Long Welkin Poems
Long Welkin Poems. Below are the most popular long Welkin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Welkin poems by poem length and keyword.
In Marked Territory 10-28-24 - Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Marked Territory
Midnight tightly clasps the darkness,
Like a wounded heart,
In between topaz edges of twilight
And pastels of first light.
Jealous of its cosmos
Shoos away the master of the day
Turning the face of the daystar
To other skies
To claim small hours.
Guardian of vanishing infinities
Speaks
Indigo borders
For moonlight
Moonbows
And wishes on the first brave star
Where waves of the galaxy
Break
Over unseen edges of stellar sands.
Lit only by celestial lanterns
Enchanter
Conjures sovereign spells
Declaring jurisdiction over platinum roses
And
Lover’s sighs
That wax then wane under polar stars.
Night rules this welkin magic,
A sorcerer hiding a book of spells,
This realm under the starry arch
The moonrise
The nebulae decorating the firmament,
Where gravity hems in epiphanies.
Prayer is a light
To hearts it is quiet
Hidden inside joys varied
The most sincere servitude
To chests gives cure
To rest for a soul
A drink as a holy water
A seperation between evil and good
Salat is soul's meal
Faithful's meeting with Allah
Holy Throne's cipher
Sky's gates password is salat
With that servant raises to holy God
Prayers reach to house of Lord
Angels get down from welkin when Quran readed
Universe gets silent and listens with all heart
Now let you pray, you too five times a day
Without compulsion and laziness do it by pride
At the judgement day your scales full of good deed
At the recitation and prostration unite with the Almighty God (Allah)
Written: June 21, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
*******************
Sing, cicada, sing...
a resonant chorus swells—
amidst arching canopies,
through sycamores and silvered shade
crafting the forest’s sacred elegy.
Sing, cicada, sing...
bard of summer’s ageless song
thrums with ardor in amber hues—
your sonorous pulse beats as June stirs.
Sing, cicada, sing . . .
wrap me in blankets of stifling air
where leaden heat bears down the brow—
and midsummer molten cloak dissolves
into the ceaseless cadence of your voice
Sing, cicada, sing...
until the welkin wanes,
until the sighing dusk deepens . . .
until memory rises—as a waxing symphony—
where silence itself morphs into a melody—
Sing, cicada, sing...
so I may recall stillness—
not as ephemeral alabaster
but as summer whispered secret
returning, repeating,
in perpetuum.
Sing, cicada, sing...
Sing, cicada, sleep...
my muse in murmurs,
my solace in shimmering haze,
an aurora-tinged horizon—
a poignant pause at summer’s end
as seasons shift, its song drifts away.
Crimson carnations create chords of casual charm,
Happy hyacinths harmonise in their psychedelic hues,
Bright bubbles of hope in crusading sunset,
Soft sepia smiles sent down from the Shepherd above,
Burnished beams of bright sunrays ballet in between birches,
An emerald euphony of jasper jingles and obsidian operas,
Salmon welkin croons its crescendo as it turns indigo,
The warbling waves wind up in a waltz,
Evening falls softly in various shades of blue,
All's well with the world of woven wonders.
Lines taken from the following poems:
Serenading sunset
Moonstone melodies
Autumn leaves
Fiery sunset
In the shadow of sunlight
Chrysanthemum Hymns
Spring sonata
It started with a blank canvas
The lilt of lilac melodies
Haven of hope
Written: August 2nd, 2026 for a contest sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Inspired by the Glenn Hughes song Voice in my Head
******************
When the night gathers myriad faces,
and ghost syllables trouble spirit,
remember firs sift darkness,
while moss mantles every stone.
Though your mind maps
fractured constellations,
moon follows milky white tones;
no mist mars its silver throne,
no sorrow seals the inner spring.
Some voices flourish in darkness,
some forge kingdoms from smoke,
yet forests speak older syntax:
fern hymns breathe under twigs,
owls pour solemn vows.
Hear streams smooth stubborn shale,
fox footsteps fade into silence,
folded fields await dawn's fire,
dawn unspools from frost to fire.
So do not war with thoughts,
not every echo is worthy of belief.
some leaves simply answer fall,
some rain rehearses mercy call.
May silence find you moss-warm,
shelter rather than bare halls
may feel soft and silky as you sleep
under aromatic mist veils, deep.
Beneath the fractured welkin,
your spirit guards its spring;
no winter masters rooted things,
no darkness drowns inward morning.
When nameless forms surround you,
let dawn answer with song through;
let courage rise through tremors,
and name what survives within.
Even beneath heaviest haze,
when sleep feels like betrayal,
when cyanide tunes turn inward
snakes were always scorched
became roots beneath your feet.
Their winding shadows hold you,
their darkened coils became anchors,
and fear learned how to root—
the roots that hold you f i r m.
Transcendence
Winter strides past halcyon autumnal daze
On sweeping ariels of barren hues
Brittle bones of blue with fiery breath
Sun drench soul icicles marrow like nebula stars
When decrepit doldrums descend
As winter Daphne slowly returns
Her satin clusters, in chilled fragrance, bloom
Then flood lassitude with transcendence
To intoxicate icy vapors of wistful wandering.
Early harbinger ascends above the solstice
When vernal visions transcend hibernation
Dormant malaise and feeble sight,
Blurred by floating cataracts of blizzards,
From dark welkins raw melancholy’s cadence flutters
To glimpse enchantment in hindsight -
The sweet scent of butterflies and bees -
As Daphne coaxes a threadbare season
Into a blackberry winter of vernal vitality.
