"sunsetted" poems - Hello Poetry

I have done many exceptional things in my life. I have traveled to far-away worlds with effervescent seas. I have fought alongside rebels and mutineers: against oppressive dukes and deities. I, so vividly, remember the times I danced on the tops of skyscrapers. Thereafter howling at the moon with my fellow gypsies. But more than that, I remember the gentle laughter of friends. I remember the soft hands of those I love on mine, while the sunsetted on an entirely unforgettable day. I find my grandest adventures after the sun has dipped down out of sight, and the moon has risen to illuminate my so out of focus world. I find them as I’m hunched over in my bed. I find them as my fingers are trembling over the keys of a laptop; the glow of the screen burning in my eyes. As I rip post-it notes full of ideas off my walls and mesh them together, I become some sort of enchanter; thus beginning yet another journey. Although I may have not truly gone on such adventures, the feeling would remain the same if I had. Because, as I’ve come to realize, the truest of grand adventures starts with simply a single blank page and the desire to tell an earth-shattering story.

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Apr 2, 2016

Apr 2, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC

YakYak

Grand Adventures

I have done many exceptional things in my life. I have traveled to far-away worlds with effervescent seas. I have fought alongside rebels and mutineers: against oppressive dukes and deities. I, so vividly, remember the times I danced on the tops of skyscrapers. Thereafter howling at the moon with my fellow gypsies. But more than that, I remember the gentle laughter of friends. I remember the soft hands of those I love on mine, while the sunsetted on an entirely unforgettable day. I find my grandest adventures after the sun has dipped down out of sight, and the moon has risen to illuminate my so out of focus world. I find them as I’m hunched over in my bed. I find them as my fingers are trembling over the keys of a laptop; the glow of the screen burning in my eyes. As I rip post-it notes full of ideas off my walls and mesh them together, I become some sort of enchanter; thus beginning yet another journey. Although I may have not truly gone on such adventures, the feeling would remain the same if I had. Because, as I’ve come to realize, the truest of grand adventures starts with simply a single blank page and the desire to tell an earth-shattering story.

10

I have always been in love with you Though I've never seen your face Rivered streets and thoroughfares Cathedrals and marble shining glaze Burgundy, sunsetted copper walls Slanted clay tiles that shine like flame Thick lushes of emerald'ed halls Weaving into arcs of grape'd frame Vineyards pouring over daykissed hill Wine as red as dye and rich as gold Flesh of bread, warm, at corners spill Into the walks where it is sold Dear Italy, my love, you torment me Slipping your fingers 'round my heart And all I have is pictures yet to be And hope that we shall not long be apart

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Feb 11, 2010

Feb 11, 2010 at 7:31 PM UTC

alex-apples

Dear Venice

I have always been in love with you Though I've never seen your face Rivered streets and thoroughfares Cathedrals and marble shining glaze Burgundy, sunsetted copper walls Slanted clay tiles that shine like flame Thick lushes of emerald'ed halls Weaving into arcs of grape'd frame Vineyards pouring over daykissed hill Wine as red as dye and rich as gold Flesh of bread, warm, at corners spill Into the walks where it is sold Dear Italy, my love, you torment me Slipping your fingers 'round my heart And all I have is pictures yet to be And hope that we shall not long be apart

16

The king of what was stands in silence and surveys his sunsetted realm. His spine is straight in stiff defiance of the twilight of the kingdom he’d helmed. On a plastered pedestal high he stands surrounded by the waste of his times. Carved into it, once acclaimed in his lands, was his name, now covered by vines. The pale sheen of low sun as winter nears casts shadows across his etched face. Its grooves grow deeper year after year — he’s the gnomon whose shade this sundial has traced. He takes no note of the thorny brambles that have entangled his fixed stony feet. With flinty gaze and wrapped in a mantle of granite, he keeps watch through storms and sleet. Now stripped of his titles and even his name, the proud king of the ruin’s still there. For while the long night has broken his fame, still he stands, marked by his unbroken stare.

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Nov 18, 2024

Nov 18, 2024 at 6:58 AM UTC

jackgroundhog

The gnomon king

The king of what was stands in silence and surveys his sunsetted realm. His spine is straight in stiff defiance of the twilight of the kingdom he’d helmed. On a plastered pedestal high he stands surrounded by the waste of his times. Carved into it, once acclaimed in his lands, was his name, now covered by vines. The pale sheen of low sun as winter nears casts shadows across his etched face. Its grooves grow deeper year after year — he’s the gnomon whose shade this sundial has traced. He takes no note of the thorny brambles that have entangled his fixed stony feet. With flinty gaze and wrapped in a mantle of granite, he keeps watch through storms and sleet. Now stripped of his titles and even his name, the proud king of the ruin’s still there. For while the long night has broken his fame, still he stands, marked by his unbroken stare.

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