Long Blotch Poems
Long Blotch Poems. Below are the most popular long Blotch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blotch poems by poem length and keyword.
The memories seem to gradually slip away,
His footprints seem to slowly erase,
My journey through life's maze,
It seems to have clouded my memories of him.
Indeed time could rewrite one’s story,
Indeed time could blotch one’s portrait,
Bringing in its constraint,
Wiping off treasured memories.
My night has pervaded my chamber,
My struggles have enclosed me,
I'm beaten vehemently by life's crashing sea,
Eroding his memories like a weathered rock.
I carry only a vague picture of him,
Oh! Elements of nature buoy me across this tempestuous sea,
His footprints are still at the shore,
I saw them through the night's window.
Oh! Father, you eased slowly into the night,
I'm left alone in this fight,
Anticipating heaven's light,
This day I call your words to remembrance.
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
Inspired by Christian Schaffer’s YouTube travel videos
Rolling fogs and crashing waves
Add to memories one saves
Kissy breeze upon your face
Rumbling vibes, no home base
Raindrops on the pane’s glass
Colored clouds moving mass
Mesh of moss imperfect blotch
Tallest trees eternal watch
Morning coffee, sunrise rays
Distant mountains in haze
Wide blue sky is van’s marquee
Things unspoken, set them free
Introspection, open eyes
Thoughts exposed mighty wise
World’s unspoiled rare scenes
Walk that beach in torn blue jeans
Ashen peaks in silent chants
Winter wind incessant rants
Lakes of green reflecting light
Forest creaking through the night
Swaying grass, the rustling sound
Fair maidens' heart unbound
Places shown, not betrayed
Road, alone, unafraid
Charming smile reflecting lens
At the end it all makes sense
Watch, imbibe, accept and jaunt
Wanderlust is what you want
April 6, 2024
"If you desire healing,
let yourself fall ill
let yourself fall ill."
Jalaluddin Rumi
Why, life is such, made of tricks and twisted ways
Life is such, made of sunny warmth and rainy days
Life is such
A blotch on our minds
A mystery
Waiting for the one to demystify it
A puzzle
Waiting for the one who would solve it!
However much ignorant am I of life and its ways
I can, though, fully ascertain
That life is meant not to be lived as if it were a ride
A ride down the river of sooth
A ride down there where love and peace thrives
Pray
Life is meant to be a torment
Life is meant to hassle us
Life is a disease and should we
Want to be freed from its poisonous grip
Why, we should only follow its course
Indulge in it
Allow ourselves to be touched
To fall ill
To fall even more ill
So that, when faced with our insurmountable misery
Life shall itself open up
And allow us to be healed!
Yes,
Life shall itself open up its gates of wonder
And allow us to walk through them to the other worlds
Those worlds said to be made of eternal bliss!
Detailing leaves of golden spiff
I lean up close to take a whiff
of turmeric colored leaves sublime
and skies of ruby reds sweet wine
Engaged upon the breeze my touch
awaits the pinnacle's non such;
Sharing space with a painters brush
I sketch a new horizon's rush
on a canvass virgin without blotch
envisioned scenes of yellow scotch
while up above the skylark soars
on sweet November's wing adore
Inhaling salt and sea I breathe
the very things of me that seethe
embroiled in art to hearts content
I hear falls bitter sweet lament
she doesn't want to touch the snow,
nor lose her natural bronzing glow.
November 26, 2020
Lay November Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Eight syllables per line (howmanysyllables.com)
Today, even the hills seem blue.
Unhappiness is just happiness ~
being torn to shreds by you.
Bartleby: "I would prefer not to."
Lawyer: "But Bartleby, you've got to.
Pull yourself together, somehow,
and make a copy for me. Right now.
It's your sad lot to."
Bartleby: "I would prefer not to."
Someone stomped on my heart with their feet.
There's the red blotch ~ on their soiled bed sheet.
Doesn't look like a heart anymore ~
more like an open, festering sore.
And ~ I'm not waiting around for a repeat.
You know what I wish for the most?
That we could drive once more up the California coast,
listening to Emmylou Harris, Gram Parsons, and John Prine,
with me holding your hand, and you holding mine,
and not stopping ~ till we had safely crossed the fault line.
Here we are, finally at our loose ends,
with no more possibility for amends.
Our love's edges just got too frayed
for anyone to be able to come to our aide ~
no elf or fairy ~ who sews up, patches, or mends.
From Barcelona, she shipped me boots of Spanish leather,
with a note that said, "So you might get to understand Bob Dylan better."
And that's the last word
from her I ever heard,
and sadly, we never listened to Bob Dylan again together.