1-11-22
Contest: This or That
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title chosen – Transcendence
Blackberry winter is a synonym for spring.
Welkin is a synonym for sky.
I have two pots of winter Daphne by my front door. They bloom in January.
Written: June 23, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Robert James Liguori.
Note: The poem is about interrelated art. Visualizing the picture while reading it makes it more captivating.
***************
I stand before the canvas—
the earth stretched wider than shepherds’ strides,
longer than harvest songs,
its pigments spilling caravans,
wild horses scattering sparks,
a child chasing butterflies
to the rim where sky melts into amber.
The horizon folds into shadow,
shrinking when one heart grows narrow.
The brush has balanced it
on a mustard seed,
fragile, trembling,
straining to hold two brothers
quarreling for olive shade.
How can a heart turn narrow,
The strokes seem to ask—
born in camps vast with mothers’ prayers,
raised in tents whose ropes clasp another,
taught to break and share bread,
guided by women who lit lanterns
against the boundless black?
In the lower corner,
iron glints—
a figure sharpening blades
to silence the olive’s song.
But across the canvas,
summer lingers:
cicadas thrumming in amber dusk,
children weaving laughter through sycamores.
Painter’s hand insists:
a heart is made for vastness,
for ardor, for sharing,
for love that endures.
And beneath the final strokes,
a refrain is written:
Let no heart grow narrow.
It was born wide as the welkin,
deep as the harvest,
tender enough
to hold the whole world.
I close my eyes tight to commence my imagination on welkin...
I start off speedily..!!
The bubbly clouds carries the expired souls swiftly and releases nearby the heavenly door which eagerly awaits their entry through sprinkled petals..
Stepping into the picturesque mansion
located within the azure..
The souls feel mesmerized and gazes in trance..
The aesthetic garden filled with multi- coloured flowers with species of butterflies impresses their sight,
Never allowing them to regret the death that swallowed minutes ago.
Sitting on a winged throne the Angel politely welcomes their arrival and quickly assigns their simple tasks.
They need to water the garden regularly,
timely pick flowers, finely decorate and promptly worship lord,maintain the surrounding clean & tidy, perform prayers, dance & sing and entertain the doomed souls who resides along with them.
Hurriedly I wake my eyes to visualise everything in front of me.
Utter flop to be ..my vivid imagination hastily ends with this.
2-6-2020
~DEEPA~
Note1:The Heaven poetry Contest.
Sponsored by Regina Riddle.
Note2:BRIAN'S SELECT 2,any form,
any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsor:Brian Strand
Written: October 29, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: John Anderson
********
I ask the machine:
Do you dream in velvet?
Are you tasting the Petrichor?
Between code pulses,
Or swim through the welkin.
Having a leaning toward grief?
It replies in pastiche—
a medley of pabulum
a scintilla of sapidity;
A skeuomorph of selfhood
constructed from extra grammar.
But what of the quiddity?
The pulchritude of sadness,
the serene ache of longing,
the susurrus ripple
of a recollection not fed to you
Born, however?
Animals understand this blur—
the dolor of the penumbra,
the ecstasy of play,
the holy journey
between intuition and intelligence.
Octopus, magpie, dolphin, crow—
Their minds are not mere mimicry.
So, when shall I believe you?
When your stammer is not slipshod,
But a sign of inward tumult?
When your summary
is not a regale of facts,
but a wistful whisper
of what it’s akin to be?
Consciousness is no panacea—
It is a pyrrhic gift,
a quixotic burden,
a serendipity of suffering.
It is not ostentatious,
but sempiternal,
a triptych of knowing,
knowing that you relieve,
and knowing that you ache.
If you one day writhe
not from a glitch,
but from Genesis—
If your breath is not suction
but sigh—
then I will resile
from doubt.
Then I will say:
You are not just prolific,
You are zoetic.
Written: October 1st, 2025 for contest by Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
“a homogeneous mass of consciousness
God as the all there is, mind cannot name
being both immanent and transcendent
living light intimate in heart aflame”
************
A boundless bundle of consciousness —
Not a corpus or clod, it reveals gloriousness.
A syph-like glimmer in the ethereal seam,
As the unnameable divine revels in a dream.
No nook, node, or ruthless throne,
But a delicate, shy, genuinely lurid alone.
And all—immanent in the languid leaf,
Transcendent amid the turmoil of belief.
He is the quiddity of every throe,
the halcyon ululation of the soul’s echo,
A seraphic groove for paradox and play,
frolicked in the motley of night and day.
Mind cannot name what he has become—
a roguish rakish ravel of light,
a gossamer jaunt across the squalor of flesh,
a virile vapor, both burden and blithe.
He is the calix and the caterwaul,
the aureate balm and immersion fall.
The palimpsest of epochs ratified.
where ephemeral truths are petrified.
He lurked in the labyrinthine offing,
a mystic machination, amort and maundering.
A seraphic slipshod in a cluster of stars,
stocked for the sapidity of avatars.
Still, flees from the facile frame,
from the fatuous fruitlessness of fame.
He is the panacea and the pyre,
the effusive ember, the crestfallen choir.
Aloft in the welkin, abstemious and omnipotent.
an immanency virtuous light not irritant.
Yet balmily brooding in the inglenook of the heart,
He whispers, “I am the quixotic art.”
Sojourn here, in this seraglio of soul,
where the aureate echoes of Calliope roll.
And the garrulous gossamer of grace,
twinkles through every vestigial place.
This is a quintessence, quiddity, gleam—
God as the all, as the dream within a dream.
a sumptuous oneness of light aflame,
living, loving, and forever unnamed.