispering secrets and thoughts that take a lifetime to say
But a second to realize
Mysteries never really bothered me
If everything was known then why should I blink
To renew tears for sorrow and tears of laughter
I’d love to know most of it but I’ll be fine if I die without knowing it at all
As long as I know how it feels to live then I’ll be fine
Molecular Biology and Genetic evolution and all terms fade
From textbooks and minds
Awakening dreams and aspire to devote themselves to dew drops
Disciples of a flawed world
Defects are perfect to judge the worth
Of perfection
Inside endless worlds there lies just a simple dew drop
Prisms reflect giving ideas of complex
Intricate weavings and deeper then deep thoughts
Everything to you has to be a little more then less
But less is maybe exactly what your looking for
Despite riches and greed infiltrating peace
I have more wealth in a glitter of an star
Then in a stock bond
Laugh it up and respire
To expire and depart this life
With handfuls of luminous memories inside of balloons to help one float up
Into the Sky
Poems about Flight, Flying, and Birds (III)
Songstress
by Michael R. Burch
Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw–
envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.
Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch
Who teaches the wren
in its drab existence
to explode into song?
What parodies of irony
does the jay espouse
with its sharp-edged tongue?
What instinctual memories
lend stunning brightness
to the strange dreams
of the dull gray slug
—spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams—
abiding in darkness
its transformation,
till, waving damp wings,
it applauds its performance?
I am done with irony.
Life itself sings.
Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch
for T.M.
the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.
My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch
My forty-ninth year
and the dew remembers
how brightly it glistened
encrusting September,...
one frozen September
when hawks ruled the sky
and death fell on wings
with a shrill, keening cry.
My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the weavings and windings
of childhood, of fall...
of fall enigmatic,
resplendent, yet sere,...
though vibrant the herald
of death drawing near.
My forty-ninth year
and now often I've thought on
the course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn,
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
and rebirth... on and on.
Keywords/Tags: flight, fly, flying, bird, birds, hawks, plover, wren, songbird, cage, song
She comes to me when e’er she will,
When starlight sprinkles my windowsill.
When the dew finds rest upon the grass
She taps upon my window glass.
I go outside to be with her,
To share a moment soft and pure,
But she soon glides away down a wooded lane
And I who follow think I follow in vain.
We amble through the night time woods,
Past curled up ferns and dark monk’s hoods,
Past spiders in their silken weavings,
Long past when night surpasses evening.
I follow her deep into the glen
To the reedy edge of a foggy fen
Where cattails sway in a subtle breeze
And glowworms float in airy ease.
She pauses by a drowsy creek
And turns to me as if to speak,
But saying nothing moves farther ahead
And alights on a nearby milkweed bed.
She bids me listen to a joyful tune
The crickets play beneath a full white moon,
The notes flutter, then fall, gentle and sweet
In dappled moonlight at my feet.
We listen in silent similitude
Afraid to disturb the delicate mood,
Yet soon she starts to converse with me
And I am richer for her company.
We talk about many wonderful things –
About robin’s eggs and butterfly wings.
About caterpillars, elves and gnomes
And where she claims to make her home.
We talk about love and the joy it will bring
And how it can make a lonely heart sing.
I then smile at her but she turns away
And I, left speechless, have nothing to say.
And so we share the passing night
And greet the dawn’s creeping light,
But before the night succumbs to day
She once more starts to glide away.
She lingers near the waking brook
Then disappears in a rocky nook.
Looking in I can see her no more –
She has returned to where she was before.
Morning has come too soon it would seem
And she has left me alone to ponder my dream.
A dream? Perhaps, but real I know
For she had deigned to make it so.
I don't want to wander those places where our footsteps have long since passed,
Down shaded alleys where our memories whisper and stand guard like stone sentries,
I no longer wish to hear those songs, symphonies of the past, nor let them steal my thought.
To wrap myself in your now absent shawl of longing and your kisses, as though they never were.
Echo of laughter, tightrope walker on the heart's string, I won't let you spin me around,
To recall your face, a bastion of joy, which I would have painted in the most playful hues.
I no longer desire to search for you among fragments of memory, to see you in every little detail,
To excavate your visages from the neglected corners of time's dusty albums.
I miss 'us,' but I don't want to rewrite our story, each page bearing our joint signature.
To no longer yearn for what's been lost, for the echoes of your footsteps that resonated in my chest.
I don't want to cry again, to let the tears of missing you wash over my face.
To let the pain sink into the abyss, no longer feeling each caress that brought solace.
Noon when I no longer summon your laughter, thunderous waves crashing over my soul,
Nor how your face, once an island of happiness lost, could be my guiding light.
I don't want to make you cry or to hurt you, to break the wings of your dreams with my inadequacy,
Please, do not inflict heart scratches anymore, in this ongoing war to remain standing.
I don't want to hear you say you miss me, words like arrows into the vulnerable veins of 'us.'
Nor to utter, even in a whisper, that I miss you, for longing burns like a brand that is not there.
To no longer feel the red-hot iron of love trouble me again,
I'm afraid... To not fall into your net once more, into the weavings of your heart. I don't want to… I don't want to…
In tumults of time and forgetfulness, in the hidden frenzy of a heart beating faintly,
Invoke the unseen magic, unravel silk works in the deep night,
Tame as a magus who dares, let fall veils of silence,
Breathe into the heavy air movements of shade, cloak thoughts with your watchful anticipation.
In the pale light that wards off unannounced storms, in the echoes of the chamber where echo is the sole presence,
Breathe with a grace that belongs to the weavings of dream, release dreams with each syllable,
Present the metanoia of the time steed, to crash into stone walls, to sing the thrill of a falling star,
Flick through your hand compendiums of souls, show me in intervals your flawless unfolding.
