Long Aspiring Poems
Long Aspiring Poems. Below are the most popular long Aspiring by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Aspiring poems by poem length and keyword.
Conflicting waves ruffle the smooth blue static
hindering the ethereal progression of her path
Airiness sinks heavily to lean into leaden aqua
mistiness lingering, a foggy dolorous requiem
Practical currents, seem to have lost their step
as winds gust, only to die in competing dogma
Gone again are the gains to the losses gaining!
New rules implemented o’er the old as the sun
explicitly highlights flaws within its blared flare
Listless and restless tossing of the weary soul
aspiring to stay afloat in a much bouncier sea
Denying the salty sting, sways ‘long the bend
yielding painfully to a slower, upriver, journey
6/23/23
This is Mr. Squeaky, mouse reporter,
squeaking to you from the Swiss cheese quarter,
where the crime bosses will decide the price
you'll have to pay for a provolone slice.
My modest size lets me to infiltrate
the safe house where they will decide the fate
of decent queso lovers like you and I -
oh no - they want to restrict the supply!
Don "Blockhead" Cheddarino, barks and glares
at an aging figure, caught unawares,
Gouda Bidini, aged not to perfection,
"Our common goal, deplete the deli section."
What will they do with the power they seize?
Good people, they will take away our cheese!
They'll attack all of us midnight snackers.
They'll take away the brie for our crackers!
This, friends and viewers, is no baloney -
no more cheddar for our macaroni!
We'll take a bite, and we'll sit and stare
when our grilled-cheese sandwich is filled with air.
They're going to agree to a treaty:
no more mozzarella for baked ziti.
We need something stretchy on pizza pie -
a serious case for the FBI.
Better bring in J Cheddar Hoover fast.
My appetite's going nuts - I won't last.
This has been your intrepid mouse reporter,
and aspiring exquisite cheese importer.
Good night and good luck. You think this is so dumb?
Wait 'til you see me in my next po-em.
Remembering 1980' s'..
In Nineteen Eightees’
facing firm realities.
Second thought propagating waves on two aspects
Sincere serious aspiring alternative prospects.
Trying to get absorbed in new profession.
And realized need of second child in deep emotion.
Both important: Made up my mind henceforth.
In 1980' s'., I was blessed by both.
11/09/18
Nineteen Eightees Poetry Contest by Michelle Faulkner
She made me of fun
I would have gouged her eye
To serve on her my turn
But doubt it won't break the aspiring tie
Though I thought she was but in fear
Of her doubt in words ladies hear
Yet, my response will never thought to be made
To one who stands not for others in the world
And this tongue of flame could have ceased to flicker
The true nature of my charming heart desire
But since, up from the ages past
No one has ever yet
Withstand the grief of regret
Turned encouraging unless had tried out his best
If what I know is true
Being cajoled will never break my flue
For at my back, I always hear
Age's pennate cart hastening near...
FLIRTATION
a pretext
for
the glamorous
renaissance
across
the core
of romantic love
swathed in
the symbolic
changing
&swaggering
in a suggestive
state
emblematic
of the
vanity
so so
essential
&
appropriate
to the occasion
beauty-obsessed
assessed
& filtered
adolescence
so
superficially
beautiful
looking fo
a glimpse
of the
reassurance
&
the spectacular
in profile
to be paraded
in an
appearance
so soft
gentle
&soothing
aspiring towards
desire
& promise
covered with
ornamental
displays
of perfection
a
focus on
& aimed at
the observer
at will
UNCHANGED HABITS
Recently, I promised myself to make drastic changes;
again, I have fallen into yesterday's habits.
So unchanged they seem as my esteem:
they must be controlling my rebelling genes,
but making changes isn't for the better, I deem.
So unchanged they seem as my esteem;
again, I have fallen into yesterday's habits...
recently, I promised myself to make drastic changes.
THE ASPIRING VOCALIST
He had an aspiration for greatness that could have blossomed into realized dreams;
he headed to New York City wearing shining boots and tight, faded blue jeans,
" He's a real Texan cowboy! " someone shouted in the noisy athmosphere...
and he accidentally heard that with surprise and it sounded pleasant to his ear.
He had talent and was seeking a vocalist's job, singing on Broadway's streets.
" He's a real Texan cowboy! " someone shouted in the noisy athmosphere.
He headed to New York City wearing shining booths and tight, faded blue jeans;
he had an aspiration for greatness that could have blossomed into realized dreams.
