Long Ballpoint Poems
Long Ballpoint Poems. Below are the most popular long Ballpoint by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ballpoint poems by poem length and keyword.
PEN
At first, it was just another pen
A ballpoint, as is called by some
Not one in that old clear plastic
But shiny metal, looking fantastic
A present, as fancy as they come
Quite the classy image back then
That silvery glint in my top pocket
And a perfect weight in my hand
I used it for all my college work
And if ever I lost it, I’d go berserk
All avid students will understand
It was my thing, so don’t mock it
Over time, it became my identity
Still as the messenger of my writing
My signature in places I had to sign
Unique, clearly to know it was mine
Then creative stuff became exciting
On the page, words flowed rapidly
I replaced the refills, always black
In my life it was a solid workhorse
I held it up to point, for emphasis
It was a poor performer’s nemesis
As detailed in my notes of course
A reliable instrument I’d never lack
From the first day that I was hired
I wielded that pen just like a sword
The barrel shone, the clip was strong
No smudging and never went wrong
Given a new gold pen by the Board
A parting gift when we both retired
The Titles in your mind but the words don't process through your pen as if you just went internally blind.
With a ballpoint sword in your hand ready to carve legible hieroglyphics on to a sheet of paper you've engraved the name of your work yet you can't even write the first word.
You try to clear your mind and gather your thoughts but all hear echoing in your mind is, tick tock scribble scrabble cockadoodle doo, why is this little lizard doing pushups in front of me challenging me to a dual ?
Even as I gaze to the keys on this phone ah look an emoji in the shape of a globe damn it I'm still mentally preoccupied, Sighs to hell with it maybe tomorrow I'll write poetic gold. ©™
By: Shawn Muñoz
My dear incredible pen,
you are the pinnacle of writing instruments! Looking refined with your elegant ebony shaft and gold-filagree trim, you are a true technological wonder to behold and a master calligrapher.
I am amazed at your ability to ink my thoughts onto paper without a single smear, skip or blotch. You fit my hand like we were custom crafted as one, allowing me to gently glide your easy-flow tip over a blank canvas and create literary art.
Oh, my dearest, most reliable pen,
I am enthralled by your ability to interpret my scribbled thoughts into meaningful, coherent sentences. You are my inspiration, confidant, and protagonist; I would be lost without your profound influence and companionship.
You have established an almost intimate psychic connection with my muse, and together, we three create poetry. I love the feel of you in my hand; you give me the confidence to explore fantasy while at the same time anchoring me to reality.
My most beloved, exquisite pen,
the mere thought of holding you sends shivers down my spine, for I know you are eager to take me to faraway places we've never been as we explore the deceptions and truths of humanity. You come from a proud line of writing instruments, including cuneiform sticks, quills, and fountain pens, to the ubiquitous ballpoint pens of today. May your ink never dry up, and your contribution to literary works be recognized and appreciated, for you deserve no less.
(Ode)
03/03/2023
Write an Ode Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jeff Kyser
in the beginning,
there was a cathedral
of silence so long,
I could discern blood
congealing,
my face had cracked
in a mirror of denial
and as the horror
of a putrid filth
unmasked in its entirety
I hid,in my castle of refusal
and it all lay in silent morning…
as pieces of self fell away,
splintering to pierce the dawn
with a roar of upheaval
from Africa’s shores,
a keen of mortality
shatters eardrums
continents away
a campaign continues
still,
I run away
into smaller and smaller
rolls of my ballpoint,
consumed in the ink
words flow unchecked as
veins bulge with effortless zeal
All blessing the written word,
as each cornerstone
reinforces my castle walls
This year 2021 seems so very hard
with covid and all its limited implications
but it's worth comparing centuries before
five hundred years before was no celebration
In comparing all these 500 years ago
when it was a world so different from today
this was what Europe then was like
even U.S. hadn't been brought into play
During the 1500s there were no basics
no sewer system, central heating, water supply
refrigeration, antibiotics, penicillin or surgery
in our day not having these we would die
As well as no water heater or water
also, ballpoint pen, typewriter, pc was none
it beggars belief what life was like
life was harsh certainly not much fun
People in that day would've been so poor
struggling would have been a daily chore
so be thankful we're not still back then
despite covid we're still able to roar!
I saw a big bird today at a local zoo.
Its habitat is akin to that of a kangaroo.
It was glaring at all as if to say,
"Okay! I saw all, now go away!"
Its digits can agonizingly kick,
As if hit by a ton of brick!
It is not a darling bird at all,
And I cannot stand its blaring call!
I know nothing of its ornithological stock.
I do know it's too big to fry in an Asian wok!
I was at a loss as I stood stroking jaw.
Was it an ostrich or a cassowary that I saw?
I can't think of anything worthy for that bird to say,
So I shall lay down ballpoint and call it a day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
First Place In Nikko Palmario's "Without U & ME" Contest' - July 2010
PS: This was a contest where the use of the letters E, M & U was prohibited.
The bird I spoke of was the EMU!
