Long White lotus Poems
Long White lotus Poems. Below are the most popular long White lotus by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long White lotus poems by poem length and keyword.
He awoke as Bögü Qaghan, Khan of the Uyghurs, Great East Wise Prince
He heard the words “Visit the seven petal lotus of times since
And breathe in that lotus flower’s scent, by the holy wind, to convince
Your heart to be born again in spirit, without needing to rinse”
Bögü Qaghan put on his armour for another day of battle
And worshipped Tengri, god of the heavens, despite earthly prattle
He successfully fought Yan, to aid the Tang, as if it was fate
Travelled to the city of Luoyang to pray, wish and contemplate
Exhausted after the fight, four angels came, each carrying a plate
Carrying a petal from a white lotus flower that grew great
Nostalgia grew in Bögü Qaghan’s heart, recollecting an old bond
An old friend called from beyond, a lotus grew out of his soul’s pond
"The bright crowned Hearer, the Keeper of Faithfulness
Whose virtue upholds the state of holiness
May the eons guard the defenders of greatness
And the commanders of the divine highness
May they all be crowned with the gold of the sages
May it be so for ages upon ages"
He bowed his head and smelled the small petals of splendorous moonlight
And the heavens opened, the world shook, and all the world was bathed in light
The indiscriminate sun rose in the Orkhon Valley of might
Almost five hundred years after the sun set into a pond in plight
The King of Kings was born as the Divine Khan of countless many
The Son of a King was born again as the Emanation of Mani
At Paro of Bhutan I found the clouds
Gathering over the snow white peaks
Over the summit the deep blue shroud
Kept looking on in dazed disbelief
If one takes up my fountain pen
Or snatches my favourite umbrella
Restless naturally are all the grains
Confusion arrives in the sweet tabla
White clouds start fondling the peaks
Drawings of beautiful chaos emerge
Surge of colourfully deep drum beat
Dance in the white peaks go berserk
Rises from the foothills the peace palm
Lifted in the air from a milky white lotus
In the eyes smiling the poems of psalm
Enjoy in peace, ---says a voice sonorous
I quieted my pen and put down the notebook
In bliss kept fixated my blue pacific look
_______________________________________
Tabla : A small drum or pair of drums of India turned to different pitches and played with the hands : In Dictionary.com
May 2, 2016
Around the lake on midsummer days,
A garden blooms in vivid display,
Red, yellow, white, pink, and gold,
Daisies, Bougainvillea, Dahlia, bold.
Palash trees with fiery hues,
Mirror pink and white lotus views,
Daisies and jasmine garland the shore,
While dandelions and Putush are often ignored.
Summer birds, parakeets, koels, and more,
Trill sweet songs that the wind will soar,
Love birds Papiha sing their tune,
Their voices float beneath the moon.
Papihas cherish summer's embrace,
Sing songs of love with gentle grace,
If one should die, the other will leap,
To join their love in a celestial sleep.
Birds care not for who they sing,
Their voices carry on the wind's swift wing.
Their songs unite us, both near and far,
A reminder of the beauty that we are.
Every morning... every evening,
he feels like an island in a lake,
a deep lake glistening in lithesome ripples.
His cranky old face sees an illuminated white lotus,
withering in shades of shaggy eyebrows and wrinkled hands.
The sylvan lake in his eyes still whittle reeds on soft soil,
in hopes of crackling sounds of laughter, from a nearby stream.
Ants, grasshoppers, birds, squirrels haunt the silent solitary lake.
A look at his picturesque daughter on wall,
like a scintillating princess, his moon shines on a crystalline lake.
Reminiscing a passionate journey from mountain archways,
parching thirsty birds and deers,
a stream had once bubbled in life through boulders.
Now a placid cold lake at peace, so much like death.
Nothing new happens in his dreams, locked in regrets.
Bereft of love, food interludes sleep in his lonely days.
Brown and golden leaves strewn on the lake.
Is this the last autumn that his eyes will see?
Like invisible stars in daylight,
he sees white quills of a swan floating on the lake.
Memory fails a weak body,
he can hear faint songs of a swan in the blue lake.
