Long Whimsical Poems
Long Whimsical Poems. Below are the most popular long Whimsical by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whimsical poems by poem length and keyword.
Amber, orange, scarlet, bronze and gold
Hues and shades of the dramatic colors of fall
Vibrant paintings so intensely brilliant and bold
Breathing crisp air which demands a shawl
~~~
Pumpkin spice with the aroma of gentle compassion
All around the kitchen warmed by flowing love
Giving faith and hope to prayers spoken in passion
Whispered to the creator who is in heaven above
~~~
Whimsical desires murmur through the silent night
Calling out pleasant thoughts to the hearts, inspiring
Singing and dancing, sharing blessings oh, so bright
Thanking the One who gives answers we’re desiring
Autumn-Fall Rhyme Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
September 8, 2020
The arid forest's grounds
are paved with dry and riddish leaves
that the whimsical wind loves
to take off the shivering sages!
Whoever hears the cries of the ravens
is a soul that sympathizes their agony;
they have sought consolation,but found pity...
in that heart ardently singing praises!
The swirling November's raindrops
land on the thirsty and light foilage...
without the strenght in their rage;
Nature ashamed to flaunt her diamonds
that nourished and embellished her tree-tops:
Nature retrieved to her dormant state!
A gloomy day for the angry shrikes that seem ample...
waging war with the presumptuous thrush
that throws glances by flapping his long wings;
an unexpected lightning strikes the growing maple,
pulling it from its roots,making those shrikes dash...
birds have better instincts that human beings!
I witness the wrath of the squall...
bringing down a centenary oak,
which is flung across before a hard fall;
I,enfeebled but not frightened,make my oath
underneath a sorrowful forest...
as dark as a secret put to rest!
The day the EMP saved us all
Each of us sat in our corners like slaves
Glued to the digital screen in our hands.
Somewhere someone
Was just about to launch a bomb
Someone else was arranging to pick up
A trafficked child for who knows what
While another was at that moment
Scamming someone out of their identity
And all their money and property
Of course there were billions
Who were just wasting time in idle ways
And some doing something vital
Which just wasn’t an option before.
But when the EMP came
All that stopped
With an instant silence
That drove so many insane
As if their minds were turned inside out
Like so much junk
Laid out for a yard sale
That no one could care less for anymore.
Without the airwaves full of digital debris
What were we left to do?
Some who didn’t go crazy
Rediscovered the joy of solitude
Others the joy of real conversation
Many found they had a lot to catch up on
Skills they never had or had let atrophy
The children of course did the best
Along with their grandparents
Swing sets and playgrounds once again filled
As were parks and beaches
People gardened and cooked, danced, meditated
And made tea.
It seems the EMP came at just the right time
At just the last moment
To save us all.
(8/26/26)
The lovely Wisher Man and I found each other by the oak tree.
I thought he was a brownie or petite elf, not there for me.
You get three wishes, he said, for being nice today.
I laughed at him, but then I looked again. He had not flown away.
He had been flitting in and out of a knothole for an hour, of course.
I had acted like I did not notice, but now here he was full force.
I thought he was a regular faerie, but now I saw his truth and hey,
He was a genie. I had never met one before today!
Three wishes, I said, that is not easy. Can you pay off my house?
Is that your wish? He asked, flicking his ride, a gray mouse.
Yes, I said. That is wish number one. And I want to be in a show.
Dressed like a drag queen, in glitzy dress, and long, thick eyelashes, you know.
Wish number three? He asked with a smile. "A fire engine please."
I have always wanted my own, if this is not merely a tease.
Within the hour, my mortgage was paid off. I was driving to town
Dressed as a drag queen, ready to usurp any poser or clown.
It was the best day I have had in my entire sixty years!
And I have a fire truck siren that brings my neighbors to tears!
Shark in the soup???
When perceived at its face value ... it's abnormal
challenging the intellectual
that labels it as illogical
...beside being comical!
Shark in the soup???
For an interesting muse, it's indeed unusual
but can be apprehended as mystical
prodding mental skills beyond the analytical
...gearing up the poetical!
Shark in the soup???
That's the toy of my child who's special
in a soup bowl he sees as wide canal
entertaining him like a show so magical
while bursting with glee, jubilantly whimsical!
Shark in the soup???
Such is my attacking foe, horribly inimical
in the soup bowl of life, it's detrimental;
to vanquish it, I trust God* Whose might is eternal
overcoming struggles with faith - may they be personal or relational!
*Psalm 118:8 It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in man.
December 31, 2018
5th place, "Shark in the Soup" Poetry contest
Sponsored by Anthony Slausin; judged on 1/5/2019.