I made an appointment with me.
I was in need of some clarity.
I needed to know why it was
I felt like I was a lost cause.
And boy, did she act snottily.
The old tree on which I carved your name? ~
during last week's windstorm, down it came.
That staunch, indomitable oak,
that saw you prod and watched me poke,
is firewood now, ready for the flame.
I was haulin' a heavy load
Up the frog an' toad,
When down poured the pleasure an' pain
To my dismay.
Once home I received an' invitation
To a good ol' gay an' hearty!
I was promised plenty o' laughs,
Box o' toys an' lots of give an' take.
An' this was to last
Til day's a dawning!
What will I take?
Can't go empty handed!
I Know,
I'll take pimple an' blotch.
Yeah!
But my friend told me this,
"Take this lump of ice...
If a bottle an' stopper should pass you by,
Tilt your head an' pretend to cry.
Tell him, "It's appalling to poor army an' navy
All over your borrow an' beg!"
It's a penny come quick!
He'll think your crazy!
He'll roll his eyes an' send you on your way.
What d'ya think?
Are you yet to be?"
"Absolutely!" I replied
Laughing imagining such fun.
This certainly cheered me up no end.
Then, out came the ol' currant bun!
Near small Rapid City,
a man came up to me,
said,”Hey, I’ll show you a good time.”
I thought that meant girls,
turns out, as things unfurled,
the man had something else in mind.
We went to a garage,
a rusty, grease-stained blotch,
type of place you’d see a drug deal,
not sure I could trust him,
but then as we stepped in,
I saw a crowd, excitement real.
Just judging by the sight,
it looked like a cockfight,
roosters with spurs, green money flew,
people from everywhere
were all jammed into there,
jostling for a better view.
But then when I got close,
no chickens, don’t you know,
just a small man inside the ring,
not even three-feet tall,
the smallest of them all,
just perched in there, calmly waiting.
I scratched my head and stared,
what was he doing there?
Why did this whole thing feel so strange?
What had I stumbled in?
Fighting midgets seems wrong?
It struck me as a bit deranged.
Then came the weirdest bit,
rooster thrown in the pit,
the midget pulled a handkerchief,
It was paisley and red,
at him the chicken sped,
lashing out with two claw-spurred feet.
That midget spun around,
the rooster did go down,
and all the crowd cried out,”Ole!”
This little man was fast,
poor poultry couldn’t last,
he spun around it like at play.
Then a man at my side
told me there’d been a time,
when the midget had wanted bulls.
Size had precluded him,
his fate would’ve been grim,
but without it he’d not feel full.
He’d found another path,
and I was watching that,
matadoring the fighting cocks,
Then that rooster he faced,
sought out a resting place,
and the whole warehouse soon did rock.
Never thought I would see
such a strange victory,
they raised a cheer and paid out bets.
Matador got his share,
and I got out of there,
some fresh air I needed to get.
Guess my timing was good,
’cause right then guess who should
choose that fine moment to arrive?
Cops dressed in riot gear,
dressed to inspire fear,
they smashed the door and rushed inside.
So what else can I say,
I quickly slipped away,
and to the city I did go.
That was my strangest ‘fun,’
until I rode a bison
right through a small town rodeo…
Why do I create?
The simple answer involves
the complex mystery of
creation~ the more knowable answer
is, I am lonely...needing something,
someone outside of myself
to bring back in, to hold close for to cherish
and love.
I would not write a word,
dabble a blotch, were my hunger entirely satisfied
by the works of others; were all my questions
answered and my dreams already portrayed into infinity –
I create because I have a sense of loss, of being
incomplete – I create because
I am dissatisfied with the status quo.
I create not to feel a sheep-driven-reactionary,
and more a green in God's garden of unlimited potential,
salivating for moments of sensed eternal blossoming...
The novice writes a poem,
while the poet writes poetry. The painter only
paints, while the artist creates an image, that lives
immortal in the realms of observation. And I create
for all these reasons – and, most of all~ those
shared joys I have not found outside the process.
We live our life not thinking at all
of how one day you'll see it in a flash
right before your eyes all at once
now today you can sort it but be not rash
Think back when you came on earth
with one certainty you'll leave one day
no matter what years you have in between
so make an impression while you stay
You really want to show you're on song
singing a melody that fits your tune
using all your repertoire in your display
make sure you are truly in prime
Years toll by and grey hairs come
look back on all that's gone before
make sure you've kept your integrity
be true to yourself within your inner core
So strive on in rest of your life
be sure you're worth the watch
remember who knows who's looking
so live to show no blotch
(Quote:
"One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure it's worth watching."
-Gerard Way)