Long Alliterate Poems
Long Alliterate Poems. Below are the most popular long Alliterate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Alliterate poems by poem length and keyword.
Why waste words when a haiku will do.
When rhyme and limerick make music redundant.
When meaning and message mean more to you
than twaddle and tripe, and rants arrant.
Words we love, for their sounds and spirit.
Cogent sticky words that you can't not notice
can't ignore for their goodly taste and merit.
Words we alliterate and masticate into necklace
strung like beads, worn to adorn and elicit
tantalizing chimes, clangs and gongs in interface
between writer and reader, bound close-knit
with pithy, pungent, poignant, didactic lace.
Common sense, succinctly stated, with just a dash of whit.
Her heart was
whirling,
swirling,
twirling
inside the eye
of a
whirlwind,
so I
weaved words
to calm her rage,
because,
like an empathic eagle,
a poet is a
storm chaser,
unafraid of
human hurricanes.
A wordsmith word weaves
against windstorms,
decorating nebulous skies
with rainbow bridges,
kissing the warm balmy
neon glow of the sun,
softly soothing,
vivid vexations
through
intimate intrinsic artistry,
because,
a cloudless day
is a bandage wrapped...
Too tight.
Only a bard can
affectionately alliterate
the grip of grief,
as poetry can be the cure
to calm tempested trauma.
Ink is the mistress
to butterfly sentiments.
I will not stop the moths
from devouring you,
as long as they feed
on toxic thoughts.
I have made a home on the moon,
where stardust scribbles carry us to freedom.
To alliterate
or not
it all began
then
to rhyme
perchance
in time
to find
a cinquain
vignette
peut-etre
cinqku
or crystalline
monoku
broken
of course
in two
half-cinquain
(lanterne)
to you
Ekphrasis
new
betwixt
a perfect
six
plus
crosswise
spaces
into
the mix
'til
my cartoon
art
plays its
unique
part
upon
my stage
with
footle wit
'til now
free verse
at ease
I
knit
Oh poetry,
why do you not feel me.
I was once your poetic percolate,
the assonance to your consonance,
spilling in silver ink,
upon Earth's raw fibres,
but in your quest for perfection,
wanderlust words are now waterless roots,
resembling a mediocre muse,
cursed from rose tinted glares,
exposing pages of bad grammar.
Since the feather in my quill
set adrift with fireflies in the wind,
conflicting choruses echo
in an acoustic refrain.
In this musical merry go around -
I'm only composed as a last thought.
In chapters of contemplation,
wondering if you feel the art of my heart;
I ponder if I am a
vacant vowel in your 'why?'
An unexplained myth..
A rhythm not seen in your rhymes
or do questions only bring bitterness?
But without the reason for answers,
will there be anything left to express?
I'm just an empty cartridge
abandoned from your fountain pen.
Now only aches and angst alliterate,
as invisible ink slowly dissolves.
I'll forever be an unfinished masterpiece.
A long forgotten poem. An anagram of listen.
There is no metaphor for this grief,
so I say goodbye to poetry
and farewell to my muse.
“And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown”
—W. B. Yeats (The Secret Rose)
Yeats rambles on; and I say rambles;
I can’t make heads nor tails of much;
But imagery invites me to lie down
On a Celtic blanket, close my eyes
And listen
For the lips to alliterate, make love.
“And the proud dreaming king…”
My ears navigate the waters…he’s proud;
He’s dreaming; he’s king. I float
On my back; danger’s near, I might sink;
How so? I lose my bearing…proud…
Dreaming…king. I’m lost in the middle;
It is my beginning. I lose my mind:
“…who flung the crown” I’m pulled
Into the dream…the jewels of the whirlpool;
Big glowing diamonds, rubies and gold;
Only the rich long to drown in such. Cease;
Be silent, until I prepare myself for more.
I tender my glass of red,
Watch it sparkle,
Circle,
Slide into the sea,
Then I slowly sip,
Sip, sip…Yeats moves his lips…He commands;
He’s the conductor. He reads the last line
One more time, for effect. I sigh,
Lean in for more. The blanket of
His arm around my shoulders.
“…who flung the crown and sorrow away”
I could meditate on this all the long day.
…and calling bard
And clown.
The mind goes wild like a frenzied crowd.
Another lost noon,
engraved as unforgettable
memoirs within my mind,
I’m rethinking of rewriting
and rewinding revoked
reflections of a love rekindled.
My eager heart
is now hanging in the void,
yearning to swirl
through desert dunes
to exhale one more
dandelion dream
in the same air as you,
where quill and paper
were no longer needed.
