Long Bestseller Poems
Long Bestseller Poems. Below are the most popular long Bestseller by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bestseller poems by poem length and keyword.
"There are souls like stars that dwell apart."
Quote by _ Spencer Michael Free (1856-1938)
My life changed when my sister died on my birthday,
I was five years old dazed, adrift, and lost;
everything was in disarray,
my little girl soul tossed.
I was very confused,
so shattered, tattered and scattered;
my child voice stopped speaking- it just refused,
I was in a maze feeling alone and battered.
I went to live with grannie and grandpa on their farm,
my thinking was troubled, puzzled, clouded;
the farm animals worked their charm,
life was full and crowded.
I saw life through a book,
and became a storyteller;
lost in make believe in a cozy nook,
I dreamt- I could be a writer ... a bestseller.
Yet, my life has always been haunted by the past,
disorientation has not been far;
but, I write poetry quite vast,
I write each wound and scar.
I recall when I was a little girl,
and my grandma would tell me old stories;
her voice made my imagination swirl,
I often wrote them in my diaries.
She was our family storyteller,
and now it is me who tells of the past;
those old stories could be a bestseller,
that and her jewelry- to me has passed.
I have no daughter but I have a niece,
quiet to my old stories she listens;
and it is her, that I give the odd piece,
jewelry although old- bright it glistens.
A new storyteller when I have died,
and she wears that jewelry with great pride.
___________________________________
September 12, 2016
Poetry/Sonnet/Old Stories and Jewelry
Copyright Protected, ID 16-828-562-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the Sonnet 4 Contest,
sponsor, Eve Roper
Second Place
the rain that drowned the sidewalks
dampened down the night-time heat
creating steam through manholes
from the pipes beneath the street
and set against this backdrop
of a vibrant city beat
swarms of taxis stung the air
with horns stuck on repeat
as a writer sipping coffee
staring from a café seat
wrote words for her 'bestseller'
based on when two people cheat..
"..married strangers and a storm..
arranged a covert meet..
..ran towards each other
in a way such lovers greet..
they kissed beneath umbrellas
in a manner so discreet
then stepped inside a restaurant
to flirt, laugh, love and eat
her big blue eyes melted his heart
her smile was wide and sweet
and he was rich, tall, cool and calm
and swept her off her feet..."
...but before the lovers' story
made it to another sheet
the writer came to from her thoughts
with the chapter incomplete
her big blue eyes and sweet wide smile
felt somewhat obsolete
on the poor, tall, cool, calm waiter who
brought change with her receipt.
I kind of feel like my pen is missing me,
it’s freedom was rich whipped cream.
Indulged, I licked each of my fingertips
so sweet was the time spent creating.
It’s freedom was rich whipped cream,
the perfect words were carefully picked.
So sweet was the time spent creating,
they say a daydream can’t last forever.
The perfect words were carefully picked,
I had time to let every stanza steep.
They say a daydream can’t last forever,
something inside of me wants to try.
I had time to let every stanza steep,
becoming what they were meant to be.
Something inside of me wants to try
to be the voice of the next bestseller.
Becoming what they were meant to be
indulged, I licked each of my fingertips.
To be the voice of the next bestseller,
I kind of feel like my pen is missing me.
Mythical Thinking
In the beginning there had been the word…
She had spoken wisely and made believe
had been a poet all her life creating fiction
scripted parables about a primordial bang
Now she encountered writer’s silent block
yet pondered about her bestseller in waiting
quite ready to reap the harvest and sensed
she had to deal with considerable competition
She rested in the ocean’s tide among pebbles
‘Can I produce a stone so big that I cannot
lift it myself?’ she answered in the affirmative
got stoned on hash brownies and magic potion
A rainbow presided over a giant shibboleth
‘This is a defining moment in history unfolding
I have created Socrates Darwin and Descartes
let the party begin and philosophy challenge’
‘They will believe to have created Me in their image’
Wishful rationale delusion psychopathology or faith
the jury is out there but ‘I appointed the judges
at the High Court of arbitration in the Garden of Eden’
She sensed there was nothing more to achieve
sat in her deck chair awaited Titanic battles
‘A bit more cannabis won’t hurt I am God after all’
but had been warned about relapsing dependence
When she was about to thread Camels and dope
through the eye of the needle injected some more
into self-proclaimed heroine of glory and fame she
shivered and fainted for the rest of day number seven
You are the author of this book
The words, sentences, paragraphs, and chapters
Write well, and fear and procrastination do unhook
So this book, your book, can dwell hereafter
Write with intent and purpose
Make sure to use a good pen and paper
Remember to hone the body with an excursus
Make certain your print is emboldened with no taper
A masterpiece that is colorful, loving, bold, and clever
A true page flipper, a reader's delight
Like Hemingway, but your way, a New York Times bestseller
Write your book with veracity and with all your might
So write, and write very well, my lad
Tell your tale like Canterbury, as did Chaucer
Let your ink indelibly imprint the world pad
Go ahead and cast your best words because, in this book, you are the author
1992, Master Li Hongzhi’s benevolence shone through
To the public in China his amazing teaching grew
Falun Dafa emerged from prehistoric time
To guide Earth’s people to be true, good and kind
People practiced peacefully in parks each day
Before work, school, and even play
Cleansing their bodies with the five gentle moves
Cultivation of mind and heart was true
Morality and virtue grew from the essential way
Assimilating all who diligently stayed
Clear with only righteous thoughts in mind
Society was improving holistically in time
Awards were granted for “The Most Popular One”
Master Li worked hard but his efforts were shunned
Jiang Zemin demanded a survey to find
Alarming numbers that practiced in1999
100 million Dafa practitioners grew
More than his regime, and many within it too
Zemin’s rage ordered the persecution that marked
His mind was controlled by his jealous heart
Out of rage the 6-10 office was born
The act of hatred, and jealousy and scorn
“Zhuan Falun”, was a bestseller by then
He ordered "destroy all Dafa books" to end
“Unrestricted warfare”, evil cult was his excuse
The beast within his mind was loose
“Eradicate Falun Gong, use all means”
Evoking evil specter, that grinned and gleaned
The demand was all levels of government oblige
His persecution of 100 million, was now in stride
A horrific darkness fell on China’s great land
History was being repeated, by a dictator’s hand
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring mor'n 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
Before golden opportunity
(goes no argh hue mint
the way of Long John Silver)
doth fade and dwindle
not necessarily cuz the missus
did (NOT) bribe and swindle
an ambition (for nor rhyme nor reason)
arose to kindle...
