Long All poetry Poems
Long All poetry Poems. Below are the most popular long All poetry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long All poetry poems by poem length and keyword.
Like an ache, in the startled breath
A moment, a prayer, a regret
Can I see beyond the word’s quiet death?
Wisdoms taught by souls who beget…
Griefs fallen on hearts who believe
Silence fills the night, stars and moon
Writing the melancholy, as I grieve
Nothing is as it was, but oh so soon…
The words pour from the soul, a story
Songs in rhythms of light,
It’s never the past, despite its glory
Who reveals the memories we fight
Will the tales still our quiet verses
Visions, images so often flawed
All of those shadows the dream curses
Tearing down walls, a heart thawed…
By the silence beneath a tender gaze
The chorus a poet bleeds,
On the wings of a spirit caught up in praise
Risking those memories poetry breeds
Displayed on the surface of each rhyme
There are whispers of grace, so bold
Rising in the spirit, tearstains climb
Into the music of a heart made of gold
A sonnet, a couplet, whatever ode
Glistening slivers of lights who shine
It’s to Our Creator, all poetry is owed
He’s brought our souls a love so very fine
In the succulent music of each poem
Are notes of a song, a psalm, a prayer
We all can give praise, as just below Him
Are splatters of insight, our words will bare
Naked colors, still murmurs of life
Seeking to silence the dark dread
Felt by the troubled, all that strife
Lost amid the words a poet said
As a weak heart promises to be brave
Amid the verse, there are visions
Lovely words, ventures a heart must save
Even before the poet makes revisions
Write on, precious soul, write it down
Tell the world what is felt, what is felt
Are feelings on light in which we drown
If we remember any heart can melt…
When given their answers through words
Brought to life by a spirit, understood
Thoughts and feelings, gentle as songbirds
Every poem read feels as it should…
Every poem is felt, and it feels so good!!!
Long long ago there lived a king
Who hath truly loved all poetry
Who never was tired of listening
To all forms of beautiful poetry
Well read senior poet of the court
Also never stopped minting
And reading amidst claps in the court
Verses full of prise for the king
Not so named and all those young
Hardly got some chance to sing
Their some good works before the king
As the senior was disallowing
Even the king got truly bored
But was unsure how to express
Aging great can not be fired
Time he hoped would clear the mess
One day one young poet got a chance
In the coveted senior's absence
To read some poems on Siva's dance
And the king's joy was immense
Every letter of his work earned a lakh
Said the king there is no going back
Talented fresh please come forward
Read good poems and you earn reward
Lo, those words opened flood gate
But only a few could clinch reward
Protecting now the wealth of the state
Poet senior stood as a good guard
(to be continued....)
Dedicated to all Poetry Soup Friends, Staff and Members.
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Let two thousand twenty-six mark
A fresh start, that with joy will spark,
With sunshine of good health will gleam,
Ignite hopes and meet all our dreams.
Let the new year be filled with cheer
For us and for those to us dear,
Usher in human feels that bind,
Happiness and peace of the mind.
Let`s face the new year, hand in hand,
Together strong, across the land,
With hope as our unswerving guide,
And faith as our unhampered tide.
May the sun of joy shine each day
Along life`s warm and winding way,
Let`s two thousand twenty-six greet
And wish a future bright and sweet
So, what is a poem, anyway?
Should it have a fixed number of lines?
Should it rhyme all the time?
Should it be passionately romantic?
...As my lissome Latina lover
let the wild wind dance
through her fragrant hair
igniting my eager lips...
Should it be EdGyyyyyyy chIC O-SO A T Garde?
V N
A
maybethereshouldbenoformofpunctuationofanykindatanytimeperiod
And what abouty all those new forms? The haiku, the senryu, the question-ku
the Pantoum, the Rondeau, the Cinqku, the Cinquain, the Clerihu, not to mention that old Suessian special, the Horton-Hears-a-Who
And then there's always the matter of meter ... or is it metre?
Should a poem always have to feel like riding a horse?
Once upon a midnight dreary
While I pondered, weak and weary...
I thought that I would never see
A thing as lovely as a tree...
Well, my friends, were I an actual poet, I might answer your queries
But as one who merely dabbles, permit me to leave you with this:
In all poetry there is one common part
~ The beating of a very, very human heart
maybe
my works are only writes
should poetry speak
sing
or both
and more
can ideas
without a rhythm
still fall in the category
i believe
in touch
can you feel me
inhale
the scent of
the crackle of burning logs
hear
the whisper of flapping wings
see
the eyes that see you
or taste
a leap of faith -love
paint with words
write in every colour
with a suggestive set in the grasp of sky
is
isn’t
we decide
still i wonder
how does the rebel fit in
or they
who have no music in their pen
can they shape it
like a figure to admire
is this just a write
no label required
i thought i’d ask
is all poetry an orchestra conducted
for all poetry impossible dream contest
An old lion
Roars in his sleep
Recalling an impossible dream
In his dream
He was a man
Who was chasing a dream
Chasing an impossible dream
The man
Was haunted
By a dream girl
A girl who appeared
Nightly in his dreams
Beckoning him to join her
He searched the world
Looking for her
And then one day
She walked
Off a bus
And into his life
The lion woke up
From the impossible dream
Smiling at the thought
Then he went off
To search for his
Impossible dream
Dreaming still
Of being a man
In search
of a dream girl
Am I the only one,
Who got done,
By those who we need to shun,
And on their head give a thousand curses,
When my copy of Radiant verses,
Contained no radiant verses,
As when I opened the cover,
I was only to discover,
Something else under the cover,
That was definitely not radiant,
That caused me to rant,
As to read about Narcissist's over Christmas,
Is not what I need on this or any other Christmas,
Thanks to those who badly need to go to mass,
For taking radiant covers,
And changing what is inside the covers,
To upset all poetry lovers and their mothers'.
