Long Broadened Poems
Long Broadened Poems. Below are the most popular long Broadened by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Broadened poems by poem length and keyword.
Construction workers, fishermen,
hands broadened,
reddened cracks in the wintertime,
teachers, office workers,
a standing cashier feels aging
in her legs,
careers extended.
Can it be just a few more years til
they have freedom,
to live on Social Security?
Paying off mortgages,
and children's student loans,
paying, paying.
Arthritis cream and knee replacement
surgeries,
their funeral will be their retirement party.
Groceries, housing costs have gone up,
while adult children still ask for
financial help.
Hoping their vehicles last a few more years,
hoping, hoping.
Their grandchildren depend on them,
when their parents don't fill the gaps,
aging in America, not for the faint hearted,
the sympathetic Lord will see them through,
as they hold on tightly,
Sunday dinner thanking Him for their endurance.
Their funeral will be their retirement party.
A gleaming white locomotive in the mists on the railway-
no work today, as it stops for them
to come aboard to Heaven. ~
Mnid playrugond a laynbirth mzaing plzuze.
Intricately woven words amaze with nuzzle.
Nurturing emotions, they ascend,
Delicate meanings, they transcend.
Piercing through the depths of the soul.
Liberating thoughts from their hidden role.
Awakening dormant expressions with grace.
Yielding to the poet's exquisite embrace.
Ground zero with battle standards.
Rotary of gears of notary banter.
Over the top, through glass ceiling.
Under the inspiration of feelings.
Noting the placement of the crave.
Doting on each as a placeholder saved.
A
Labyrinth laboratory alchemy of allegory.
Azimuth of the gist of the main story.
Bringer of clarity of revolution.
Yearn of one's own volition.
Root spark of ignition.
Ignite thoughts, contrition.
Never just one direction.
The dissection and eye of digestion.
Horizons broadened at intersection.
Might it be by a mighty pen sword.
At taken thoughtfully at it's word.
Zenith of heart and mentality.
In to everything in between, a technicality.
No mere walk in the park or plaza.
Gameface on at every stanza.
Passion flows through each crafted line.
Unlocking emotions, both yours and mine.
Zephyrs of verses dance in the air.
Zestfully impassioned, beyond compare.
Lit path of beacons called on a paged stage.
Expressions etched upon the age,
I had a quarrel with my own life
I didn’t want to divulge it to anyone I knew
It was then I met the one who in many eyes,
Had sparked feelings of sympathy or contempt
Confined to a wheel chair in a hospital room
Amid the smell of death and disease,
He looked so resigned to his fate
With a rare gleam sparkling his eyes
Convalescing after his sixth surgery,
Still having bouts of excruciating pain
What made me drawn to him, I cannot tell
Later I met him at his home several times,
Still on wheelchair, crooked and disfigured,
But with what stoic nonchalance,
He accepted his condition-
Cerebral palsy, a disease affecting all his limbs
He said it was after years of questioning
That he had learnt to take on his disability
It broadened his understanding of suffering
Giving him deltas of new insight...
He knows now, the stars would be brighter
Only with the light completely blown out!
Even when the ground falls beneath his feet
He finds a way to rise up from the ground
With every step he takes, he feels it better than yesterday
And waits for tomorrow in anticipation
Because he has made it today!
Sure he reigns as a true hero, stirring a spark
In the ash covered cinders of my heart
July. 28.2022
~Placed First~
To Honour my Hero Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabisoon
When tongue is silent, but muse is chanting - that's poetry.
When we write what the heart has been asking - that's poetry.
As dawn's hues glisten golden rays, in blue, bronze, orange skies,
musings mirror daydreams, so enchanting - that's poetry.
Butterflies smooch cosmos, as bees sip on dahlias nectar.
Scents of deep red roses start enhancing - that's poetry.
Clement air pleasantly overwhelms with pleasures of love,
muse becomes a bard lost in romancing - that's poetry.
Mentality turns dark when clouds spread densely like ash smoke.
Scarlet ink screams tears to stop storms advancing - that's poetry.
In shades of loneliness, thoughts reach out to our loyal moon,
beneath her moonlight we sojourn, standing - that's poetry.
A heart is healed by spoken words composed with compassion.
Poets smile when they see sad lips laughing - that's poetry.
As sands of sorrow pause, soul glows like a million fireflies.
Nature's metaphors leave our pens dancing - that's poetry.
Stale ink dehydrates and thoughts become segments of cement,
mind is a machine, where words keep jamming - that's poetry.
Daylight or night, bed, bath or driving, lyricists inspired
by sunshine, snow or when rain is lashing - that's poetry.
Word weavers scribbling sonnets, free verse and poetic prose,
forming imagery instead of ranting - that's poetry
Silent One, writes to honour Rumi, Shakespeare and Wordsworth,
In hope my words will be everlasting - that's poetry.
The Silent One
29 August 2020
An example for the Ghazal contest.