A pink sunrise and peach sunset reflects the horizon,
mirror images in dusk and dawn.
He feels like an island in the lake.
Every evening....every morning..
Dated 24th, March 2019
Julia Ward's Intensity Poetry contest
What’s It Like?
First:
A strand of hair finer than silk in the Emperor’s robe blows across her face the very end catching in the corner of her mouth. She fills my field of vision her eyes looking full at me, there, a question therein: What’s it like?
Then:
Tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Yes, that dark spot in the iris, windswept black eyebrows thick and meaningful. Freckles (what an odd word).
Some superlatives:
She’s the orange and fire red of Oklahoma sunsets, Snake River waterfall mist, Palouse rolling richness, maple leaves drifting on the Guadalupe, warm butterscotch on vanilla ice cream clouds sweeping up the valley rain is sure to fall or is it tears? No matter.
Of another order:
The closet’s darkness she is blood on the hunter’s hands, desert dirt devil and twisted mesquite and rose thorns, hand tremors a finger on the trigger, harsh words spoken in anger; she can be cruel.
But then:
The whirligig dance at lake’s edge, white lotus above black water, the cicada wing I saw just this morning, her face so close to mine I can feel her skin’s moisture. I see most clearly that fine strand of hair.
And still the question: What’s it like?
Pine needles falling, I should think, koi blowing bubbles, a mother calling a hand on my shoulder the slightest touch whispers turn around see me. I won’t tell you lies; it hurts, that ache that arc that pain her fair hair’s autumn auburn blended sweetly with black water and her white dress, memories at the tip of mind, the spangled, star-struck twist and turn, dodge and dance of cold constellations.
That’s what it’s like.
It's never anything big, just a nagging defeat
Of wanting to be exclusive in your ambit,
For in your eyes, I see an opportune disguise
Living as a friend of genuine vibes gone awry.
It was the zealous-moon you adored with glee
When romantic vibes you scripted about me,
Fussing about moon-spot of slight imperfection
Looking at my face, hinting coy comparison.
When I lauded our pond's white lotus flowers
You admired silence of the ripples in water
Singing praises of existence so ephemeral,
Never denying you compared it to our love.
Being impulsive, you stole a rose from garden
Handing it to me like borrowed ardent charm.
As I held it in gratitude for its delicate beauty
It pierced my heart with its anguished thorns.
You take me places, pleasantly well-meaning
But when I get there, I'm left feeling alone
For you traverse a lone-orbit on your own
Leaving me to tangle by your rotational force.
When you ask me, if love still burns our flame,
I simply want to say, love has changed its name
For time has falsified what we once meant,
No more can I bear brokenhearted sunsets.
January 29, 2018
First place: One in five contest by Joseph May
Placed 2nd: Strand select 11 by Brian Strand
"Mother,
You are my heartbeat
and I'm your lifeline,
we both are 'one',
as an inseparable hue of purity,
smeared upon the sacrosanct lotus..."
As you cradle
those sleepless stars,
swirling in my
insomniac flurry ink,
lulling me to
honeydew-soaked
slumber and
letting these
unicorn-lights
twinkle within every
pearlescent pulse,
my heart flies
across gentle
wonderlands of
fairy-knitted dreams,
believing in
seraphic miracles.
Although, I may
have been
drenched in
cavernous
bloodstorms and
my heart bleeds
russet hail, but,
you will always
heal my hauntings
with your
calendula-glazed
peridot symphonies,
forever shielding
my saffron
innocence within
your womb
of compassion,
soft like
creamy cotton,
and periwinkle-rosy
flickers of love.
I've been blessed
with the crimson-gold
warmth of a
motherly sunflower,
amidst this
cold autumnal
rain of bitter flakes
and spiced leaves.
You are my
white-lotus-winged
mermaid, a
featherless angel,
and this
watercolor child
will always draw
peony-incensed
gardens, carrying
the fruity fragrance
of maternal croons.
This lifetime
will incessantly
echo with nascent
harp's harmonies,
of a daffodil-
daughter's melody
for her spring-
scented mother,
for, it's the
only rare truth,
that has been
revealed amongst
onyx blades,
scattered across these
vulturous skies.