I get a glimpse of you
A soft hue of light lavender
rising in my dawn
Gliding fervently
in sun-kissed breeze
An ephemeral beauty
enchanting the depths
of these caramel eyes
Your purple wings flaunt
in whimsical ballad
Sprinkling evanescent dew
across the embers of my heart
And I feel it,a florescent flutter
tickling my bare shoulder
chasing the back of my neck
teasing in wistful wonder
My blushed smile
preserves the moment
of your tender brush
across the silk peach of my cheek
Of your fervent kiss
fading in ethereal bliss
An unspoiled warmth of softened touch
upon the almond scent of my hair
My heart captures the seconds
before those iridescent wings
fly high in sheer splendor
to crimson blossoms which bloom
which sway,which bleed their rose
which wrap their thorns
around my feet,around my hand
So I would not follow
your shimmering dust
on promised paths
of rainbow's pastels
So I would not find you
in the faraway land
Yet,here I am,
On autumn's carpet
I mark my footprints
Yet,here I come
So close to you
Yes,here I stand.
Once upon a magical evening, an enchanted fairy I happened to see,
dressed in a fantastical dress with two dappled wings of lace.
She shone like the midnight sun—
I must confess, she looked rather whimsical,
sitting there by a green wooden door, waiting for your lore.
The door was set in an ivy-cloaked wall,
half-hidden beneath where the ancient trees fall,
their roots like fingers, gripping the stone,
in a forest where time stands alone.
Sunlight dripped through the emerald haze,
turning mist into gold in that secret place.
The fairy looked up with a twinkle-eyed grin,
and whispered, “The path to dreams lies within.”
She opened the door with a creak and a sigh,
and the moss-covered world seemed to breathe and reply.
A stairway of cobbles descended below,
to realms where forgotten wild wonders grow.
Now when I sleep and the twilight swells,
I walk once more through other realms—
past the wooden door, through the forest seams,
guided by whispers and purple dreams.
PoetrySoup makes the bold mutuality of eager souls.
Oh, What a whimsical bearing for a meeting!
Embellishing the psyche's shrewdest notions, venerating
Together, we have erected this one-of-a-kind haven.
Read, review others, and be present to remark and blog.
Yearning determinedly for the boundless POTD.
Savoring every sense, emotion, and genuine feedback.
Ostentatious encyclical and exquisite delight on paper.
Untethering and relentless river of innovatory composition
Priceless colosseum where idioms prosper and grow.
Written: August 29, 2022
Poetry Soup Beyond Its Name Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Beata Agustin
Where have all the poets gone?
eight months’ time passing and counting.
Seems long time ago, as we were thrusted
and stuck in a labyrinth waiting to exhale.
Poets, like me, went to Poetry Open
held in book stores, book fairs, café
lounge in restaurants or room in libraries;
where poets and poetesses got together
to read and listen to our own poems.
Sometimes we went to Open Microphone,
mixed with musicians, who played and sang
songs of different bands or groups or singers
or their own music or songs in different genres.
That was so amazing, seeing creativity
as well as artistry in motion, in action.
Poetry and Music together, beautiful!
I penned a poem “Music” and I sang the first
verse of “With A Little Help From My Friend”,
that I reworded, as introduction to my poem.
All these places I remember and recall.
At this time, these places are closed.
Where do we poets go now?
as the passion to write does not stop.
Now, I listen to music when I’m reaching
for my free spirit to write groovy,
funky, cool and whimsical poems.
I search for my soul when I write
deep, sensitive and soulful poems.
Poets are creative and find ways to figure
out what will inspire to write, pen, scribble
those poetic words or imagery we see.
Or what our imagination reveal or unveil
to stir up or get going to conjure a poem.
Where do we poets go at this time?
In our home, in our backyard,
in neighboring surroundings, where we see nature
for our imagination has no bounds.
11/27/20 Silent One Where Do We Poets Go? Poetry
Line of inquiry:
"discarding narrow thought flow crutch
we learn directly by soft touch
and what we garner we relay
to the vast void in childlike play
entwined thus with the universe
we dance without need to rehearse"
In an erratic existence
this ad hoc state of mind,
treads upon random paths,
to reach the doorsteps of my fate.
Those who find structure in scriptures,
let them be guided towards their remedy.
I hope they find what they seek,
but my spirit keeps spinning
like a whimsical roulette,
relying upon the universe
to weave rhythms of cosmic threads,
nourishing my soul in ethereal elixir.
I have read so many scripts of stone,
but my quill writes in impulsive ink,
rebelling against confined expression,
composing an unrehearsed sinfonia,
in an attempt to create and connect.
Unlike the moon,
we appear and disappear
like impromptu stars.
Burning into life, but blameless,
full of innocence, purifying eyes,
briefly guiding those who choose to gaze.
There is an art to being human.
Interpretation is an abstract perception.
Our hearts portray kaleidoscopic emotions,
so in my palette of unscripted intuition,
I shed the chains of conscience doubt.
In the essence of every brushstroke,
I breathe life to improvised affections.