This really happened and I am pissed off,
As I hate signing off,
On any poem with a note that is sour,
When with poetry I like to empower,
You with words that are never dour.
while atop the surface of planet Earth humanity
all abustle skittering
to and fro, hither and yon
engaged in self important activity yielding profits,
sans blood, sweat and tears won
full throttle industrial
manufacturers quaking unstoppably
only intermittently pausing,
where managers standing arms akimbo
asper quizzical looking hue cree ton
megaphone blaring orders to underlings
so "Boss" tweed can line pockets
for his/her daughter and/or son
Head Honcho most aggrieved,
when red ink doth run
undermining the bottom line,
thus farming out labor to distant places
(where wages amount
to pennies on the dollar)
locals such as Lake Woebegone, Qum, Timbuktu,
et cetera where pun
gnashing working conditions tantamount
to slave labor,
yet scare other options open
hence able bodied men,
women and children scramble,
despite back breaking grueling physically
exhausting grunt job accepting second to none
with nary any rest for weary
long as workweek includes a mon
day, where bloodied bare hands claw
purported Mother lode
with feigned frenzied zest
enterprise bolstered
via executive bank ministers
financing lucrative scheme
attended to by majordomo
attired in expensive vest
corporate investment project elicits
quaffing, imbibing, and chugging elixir
produced from heavily guarded recipe
qua electric kool aid acid test
where coeval business men/women rest
assured bonanza forecast upon
former green acres hiding treasured quest
marginally concerned such nettlesome
pillaging, ravaging, torturing ranks
wealth driven vanity as deleterious pest
shortsighted exploitation money making embarkation
glorified as investment nsync to feather nest
retirement funds despite leaving the environment messed
up, whereby future generations saddled with
poorly bandaging gentrifying, resuscitating
gaping wounds upon Gaia at best
shortening quality of life
for all (poetry) Earthlings aye attest.
From Latin and ancient Greek, English derived three words:
poesy is the creation, the art work of poetic composition.
poem is the created, with beauty of language and expression.
poet is the creator or maker, with the gift of poetic thought, imagination,
and eloquence of expression.
A poet is born with a troubled and jangled spirit within,
forced to express what is seen, imagined and dreamed in words
for themselves and for anyone who hears or reads their works.
A poet is a miserly wordsmith, in love with words, their meanings, sound and strangeness.
A poet is an artist, painting with words and expression, but not constrained by form or method.
A poet is a skilled craft person, creating and making works and compositions,
but is not restricted by tools nor craft rules or disciplines.
A poet is a skilled musician using rhyme, meter and rhythm to create word scores,
but can also use line breaks, punctuation and the words themselves to create sounds.
Often the sounds made are jarring and discordant to create an effect or evoke a response,
but not all poetry is for a performance.
A poet is a peddler of emotions and feelings evoked in the writer and reader,
eliminating from deep within and as reactions to what is happening or not happening.
Poets are free to use whatever verse and form they choose.
There is no right way to eloquently express their art and craft; it is the poet's choice.
The best description of a poet is a person with an eternal fountain of jangles.
The jangles of emotions, feelings and life's journey within must be expressed, written or spoken about.
Nature and the world about triggers jangles, metaphors, memories, responses and associations to be expressed.
The poet writes to be read and have their thoughts and mind outpourings jangle response in their audience.
Artistically rendering words, much loved and cherished, in ways to evoke intense emotion in the hearer and listener.
The poet seeks jam sessions of free improvised jangling with self or with anyone who reads or listens.
The poet a lover of words, a wordsmith, peddling jangles.
Sky is clear blue with bales of cotton cloud
Days mesh well with scenes of vernal beauty
Everywhere one can spot the jaunty crowd
People are busy chasing their duty
Oh, Spring! You make us blissfully merry
When you fill earth with joyous songs and sound
But you give umpteen reasons to worry
With dust and disease making our hearts pound
Spring is not all of color and beauty
Like all seasons, it has its bane and bliss
Weeding one's garden turns a dull duty
Mosquitoes swarm round with sonorous hiss
Spring! Though you are greeted warm as a king
With wind and sun, sometimes we feel your sting
Feb.18.2023
Spring is Not All Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Michelle Faulkner
10 Syllables in each line (HMS)