Entered in David William's contest,
" Palindrome Mad "
Written by Andrew Crisci
Nestled is the slender twisting trail canyon between timeless steep
aspiring mountains and meditative sopheric sea waters
The frail road deepens into lofty thickness further from the harsh
volcanic valley where passion’s throes are ever in abeyance as days grind
on at a petty pace, as winding cathartic minds strive to be free and leave their
fears of mortal sin, intrusive family— religious dogma dismissive, oppressive
My yearning heart writhes in agonizing prose knowing senses magma
guilt etched into my very core, now behind
I’ll unwind, in a soft bed of sand that awaits
Spring’s strong winds of life call, visible the sea in the
distance, in instance, heads tilt, abut, falling upon my
wooer’s shoulder, he presses gears, downshifts reaching tireless
slate-gray force spreading over ocean floors flooding with no remorse
An uncommon gallantry he displayed, a warrior’s valiant looks
fired up my very essence
A dimming sun immerses into a hesitant horizon, sweeping breezes spin
warm spells embracing an enchanter’s realm,
with its charm he gazed into languid eyes
Silhouettes stark, foreheads bow, touch, sweetened sweat from
jasmine bushes alongside the road, perks of riding the stallion of steel
evoked smiles in sideview mirror, heated rims, spokes spun
Dismount a stroll, toes sank in sand, holding hands dodging driftwood
washed ashore, I chose a serpent shaped, a souvenir!
I’d glue turquoise stone eyes, a keepsake, or an omen?
Zena’s cove of guilty pleasures seal fates, certainly
not rhythmic lapping waves against the shore nor salmon sunset
or a waxing crescent moon, and not the wistful ocean’s teary spray
Its tears wetted my cheeks in afterglows
Lest moonlit sky amongst shy hidden stars
Pangs subside, panic betides, doctrine ridden not from our marrow
Womb’s flower in bloom, a secret kept, an advent arrival
The planets wept, forms beyond birth of celestial bodies,
one existence yet does sin exist in celestial angels?
He held tightly, softly whispered let’s run away,
his proposal on adulthood’s precarious cusp,
bestowed him a refusal, sweet youth ruins
Alas and alack life proceeds
steady as ebb and flow of the tides
After a precious gem she’s named, sweet lord
never more blissful, daughter
Caressed are tranquil ocean waves
Twinkling with mysticism,
magically peeping among fragrant
blossoms, reveling the aliveness of
frolicking, rollicking cousins.
Faeries congregate in tittering
pairs, occasionally in triplets
or quads, encouraging, and cajoling.
Sagely inspiring lively flowers
to show off their most beautiful.
Hiding from the non-believers,
delighting the rest of us, luring
us back into their gardens.
Aspiring us, and uplifting
us, without pixie dust, rather
with soul feelings that sprinkle our
day with goodness – so pronounced,
we can only get it here.
Faerie flower therapy,
nothing better to aid
in healing of psyche.
I Asked Myself A Rhetorical Question...
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.
Don’t Talk About It—Write About It
As a writer and a poet, sometimes people ask me how I
do, what I do, every day as I research themes and topics
for poems or prose works that I want to write about and
develop for potential publication in the future.
The “how I do” and the “what I do” with regard to my
everyday writing on any given theme or group of themes
are predicated on the active notion that I don’t, as a rule,
talk idly about people, topics or themes per se, rather I go
ahead and focus exactly on a certain theme or subject of
interest, and then I begin to write about it.
What’s the magic formula for doing all of this research
and active committed work associated with professional
writing? The answer can be summarized in two words:
Hard Work! If one is not willing to engage and to put the
effort and work into any certain writing endeavor, a true
quality writing product won’t be the result.
I write because I enjoy writing very much. Poetry is the
one literary undertaking that I like to do the most. I find
often that writing poetry has helped me to focus, and then
to write on given ideas, topics or themes more succinctly.
When a person sees a book of poetry that has, for example,
200 poems listed in it, just think of each poem, in essence,
as its very own story.
Concerning the infamous “Writer’s Block” syndrome, all
I can say is that a writer or any aspiring writer just needs
to keep working away at their various writing efforts and
never give up. Having the requisite skills and talent to be
an effective and interesting writer, poet, or novelist are a
given. Yet, one also needs a high degree of raw moxie and
a measure of commitment and steadfastness too, in order
to see any writing venture or product to its end point, and
especially toward eventual publication.
My final closing thought concerning the writing of poetry
and prose, and any other literary endeavors, in general, is:
Don’t Talk About It—Write About It!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
December 31, 2018 (Narrative)