Long Youthful Poems
Long Youthful Poems. Below are the most popular long Youthful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Youthful poems by poem length and keyword.
Stepping back remote from urban rhythm
Dizzy I take flight asking only to surrender
Wishing to drown in a long lost forgotten calm
Reminiscing of that distant youthful idyllic calm
When day and night danced in divine rhythm
To soft nostalgic memories I ungrudgingly surrender
Disentangle me I give my all and do surrender
Desperate to retrieve a soothing blissful calm
To reunite with mother nature’s nurtured rhythm
Synchronize with life’s rhythm I surrender my heart to calm
AP: 1st place 2025
Submitted on February 12, 2019 for contest A TRITINA FOR MESSINA sponsored by CHARLES MESSINA - RANKED 3RD
When we went down to the sea
it was low tide,
we picked shells and rescued star fish.
We were young enough
to fondle and fall for romantic dreams,
A tidal love licked at an innocent shore.
At the sea's thin edge
little silver fish darted between our fingers.
The smell of that salty brine
and her sweet nearness overwhelmed,
she had hitched up her skirt -
her coltish legs mesmerized.
I kissed her knee gently, we both giggled,
not knowing, yet knowing
it had begun
and for a day or four more
the same sea rose-up in her and I
then her parents whisked her away
it ended,
but if I could send her a postcard now
I would tell her that I am still enamored,
still in love with those once youthful knees.
Autumn days grow shadowy
light fading in and out of my memories
and I get lost in all that remembering,
lost,
in time slipping by so fast in heartbeats,
never took the hours and days more seriously
then now,
seeing the years have passed
I think of us and all that happened,
the youthful foolish days
taking each other
and love for grant it,
so sure,
that we'd be there for each other
always together with time waiting;
but today
in my loneliness without you
I ache at the wasted moments,
the years
when I knew how much I loved you
but rarely said the words
too busy
as our spring slipped into summer haze,
in autumn as it falls
now,
waiting on our winter dreams,
I'm floundering in memories
and
more than anything else
I'm feeling sorry for myself
without you here,
being alone,
I can't believe you're gone.
On some back road in Texas
Where time had flown away
Sat a dreamlike Kinkade home
Of warmth and heart, not paint,
With shaded walkway arbor
Crowned with leaves and flowers.
Love dwelt there.
A lovely little couple,
Long past their youthful prime,
Welcomed us into their home
With bright and cheerful smiles
Saying, “We over-ripe grapes
Are now in raisin time.”
Love was there.
Our afternoon was blissful
Midst rose and hollyhock
Seated near a lily pond,
A lotus eater’s dream,
With tea, crumpets, clotted cream
And conversation sweet.
Love shared there.
We bade farewell at even
With smiles, and hugs and tears
To Pop Vin and Auntie Mae.
A stooped for sale sign wept
For the home they would depart.
The pair smiled even so.
Love held on.
One later year we passed by
Under a searing sky
That burned up cornfields nearby
Their home worn and withered
As grapes long past raisin time.
Wistfully we knew why:
Love had gone.
Age of the living is made of what
Nothing but a few biological numbers
The count of destined steps from the start
To unknown destination nobody knows where.
The toil of journey reflects clear
The body takes the brunt of the years
The feelings cocooned in the inner sphere
Like to remain untouched by the time’s flares.
A young mind under wrinkled skin
Like the sweetness of the fruit ripe already
Would have the mute desire to reach and win
The youthful heart residing within un-aged body.
If in the same rhythm two hearts beat
For them time would stop to make any sense
Past forgotten, in present two souls would meet
For Cupid’s arrow the notion of age has no credence.
Rising from depth of ageless emotion
Spreading like waters of the flooding river
Love assumes a visionless heavenly dimension
In a delightful flower blooming with Platonic fervor.
December 6, 2017.
Juxtaposition
Living in the grey shadows of ambivalence–
Somewhere in between grace and sin –
Begging for light yet clinging to darkness
Longing to escape into the heavenly yet clutching mortal bones
Inspiration’s marriage of opposite hemispheres
With reason marching to the metronome of linear time
One floats into the realm of timeless boundaries
Amid song or silence -
Spring-summer solstice dreams the youthful dreams
Fall-winter holds prophetic visions
In silver laments embraced or golden joy caressed -
Far flung fantasy bumps up against
Relentless facts in sound and fury
Wandering in stale drought of empty entitlement
Or settling in the oasis of the abundant gracious
Love pulls at the hands of stagnant indifference
To open inertia into blooms of compassion
Living in between grey whispers of tempest or calm
Black and white send scouts named either or,
And yet - yeah but -
Where choice experiments with a neutral conclusion
Of a newborn compromise that takes the best
From the first born harvest fruits of juxtaposition
11-23-20
Contest: Juxtaposition
Sponsor: Silent One
I love to see the previous order turning,
when the old leave all their property to youth:
it’s this, not buzz of bee or flowers returning,
that makes me feel the world has found its truth;
and if a man produces sons enough,
the chances are at least one will be tough;
and a younger loyalty in love or war
will make the heart and sword arm young once more.