I never dream to
fathom those
lavender beaches
of snowy sonnets,
without the
cashmere caress
of your sheen
cinnamon shawl,
that gives me relief
from aching
frostbites,
rewarded by
this wistful world,
immersed in apathy.
I forevermore
wish to be that
last 'princess petal',
that remains
eternally etched
to the selfless
nurturing of your
pinkish throne.
I fall a raindrop from stratus to stratum
birthed from clouds pregnant with thunder
a lion’s roar —a pride in the sky— fierce!
armed with lightning’s rip and slit
the scythe of claw and tooth finds its prey
knifing sunset’s skin desecrating cranberry rays
it’s red demise fills my see-through-eyes
Sun’s canvas shredded
I fall through tattered pages of watercolor-layers
accumulating dust and blood of the slayed day
I arrive not a predator but a peace-maker
my raiment fleece of lamb not mane of beast
I come to rest
a drop of rain who clings to a windowpane
… translucence transforms me
inside a room I see myself with my possession-pain
a swaddle-bundle I rock to soothe
pain held against my breast like a newborn
crying to be fed
nurtured with lemon-squeezed tears
and sticky sick-sweet milk of revenge
my fingertips trace my descent down the glass
I pray not to let the dark moon be my doom
I know myself like turmoil-seas know the shore
let the salt-sea’s seethe meet still grains of sand
abrasions cleanse one of crime and grime
I know myself like the night knows the morn
let the night be a knight
and capture rapture with light-swords of dawn
I know myself
the games I played with leather fringe and lace
his Marlboro face the Moët taste
the magnet attraction pulled my limbs apart
I am a tear liberated from the storm
free to fall free to fall oh I had to fall so far to be free
fall from heights where lust-wishes glisten
slip the stardust handcuffs
fall from nimbus find the limbus of self and soul
find a way to rise above black seams
and wanton scenes of my scream-dreams
translucence transforms me
I let go of the windowpane
and die to myself casting off pleasure of pain and sin
I fall to silent-sister soil inhaled to be exhaled
on dizzy wind-whimsy-warmth of first light
I fall a new drop of dew wet with sky light
as I bear Love's cross like a white lotus bears its muddy birth
It was nearly two years ago, that I left the PS site
Bidding my friends fond 'farewell,' I took flight
If the door is ajar, I think I'll enter once more
Hoping things are better than they were before
My muse was confused, but wanted to return
So here we are ~ Your amity we hope to earn
We've written of fireflies and fragrant perfume
among flowering gardens in the height of bloom
Perhaps we'll pen with a new spark of creativity
for we've not lost the love for the art of poetry
It's a bond we share; a little nature, some romance,
If you like our music, kick off your shoes and dance
We've skipped over brooks and sat upon lawns
waiting for the sun to wake at the hour of dawn
Tucked topaz gems in petals of Spring's daffodils
hung diamonds on snow flakes in Winter chills
and pearls were strung across white lotus flowers
In honor of nature, we've been penning for hours
I am not Robert Frost, but the road back I'm taking
Nor am I Poe, whose dark poems leave you shaking,
but perhaps you might discover an emerald or two
in a love sonnet I write, or in silly limericks or Haiku
Let's share gifts that come from the heart and mind
of our muses who can be both stubborn and kind
Robert L. Stevenson wrote, "One line or letter bright"
in light that this is where my written verses alight.
He wrote, "glory in our patience," and "skim the pot"
so I'll take his words to heart, giving PS another shot.
I'm sure talented poets have since joined the soup
and I look forward to reading many of you in the group
White lotus of love you are always a promise
you with your petals soft and ready to open
why do you entice me to dream like a sleuth
looking for signs everywhere, are you youth?
Egyptian beauty of grace I remember your face
you send shivers down my spine warm as wine
this little thing we have together, pure heather
feather me with your kisses but don't go away
White lotus "I call you Hope" show me uphill
let me climb you, as I rise I'll turn around
as you promise I'll deliver me into tomorrow
regardless of the past, I believe in you lotus
White lotus of love you are always by my side
blooming inside of me you are my sweet arride.