In a play of shadows and lights, master the fine art of remembrance,
Prefigure in smiles the fulcrum and temper of alchemy, in doses just enough to breathe poetry into me,
Like a weaver of the soul, forge my paths amidst beliefs and certainties spoken in the murmur of clear water,
Deliver my walls from clays and masks, consecrate battleground with your unpolished sincerity.
Not with illusions that once sparkled, but with the mystery that transverses your gaze, the torch that illuminates my inner darkness,
Weave with an artist's hands our story, with tones and gestures converted into icons,
In the fascination from chronicles of vigil, in the sweet toils of a heart catching the vigor of desire,
Set your noble trap, a stage set for the final act of promise,
Where you, within me, extend wings, initiate me in ceremonies of a new day,
Congeal enchantment, let me taste the morsel of infinity that you remain in words, until the last verse of the night.
Crossing a sea of bitterness, voids curled beneath my ribs lie hidden,
I drank from the cup of vices, chewed on stupidity, laboring in vast fields of error.
My mind lay with disillusionment, embraced by phantoms, boundless in its futile thirst,
To unearth the simple essence, through furnaces and the ashes of a world that was once my home.
It was necessary to dance with shadows, through confines where the light drowns,
To look despair in the eye, to flirt with the final thought, without hearing the dawn's song.
Only thus, with a heart gnawed by this mad journey, could I return again as a child,
Able to start from the earth's root, detached from the shields and weavings of the transient world.
In that fall, the dream of death nearly touched my lips, cold and tempting,
But in delving into the depth of the self, I met mercy spread upon a bed of new leaves.
I had to lose myself, to become the nothingness from which all things come and into which they disintegrate,
To ultimately perceive grace in the clarity of the world's first breath.
Thus, with every misstep, with every fear swarming in me like in a wild hive,
I was purified, burned, decomposed, and mixed with stardust and trampled pains.
And now, my rebirth—a sacred surrender, an opening of eyes in gentle light,
A wisdom that comes only after the taste of despair teaches you that grace is what follows the storm.
January 22, 2024
____________________________________
Divergent viewpoints can arise
Whilst triumphant variously savor
Glorious tune of achievement,
Gain glory as godly guile
Whilst booming into spring blooms
In fervor of zeal, vow faithfully
God bestows on them a swish tree
With a bountiful harvest
Its span is boundless
Akin to an everlasting ring,
However, clocks tick down
Daily weavings of divine honor.
Amidst lustrous obelisk
Unbeknown overall aesthetic
Sprawled across stars haze
My cosmic frame oozes to apex
I harness the strand in crimson
Widening warp and woof
Over that magnificent loom
Queries seldom yield effectiveness,
Sadness for their plight emerged
In bows and flowery swags
We ought to remember
Fetching a fresh format forward
Divine devotion developed.
We could detect tangles and flaws
Fairness shares justice and equity
The quest implies grace and faith,
A gorgeous layout with a top-ounce
We are haughtily proud,
Divine is eternally supreme
His work never stops, and
His weaving is always wise,
But we must remember that
We are an essential portion of it.
Let us embrace each day
As a raw opportunity to weave
A Halcyon design
With dedication and patience
We can grow the warp and woof
Over that majestic loom
Until we blossom, akin to flowers.
In my personal political library
of capital invested thoughts
about healthier attachment
through co-invested feelings,
Sit-Spot sets
gold lettered Wisdom of Laotse,
Neighboring George Lakoff's
The Political Mind
growing freedom toward
Laotse's YangLeft
liberal strength of repurposed thoughts
for recycling wealthy health co-governance,
And Frances Moore Lappe
and Adam Eichen's
aching Daring Democracy
on his climatic YinRight
conservational intent
for sacred Green WaterBearer Sanctuary.
How could I not have earlier noticed
this empowering alphabetical liberation
co-incidence
of climate co-governing resilience?
Sacred Economic Promise
merely setting statically hoarding dust
here on my shelves
waiting for climate restoring notice,
then commitment,
then multigenerational solidarity
of memory and re-imagination,
creation and re-creation,
intellectual curiosity
and co-empathetic courage,
alpha-rhythmic interest
and slow-growing omega co-investment,
Power
reciting co-empowerment,
light
revealing cooperative enlightenment,
weavings
unraveling reweavings,
frames
blending reframes,
stages
inviting perennial ages,
history
retelling culturally emotived power stories
In my personal political library
of useful commodity-infested thoughts
Patterns gleam in the sun
Threads lie side by side
Or criss-cross
In intricate patterns
Like individuals intersecting
Within the family
Each dependent yet separate
Blues, reds, greens and yellows complete the rhythm
Any strand pulled from this parade of colors
Reveals a gap in dreams unfulfilled
How I love you,
My middle child,
You are the elegant pendant
Dropping gracefully
From our necklace’s mid-point
Giving meaning to our chain of life
How I love you,
My middle child,
You are the glue
Within life’s weavings
Irrepressible giggles erupt in play with older sister
Whispered consultations emerge from pillow sessions with younger brother
Bridging, always bridging
Giving, always giving
Know, my middle child,
Those stirring fears
Of being in between
Are fleeting ghosts
Your constant beauty shines
Like the lighthouse globe
Signaling to all
Your presence
Rejoice in your role,
My middle child,
Imagine a shimmering reflection pool
Whose immutable colors
Expand and multiply
You are vital to a whole
That is greater than its parts
And you are loved deeply
Happy Birthday, Maureen
Love, Mom
September 27, 2014
~
Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snowcapped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
January reigns brutal, subzero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
~
Written from memory…no winter here. : )