For times that I
was inking
meaningless phrases,
were buried
deep down under,
as you were softly
scribbling dewy verses
of desires upon
my desolated skin,
rescuing darkness
with starving sincerity,
illuminating and hydrating
my urges with
prolific praising,
moulding every
imperfection of mine
into an abstract art,
naming them
with prismatic gems
on the night of confession,
beneath a sky full of stars
that were burning.
I’m now left with no
adjectives to alliterate,
how this sunflower
soul’s cry bloomed
within your
healing embrace,
where hailing
emotions were eased;
I knew then,
that’s where
I’ve for so long
wanted to belong.
The whirling gusts of
greedy gardenias
may say
roses aren’t fragrant,
but why am I yearning
to be the Juliet rose
in your graceful garden,
where petals glow
like rainbow-hued stardust,
I’m on a virtual venture,
wishing I had
Aladdin’s vintage lamp;
to grant me my
dose of you and I.
If only I could ride
above Arabian valleys;
on an amethyst
magic carpet,
stitched with
crystalline crescent sequins.
If only you could feel,
I’ve been dreaming
of daisy meadows
and dahlia lawns,
where memories
are fatal,
pushing me into a
labyrinth of
mourning magnolias,
searching for
balanced brightness,
although you
still wander
through a
foreign land~
faraway from “us”.
I hear your wings
adorned with
orchestric ornaments
ascending into
the celestial fields,
leaving me in an
astral connection,
with a jar of memories,
where I still keep
falling for you,
time and time again,
as you are my
beginning and ending,
the amorous poet
that wouldn’t
take love for granted~
like the pirates of
this heart-shaped odyssey.
And I shall forever be reliving
the fabulous February,
spent in your golden presence;
although, days together
were somewhat short
and nights were long,
we will rephrase this romance
relentlessly
into an everlasting love story.
I feel a nauseating revulsion to see scraps of prose
Bundled together in a neatened pile in the name of poetry,
And prizes being awarded for such otiose verbiage
And praises being heaped for such boring coquetry.
Poetry, my dear uninitiated impostors,
Is the language of the mute solemn gods.
You ought to choose your nifty title well
And thus commence your verse against the odds.
Avoid Soyinka’s worn-out style of incompetent blank verse,
Instead, give it the rhyme scheme of the unbeatable Yeats;
The superior verse that one Tom Mboya has never read,
The taste that a Kenyan editor will haul over the rooftop sheets.
Line after line beg the company of some higher Muse
So that you may pen the will of the gods and not your own;
Alliterate here and there though you must not make it your aim,
Then lunge into deeper thought with a deity-like melancholy tone.
And never seek fame for your sacred poetic tasks.
Leave the young to sing your lyrics centuries upon your death,
And remember a great weaver of rhymes long deceased
And pray and wish you immortal blissful health.
in the congress of Love
only Loving is the Truth
and that's the Beauty of beholding
with a realEYEsed look that dares to see
that Truth like Beauty is relativity --
so, look 'n look 'n really see
with eyes the heart has seared with fire,
that passionate insanity on the sharp edge of desire
where the fool and saint are one and the same
as players in the play of this duality game --
promulgate your Truth as if a wave on the Sea
where waves all gather but disagree
yet often move from deepest blue
as if they were both me 'n you
such are these terms
of endearment made merry
with sounds that alliterate 'n show
the tender moments Lovers know
re-post inspired by Eve contest
To alliterate
or not
it all began
then
to rhyme
perchance
in time
to find
a cinquain
vignette
peut-etre
cinqku
or crystalline
monoku
broken
of course
in two
half-cinquain
(lanterne)
to you
Ekphrasis
new
betwixt
a perfect
six
plus
crosswise
spaces
into
the mix
'til
my cartoon
art
plays its
unique
part
upon
my stage
with
footle wit
'til now
free verse
at ease
I
knit
I'm the vessel of your verses
The voice of your vice
The product of the dream you nurture
The nature you hide
I'm the vessel of your verses
For better or worse as
I killed as much as I healed
For your own selfish causes
Though like I
Sprinkled in time – a wrinkle in time
Distort this course of pattered patterns
As we try to advise
I come from a plight your voice invites
Yet through that noise my choice is mine
I'll rhyme with vice from time to time
But rhyme my course through what is mine
To frame my words:
Picture my verse reversing a curse and nursing a hearse
Purging the urge to merge with the merchant of murder or worse
Piercing the person that persecuted my pride
Piercing the Plight that worsens the worth of the words I write
Purging my urges, the grudges held from the judgment of hurt
Purging my hypocrisy, when it gave you hurt much worse
The stanzas alliterate to reflect the repetition
The verse of illiterate veterans on a mission
To verse you in their permanent "medicating" religion
Most mean love, while most only deliver what's given