A woman is old who sets no warrior yearning;
she’s old, if she keeps faithful to her spouse;
old, if she uses black and sorcerous learning,
or lets more than one lover in her house.
She’s old, if her hair’s a mess of ragged stuff,
or if she takes a lover who is rough.
She’s old, if she thinks that music is a chore,
and she’s old when all her talk becomes a bore.
Women are young, whose hearts remain discerning,
whose actions show the values they espouse,
who do not look with scorn on merit’s earning,
whose virtues are a light no scandals douse.
A woman is young, whose manner is not gruff,
yet gives impetuous youths a wise rebuff.
She’s young, if her figure’s nothing to ignore,
and she doesn’t pry and listen at every door.
I call a man young who’s passionate concerning
jousts and courts, considering thrift uncouth.
He’s young, when he thinks that money is for burning;
when, ruined, he smiles without a trace of ruth.
He’s young, when he stakes his fortune on a bluff,
and feels that no extravagance is enough.
He’s young, if he is skilled in lovers' lore,
and he’s young, if he judges risk what life is for.
Though a man be rich, I say that he’s old, if, spurning
pillage and war, he wastes away his youth
piling up bread and beef and wine, then turning
monkish, serves eggs, as if we'd nary a tooth.
He’s old, if he muffles himself in woven stuff,
and can’t command a horse and ride him rough.
He’s old, if he rests in peace when battles roar;
old, if he shirks the field and bars the door.
Poet Arnaut, go take this song of youth
and age to Richard, that he may feel its truth
and never wish to heap up worldly store,
since youthful daring enriches honor more.
— translated from the Provençal by Jon Corelis
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we met amongst the lilies of July,
allowing our hands to embrace while pushing
thorns aside for a myriad of comfort-
combing petals to ease our youthful dreams...
laughing with white smiles and bright eyes
needing lightning to shine the path to love;
feeling the infatuation of teenager heat with
HIM
and
ONLY HIM
and...
we collided with kisses like the first in fields of lavender-
always feeding each other what we both desire
-passion beyond comprehension-
faith in what is to come is my redemption,
rescuing me with a touch of innocence
sure, we struggled holding strong hands at times-
wars of words hurting hearts, but never going to bed angry;
MAKING UP by MAKING LOVE - (whispers of him wanting me)
for you are my beginning that never ends....
almost twenty-four years have passed and I am
but a forty year old woman still craving his touch-
chills resonate down my spine like the kids we
once were;
forever blessed with dreams still coming true
marriage is but an emotional storm before the
kaleidoscope of colors appear………
and i am but one of the few who embraces what gift the
Lord has freely passed onto me-
for His love gave me…
MY LOVE
______________________________
______________________________
January 8, 2020
Mine fervent aspiring political activism...
Gunning gusto, (while rosy axles grind)
for Bernie Sanders dagnabbit
nipped in figurative bud triggered zilch
prospects to germinate,
cultivate, and amalgamate
late blooming spore port as
schlocky, reedy, quirky, political neophyte,
whose aura, charisma, dogma
enigma, persona... absent gregarious masculinity.
Scant hours after posting Facebook message
Monday February 17, 2020
(regarding becoming linkedin
among Bernie Sanders's supporters
within Southeastern Montgomery Pennsylvania
hinting genuine motive (mine of course)
to join local grassroots bandwagon
electing catapulting aforementioned
Democratic candidate president,
into Oval Office
overwhelmingly elected
Tuesday November 3, 2020
an unexpectedly pleasant forthcoming response
(courtesy Jon Hall seven nine five eight at gmail)
informed yours truly transcendently, telepathically
inspired debate watch party
would be (accompanied when in full swing)
by most popular contra dance bands,
and eminently choreographed counting
topnotch cadres of policy wonks
upstairs at Molly Maguire's Irish Restaurant
(197 Bridge Street,
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania)19460
slated for Wednesday
March 19th, 2020 at 2000 hours military time.
Guess what dear readers...?
Yours truly, (an aging,
albeit eternally youthful
long haired pencil necked geek)
never experienced sought after fraternization
think ennobling rite of northwest passage
comprising electrifying informality
getting plugged into self-described
indomitable enthralling brouhaha
starring none other than
Democratic socialist and independent senator
from Green Mountain state
(by Samuel de Champlain in 1647)
Bernie Sanders exuding vim and vinegar
at age seventy eight
heartily hailing (no kidney ying)
who served in government since 1981.
I showed up at designated place
and specified time,
and got politely informed
courtesy young attractive hostess,
no such arousing, inspiring, spine tingling...
commingling of eager electorates slated,
thus overzealousness (mine)
bit the dust i.e. never got kickstarted.
Join me for a moment as I recall
Her face during times from our youthful days.
Gone was summer when school began that fall.
The new school year would stay with me always.
In this verse, she is forever enshrined;
Long after the time when we had parted.
As there is always something to remind
Me of where our acquaintance had started.
It always comes back to me during times
When I feel as though I wish to return
To the sweet memories that still sometimes
Bring me into past days for which I yearn.
Her permanent beauty can never age,
With her picture encased in these confines.
Keep searching along the words on this page,
For her name is spelled out within these lines.
© 2020