Long Become Poems
Long Become Poems. Below are the most popular long Become by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Become poems by poem length and keyword.
Erotic Vampire
You hide behind the darkened skies,
In pale moonlight, I see your eyes.
You hypnotize me with just one glance,
Then I am forever more, your man.
My Dark Angel of Death has come,
To give me immortality.
My Beauty of the Dark has come,
To truly love and save me.
My Queen of All and Everlasting Love,
I kneel before you and beg for your touch.
One stroke of pleasure, in one finger tip,
Before my death. from your vampire kiss.
I give you my life, My Gothic Wife,
For you gave me our child and made me cry with a smile.
But still, we love the blackened skies.
The memories of giving life to our child.
That one night of love, that lasted forever.
The Child, our pride, shall never be severed,
From the umbilical chord which binds our family.
You give me life after death. I give you my love eternally.
For never again, will I meet such a vision of beauty.
Forever more, I shall see you with piety.
Devoted to you, my Goddess of Love.
I offer you my soul and beg for your endless hug.
Entrapped together, I wish us to become.
I see in your eyes, you too, are in search of love.
So I swear to you, my Dark Angel of the Night,
I shall always love you, in the afterlife.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
My foolish heart’s nonjudgmental
Quick to forgive, kind and gentle
Discerns truth by spherical sight
Touch tender, embrace parental
Gripped in rapture of bliss delight
My heart’s aglow by day and night
Joy it’s sole theme, in this life dream
Sharing with all, God’s love and light
Not worldly wise, hatches no scheme
Currents sublime, within form stream
Mind of my heart, dwells in the void
Knowing life not quite, as does seem
Foolish heart, pure and unalloyed
Sans love, no vibration employed
Transmutes to become a bliss mist
False ego life, long since destroyed
Radiant heart and unclenched fist
Oft deceived, for does not resist
Oozing compassion at all times
In God trusts and that’s it’s life gist
04-April-2022
MY FOOLISH HEART Cash Prize Poetry Contest
Sponsor: L Milton Hankins
I'm gonna try to be the President.
A major league baseball player.
I'm gonna try to be a football star.
A big casino winner.
I'm gonna try to drag around a fire hose.
Drive a hook and ladder.
Here's a few things, I'm gonna try to be.
I'm gonna try to be a winner.
Save up all my money.
Try to live it up.
I'm only just a beginner.
I'm gonna try to be a movie star.
A motion picture actor.
Then I'm gonna live it up, in Hollywood.
Become a top ten singer.
Here's just a few things, I'm gonna try to be.
I'm gonna try to be a winner.
I'm gonna try to be a winner..
Winner-Poetry By-Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2001,2014..
All rights reserved..
The town which oozed the plain and lacklustre held them in a judo grip but by the same token itself seemed to become slyly going into step by step morph contraction.
“Donkeys are symbolic to a vast extent.
They exude such, indeed much ken.
Are they guffawing at us?
But just as you and I had our first encounter as children when on a short trip with our parents.
It was one of the few forms of entertainment available in this mystery shroud of a spot.
Where disposable income might be too easily disposed of.”
Both Nigella and Nigel found that ever since they met whilst nourishing the donkey, this donkey, its Mise en scene, its portentous presence had this uncanny knack of pursuit of both of them.
The strangest coincidences.
Idioms, expressions, the way people interacted, the synonyms for donkey in this town created a situation where the word donkey and a donkey’s environs, and other creatures in the habitat had this hypnotising invisible secretive yet insidious skulk.
“Have you even sensed, Nigella,a disconcerting shift and shunt this isolated district, the size, there has been a slow exit to boot. On boot.
Does it have its own booty?
We both smirk at that one.
Even as we interact there is this intended or unintended prank simmering….somewhere.
As if we might be shoehorned into a loosely scheduled drama.”
Nigel and nigella often mused and bandied about words asinine and their variants.
But devoid of concrete proposal or narrative life pulse in this strangeville of a town that was now a drift sand physically and in terms of folks who no longer existed resembled an abstruse puzzle when it shouldn't
A strange fire is burning in my soul
you have to do something about it
before it consumes the world
It is melting the ice and it is
moving towards paradise
Please do not take my savings
and pension away from me
I have earned it on bended knees
something has gone terribly wrong and you
have got to change the tune before it gets
to the evening news
It is spreading from the north
to the south and from the east to the west
the blaze is getting bigger
and you have to something strategically
to cool down this precarious fire
The merchants are confused
and traders are bruised
Look towards the sun and you will see
what have gone wrong you have to take it back to
zero degree so that you can set the captive free
Riches have turned to rags and the universe
must move in a different direction
and dry its sweat with the rags
your judgment is wrong and you have
to compose a new song, just listen
to my rhythm it is simple and easy to sing
I woke up this morning with nothing on my mind
but I could hear the universe innate cry
I kept telling myself that everything will be fine
but my heart kept deceiving me
while the horizon burns behind me
I just could not accept the truth that the
tariff fire has damage the roots
I look desperately for a quick fix
but the heat scorched my face
and destiny looks for another place
Everyone is talking about it, but nothing much
Is done to solve it, it has become a sing along
and the globe is catching on
get your calculator and come
and I will show you how to break it down to zero
A special rhythm is playing in my head
and you have to get out of the bed
stamp your feet on the floor three times
And knock ten times on the door
If you cannot tax it,
you have to forget it
Remove the tariff from my soul
and the system will be made whole
there is a strange heat festering around the cities
and it is making the people jittery.