The pen points down at this point and period
Then it points to the Egyptians
Who used the stars to pinpoint the pyramids
They penned the Book of The Dead in their own language
They did everything backwards because it means the Book of Life in the English translation
They built hospitals for the dead
So we build hospitals for the sick now
The Chinese made paper, this is the tipping point,
Because of them my pen is joined to their hip now
These two twins the parchment and the Prophet
They are the editors of God's Word
Which points the way for the Gospels written by the Apostles
At this point and period the topic points to the highlight
The history of our Country is underlined
The Declaration of Independence on it John Hancock penned the signature of a giant
History has been recorded by pens to point men
But history repeats itself and now its all pointless
And at this point depending on which way North is pointed
The polls shifted, now water runs uphill
A stroke of good fortune, I've come to the point of poets
They ink the finger of God
And by God's finger we have the Ten Commandments
And the paper the speaker prepares his speech
His pen is the instrument that captivates his audience
The pen breaks
Out shoots the ballpoint
With my mind I have pointed to many points and periods.....
At five, coarse strands gather in your small fists
as you tear them clean from your scalp.
You hate yourself
You are ugly
You are selfish
You are a monster.
At seven, sitting under the fluorescent lights of the classroom,
you drive the dull graphite point of a pencil straight into your thigh,
puncturing the skin through your clothes
over and over.
You are weird
You are different
You are never enough
You are a monster.
At ten, pressed against the cold glass on the car rides home,
you dig your fingernails into your arms,
dragging them down until thin red lines bloom
and leak onto the surface of your skin.
You are stupid
You are worthless
You are a failure
You are a monster.
At twelve, sitting alone in the quiet of your room,
your hand shakes as you press a blue ballpoint pen
to the lined paper
to write your very first suicide note.
You are unwanted
You are a mistake
You don’t deserve to live
You are a monster.
At fourteen, under the cover of midnight,
the heavy metal head of a hammer strikes your soft, weak body,
leaving dull, aching purple bruises across your skin.
You are unlovable
You are too much
You are a burden
You are a monster.
At sixteen, you keep silver razor blades sleeping
in the dark of your nightstand drawer,
buried beneath your socks,
so no light can reach them.
You are bad
You don’t deserve love
You are broken
You are a monster.
At seventeen, you rely on pain to keep you alive.
You cannot remember a time when breathing didn't hurt.
And in the dark, you ask yourself -
who would you be today if someone
had just wrapped their arms around that small,
trembling five-year-old,
and pulled her hands away from her hair?
Who would you be
if you were allowed to be a child
instead of a monster?
The Lost Art Of Composition
too often my thoughts and the ability to express them
are taken hostage without a clue to the cause
this is an affliction familiar to many a writer
as if madness wasn't enough
it proves to be immune to every method I've used
to relieve my minds constipation
it enslaves your ideas and duct tapes the mouth of your soul
binds your fingers and hands so you are unable to write
I Whiskeyed and Scotched it self medicated with drugs
the addiction that resulted I thought could be bribed
held a knife at its throat threatened, bullied and beat it
poked and scratched at the eyes
Kicked it in the balls
pleaded and begged even got on my knees and prayed
all my efforts were ineffective
it only pissed it off more and tightened the grip
around my Muse's neck
I had exhausted my resolve to this disease that consumed me
there was no other option but to surrender
I decided to give up , knuckle under call it quits
not answer the bell for the next round
I disconnected my computer and turned off my cellphone
the typewriter on my desk just for show
I've had since college every once in a while I have at it
so I stashed in the closet with books by Sexton, Wolfe and Burroughs
Cisneros, Bukowski and Gonzo
I turned down the lights and lit some candles
sat at my desk to prepare my suicide note
what happened when the ballpoint touched the papers surface
was the key opening the front door lock to home
an energy manifested that I had known long ago
before Technology had deadened it's nerves
it sparked the transfer of thought into a word
forming the shape of a sentence
this cosmic electricity flowed into my hand holding the pen
then designed a paragraph the child of chapter
I touched every noun felt each verb envisioned the adjectives description
heard every "ly" in the adverbs reply and ignored the rules of punctuation
I had discovered the remedy to restore my inspiration
the cure I possessed all along
The lost art of composition was my salvation
my own prescription is what I wrote
the poet is an artist that paints in the darkness
a poems words the colors that create light
a writer is blessed with all of the answers
cursed in the search for what questions to ask
Judge Burdon
Shine Bright O' Golden Pen
To Empower & Inspire The Masses Of Men,
Burn Ever Luminous & Blaze As The Sun
And Let Thy Ballpoint Scintillate Like The Chosen One,
Fill Thy Longhand With Prestine Manuscripts
To Great Endeavors That Shall Sail Afar Like Ocean Ships,
Guide Thee To Depths Unknown
When Many Are Lost & Have Lost All Hope,
Illuminate Thy Ink Scrolls For All Of Time
With Knowledge & Wisdom & Light Divine,
Oscillate The Great Duality That Always Was
And Let It Transcend Through The Sword That Descends From Above,
Infuse Thee With Essence As An Emerald Stone
So I Shall Articulate These Jasmine & Fiery Poems