Affectionate communication
employing (figurative) gambol
probably testing your patience
to decrypt me trademark ramble
essential crux of matter after
ye prune thorny verbiage,
metaphorical berry good bramble.
Methinks yar psyche slid into funk
cuz usual upbeat gregarious disposition
of late (June 26th, 2020)
analogous to reclusive monk
whose nonverbal body language
shrieks "LEAVE ME THE ƒµ©* ALONE"
lest recipient (in this case yours truly)
receives judicious suckerpunch
finding him landing - ouch
on his buttucks - kerplunk!
Nevertheless as one
mister misanthrope to another
who could pretend cavorting
as asinine make bull heave brother,
(or undergoing extreme makeover,
and stretching imagination voila
one garden variety generic beastie boy
rendered into... yup, your grandmother.
Hoop fully no unpleasant memory
doth suddenly unfold
linkedin to said very old
boot (moost likely)
long deceased family member
turned to dust commingled with auld
Lang syne amidst weathered tombstones,
markedly intact skeletons absent
any flesh o'the rear
some etched with hands folded in prayer
mausoleum enshrining even in death near
(think grim reaper kingly leer)
still provoking jeer
profligate (yet prolific) paperback writer heir
housing generations ghostly forebear
comprising your family tree, once... dear
father, mother, sister, brother, et cetera
who profusely guzzled beer.
No intent to induce fury if playful banter
loosed psychological trip wire
merely harmless ambition to deliver mirth
lobs strike out as decided
by just now summoned umpire
on the ball punning away without tire
greatly flattered if literary antics inspire
ye to pen memoirs,
which become New York Times
bestseller, thus countless clamoring demands
to serve as ghostwriter hire
prompt ye with fame and fortune
before thee doth exhale last breath and expire
when moments prior,
I while impersonating a squire
wished ye a cheery bon voyage.
I go online so I can see my sales,
how many books did I move in the night?
These projects that I gave six whole months to,
the stories that give meaning to my life.
But the bar is low, sometimes it’s not there,
nobody much cared what I had to say,
these characters who have lived in my head
are unwanted, most hope they go away.
When I’ve seen people who have half my skill
write a bestseller it makes me see red,
unappreciated in my own time,
perhaps I’ll be famous after I’m dead?
I write a poem that speaks to the heart,
craft the rhyme and flow to move perfectly,
something that requires a lot more work
than those writers who prefer their verse ‘free.’
Put it online so others can partake,
hope what I say might just stick in their minds,
but come next morning my readers are few,
I’m lucky if one comment I can find.
There ain’t much demand for poetic types,
for emotions that are rhythmically said,
but maybe they’ll read it far down the line,
maybe I’ll be famous after I’m dead.
I look at all of these famous writers,
how few of them lived it up while breathing,
Kakfa was nuts, Dickinson was insane,
old Bob Howard was surly and brooding.
Even the ones who found recognition
weren’t exactly living the free and clear,
Tolsoty couldn’t keep his marriage intact,
Hemmingway’s fame couldn’t fight back his fears.
We all dream of setting folks’ minds aflame,
of selling millions and rolling in bread,
but that’s the exception, all we can hope
is to become famous after we’re dead.
It makes a man wonder why he does this,
since there are much easier jobs out there,
is the creative urge worth the effort
when it so impacts our financial cares?
If all of the appreciation that
we can expects comes when we’re in the grave,
is the price of our own satisfaction
worth the hours of working like a slave?
To create something nobody asks for,
ro silence that nagging urge in our heads?
While knowing the best that I can hope for
is to become famous after I’m dead?
Eh, who am I kidding with this. You’ll forget my name before you finish reading this poem.
You have, haven’t you?