The wealthy seek company with your ten-acre heart and half-acre mind.
Groupies swarm beneath your haloed window even on rainy nights.
Tapping tambourines and triangles to poultice out those nuggets of life.
You slowly walk away from the frame and tiredly kiss them goodnight.
You try to temper pace, but the takers ripped the sundial from you.
Swarming like locusts- toting manuscripts, a photo shoot or two.
Who knew babysitting the universe could be so damn exhausting.
Impossible to escape from the talons of a new-age paparazzi.
All that you loved and lived for has long ago withered and died.
You barricade yourself from the gaze of a billion jagged green eyes.
Another golden chessboard gifted to you from an aging king.
Yet another bribe to pry from your palm the secret of eternity.
It all became too much; you've become the world's origami freak.
Folding and unfolding to appease the whirling maelstrom of greed.
You realize (too late) that the elixir is no blessing but a cutting curse.
You've been committed to an asylum called the song of dead birds.
You're 6006 years old, playing endless chess with moonbeams and ghosts.
Dimming lights-drawing shades to drown out the mirror and the smoke.
You try explaining to Dr. Narcotic that you're not a goblin, God, nor prophet.
Just a blue-collar pawn who stumbled upon an elixir of misery and rot.
Charlotte and the bear came out of hibernation at exactly the same time.
The bear was irritable and hungry, and she looked tasty.
Don’t even think about it, I’ve killed bigger people than you before breakfast.
The bear hadn't a clue what she was on about, but there was definitely something weird about her.
They both headed into town.
The fishmonger recognised Charlotte from the wanted posters he had seen around town.
This didn’t faze Charlotte, as the gutting knife entered his neck.
She took a bucket of fish out and handed it to the bear.
The bear was grateful, but still left with an uneasy feeling.
Charlotte was not enamoured with the old guy driving the sports car, especially when he made sexual remarks to her.
She did like driving the car, though, and she was sure his body would be found at some point.
Charlotte couldn’t believe the police were on her tail
She headed back to the cave where the bear was napping
The manhunt had begun
They came across the cave and began to move in
Charlotte prodded the bear and told him to growl
The bear got such a fright, it scampered right out the cave into the path of the oncoming police
The officers, shocked, decided she sure as hell wasn’t in there
Charlotte was not enamoured with the choices she had made in her life and decided to turn over a new leaf and get help.
The bear hoped to hell that mad woman was gone because
the strain was really getting to him.
Charlotte agreed with the psychiatrist, electric shock treatment was definitely the way to go.
The psychiatrist sort of agreed as ten thousand volts surged through his body, killing him outright.
Charlotte left the wanted posters behind and headed for a new life in the big apple.
Hopefully, Charlotte will change and become a model citizen.
The bear hopes so too, he wasn’t really enamoured with Charlotte.
The leaves fall in the consciousness
unable to find the spot where to begin.
The wind blows in the midst of meditation
without knowing when to cease.
Because it seems easy
as sitting on the comfortable chair pondering,
because it feels being chased
while running and thinking at the same time
with the passing time,
the rain falls in the concept of a flood of thoughts.
If you let your imagination go to the farthermost edge
while walking in the plain, it looks vast and boundless.
Or otherwise you look at it from the vision of a smaller window.
As you walk in the plain whether it is limited or limitless,
you will come to the riverside one day or you may see the plateau
floating in the foggy air one morning, and when you roam in the plain
as your thoughts lead you to the way, the sun shines on you,
you will tread upon moonbeams, the stars tumble all about your feet.
When you consider the place where you lie down
and close your eyes, pillowing the cycle of thinking
as a beginning and an end, the cycle of thinking processes stops.
The tears, as well, fall on cheeks at that moment
to flush the thoughts into a marsh of the unthinkable.
A tear drops become a bloom of flower by the marshland
where no one thought it there to be thinkable.
Back then,
backyards were big enough
to nurture a growing soul
and provide a space
for the earth to play out
its seasons in full rehearsal.
There were wide tracks
of grass, trees to climb,
old sheds to rummage
with their interiors full of tools
and bric-a-brac
webbed in history.
There was food - ripe tomatoes
and corn from a vegetable patch,
grapes swelling
under a cool canopy of vines,
soft skins bursting
their dark sweetness
inside expectant mouths,
almonds, apricots and the luscious
dribble of a warm peach
down sticky cheeks.
Some had roaming chickens
with their bounty of eggs.
Backyards were blotting paper
for a child's hurt, a hiding place
to get away, a theater
for projecting the phantasies
of a sheriff or a princess
high in a golden tower.
And in summer, a sprinkler
casting a gauntlet of cold spray
for tiny feet to challenge.
Then it all ends
when backyards become
too small and more exotic places
call a restless soul to leave
its Eden and break the spell
of its beginning.
I heard not a sound that morn
As lightning lit up the dawn
The sky was dark and it was torn
By lightning strikes that Zeus spawned
Caught in the midst of a quiet storm
I heard not a sound that morn
Silence had become the norm
All the petals on the rose were shorn
The dark clouds that the sky had worn
Released the rain in silent sighs
I heard not a sound that morn
But I saw anger in the skies
The trees outside began to shake
As on the wind the storm was born
Leaving a silent fury in its wake
But I heard not a sound that morn
--
2-14-18
Contest: Describe a thunderstorm without sound
Sponsor: Brenda Chiri