Descriptive Poems Novels & Stories

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; .....

He wrote about the way her hair caught the morning light, the specific, melodic pitch of her laugh, and the way she tasted like summer rain and secrets. I turned to a middle chapter, my breath hitching as the descriptions turned visceral. “I watched her sleep tonight, the moonlight marking the curve of her shoulder. I want to lock her in this room, to peel away every layer of the world until there is nothing left but her breath against my skin. When I touch her, it isn't enough. When I sink into her, I feel like I’m drowning in a heat I never want to escape. She is the only thing that makes the blood in my veins feel warm.”

* I saw the beauty of the sky Colors so vibrant you'd think they never die * I saw the beauty of the waves Every splash telling a story of younger days * I saw the beauty of the rains Every drop falling freely like horses without reins * I saw the beauty of the night For only then were the stars alight * I saw the beauty in the flames of a fire Each one burning with a different desire * I saw the beauty of Gold Glistening with bitter stories untold * Oh I saw the beauty of dust and clay Simple reminders of our end someday.

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

The stars sparkle overhead like tiny diamonds scattered across the dark sky, giving everything an almost magical feel. The poem draws me in through Anara’s soft, rosy lips. Her emerald green eyes glitter toward me like precious gems, even in the faint moonlight. With the sky full of stars, I can make out every freckle on her face, like her own little private constellation. The steady chirping of cicadas and the quiet sounds of the deer nearby seem to blend perfectly with Anara’s voice, turning the whole night into a peaceful symphony.

Rolling gently up to repeatedly break upon Magical banks girdling Nivians lakeshore. For what be this odd muse That upon my aging senses does so readilyEnthuse...And to my inner soul so inextricably Implore? Ahhh...But this much I may be allowed to Say, Before darkly gathering skies extinguish Over weak flames of the last spluttering Ray, Perhaps it is our inner voice That seeks out the solitudes of Tranquilities choice - To witness and record and dutifully store... Those rare and fleeting moments We all too briefly adore.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills,

Fleshes Gleaming with wetness to the morning gold. A mead Bordered about with warbling water brooks. A maid Laughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks. The heat Throbbing between the upland and the peak. Her heart Quivering with passion to my pressed cheek. Braiding Of floating flames across the mountain brow. Brooding Of stillness; and a sighing of the bough. Stirs Of leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers; Stars Expanding with the starr'd nocturnal flowers." I finish.

"We have poets who spend their entire lives trying to capture the feeling of the first rain after a drought. They use a structure called 'The Golden Verse'. It’s patterned, like a heartbeat." He quoted a few lines for me in a low, melodic voice. It was about a sun-scorched earth finally meeting the sea. He told me about his kingdom, describing the white stone cities that sat on cliffs overlooking the ocean, and the vast fields of lavender that turned the horizon purple every spring. "It sounds beautiful, Darian," I said softly.

“Let’s see it.” I turned the paper over, and revealed the poem scrawled in pencil on the back. Down the streets of woodland black I wander, earth to hearse In every tree I see a wave A looming tidal curse On the cusp of something greater Stood ankle-deep in floodwater Stagnant pools of brown and red The onslaught is coming; I dread For each dark night and each pearl day The mist does clear too soon The floodplain is drown’d again The water, torn from its ocean womb