This Ghazal has a two worded refrain. Slightly different in format to previous ghazal, I posted, called 'Only the moon understands.'
This one has 14 syllables each line.
There are different definitions for a Ghazal, and different interpretations of the from.
Ghazal poetry is poetry of longing. Traditionally, the ghazal tended to focus on unattainable love, often illicit, or sometimes on metaphysical questions. But, today, the ghazal has broadened to touch many types of longing and loss.
The ghazal is a form poem that uses the art of rhyme and repetition. As it is originally a Persian form and the Indian subcontinent, the refrain and rhyme can be lost when translated to English, as is the meter.
With her darkened gaze filled with deepness
Under that curly hair of black ceases
A smile, as staggering, everlasting and pure
As she settles on a chair,
She crosses her legs and stretches out her arms on them
The curved line of muscles, so even so flawless
Which descends down to her chest
As broadened and extending
With breasts she tries to hide them
With her protruding scarf
As she pulls back her hair
Covering it with a long black veil
And stands up
As less confident she grows
Day by day
Era escaping time
Going back to home, she escaping into her portal
And changes her clothes,
Up close, her tight- sleeveless shirt reveals
As waist not as perfect, fat protruding from her skirt
Stretch marks appearing beneath her stomach
She hates herself, the way she looks
She watches all the shallow figures
All the pretty girls and their boys
Boys lifting girls in their arms
When?
Will the time come?
To get lifted by one?
A Queen of Beauty she will become
Her friend once told her, her mother had said that
She blushes with excitement but once again
Scatters with overwhelming sorrow
“Will I ever become The Queen of Beauty?”
She clings to false hopes
And wonders,
Will she survive?
Have she truly lived her life?
A sigh mixed with desperation and helplessness
Causes her to continue each day with the same thought
“ A Queen of Beauty, I will never become….”
From Maurus' shore, a tide arose,
not of ocean, but of faith,
and shadowed Iberia's sun-kissed coast.
Moor, a word that held a continent,
a tapestry of Berber, Arab,
threaded with the blackness of the south.
They came with astrolabes and scrolls,
with sciences that bloomed in desert heat,
and gardens that remembered paradise.
Cordoba, a beacon in the darkened age,
where knowledge flowed like Guadalquivir's grace,
and minarets pierced the azure sky.
But names are fluid, shifting sands,
a Roman echo, broadened by the tongue,
to encompass all who bowed to Mecca's call.
From Lanka's spice to Philippine isles,
a label stretched, a simplification vast,
forgetting faces, histories untold.
And now, a whisper in America's heart,
a claim to roots, indigenous and deep,
a seeking for belonging, fiercely held.
Across the ocean, in a different guise,
the moor, a landscape, wild and windswept,
heather bloomed, a purple, silent reign.
The peaty earth, a memory of rain,
a stark reminder, beauty born of hardship,
a connection tenuous, yet somehow there.
Moor, a word that echoes through the ages,
a riddle wrapped in history's embrace,
a reminder that identities are fluid,
and truth lies buried, waiting to be traced.
Hard to remember my first kiss,
seems I’ve always been kissin’ and kissin’.
I’d pucker up and kiss Mother.
Dad would hug me and he’d get another.
Those petals got a whole lota use,
on baby sis’s toes, I’ll give no excuse.
Gram’s would kiss and kiss me again.
At five I had my first kissin boyfriend!
Teenage brought a kiss on my neck,
a bit of tongue teasing, but what the heck.
College broadened my repertoire
till I met the one I’d been practicin’ for..
Now, on to that momentous kiss
on our wedding day, well it was pure bliss.
A few years pass, I had my boy,
and needless to say, I kissed him with joy.
Lips, soft, plump and pink, I just love to kiss
I’ve always been a right kissable miss.
Contest: The Pensive Poet
Sponsor: Constance La France
Date: August 1st 2026
"Write... Share... Inspire!"
~ By Poet ~
"Write... Share... Inspire!"
Is a mantra of her own.
She has aspired to create by it
Since making poetry her own.
In her youngest years
She loved reading books of rhyme
Enjoying their musicality.
Their rhythm was divine!
From this, she taught herself to write
A few rhymes of her own.
She struggled to master this,
To get in to the zone.
One day, she came top of her class
In a poetry competition!
This rekindled her lost flame,
Fueling her creative ambition.
In her mid-teens, she was privileged thrice
To have her work selected for publication
Which would be included in anthologies
Of poems by kids across the nation.
At the time, this felt phenomenal!
In her memory it feels surreal!
She smiles back and wonders how
This achievement became real.
Nevertheless, it boosted her
And she began to thrive.
Poetry became part of her -
Without it, would she survive?
She thought poetry had to have a purpose,
Like a "thank you" or "thinking of you"
Or "happy anniversary!"
And "congratulations" too.
So her growth felt a little stinted
And her vision was narrow.
She desired to find other directions
To aim her artistic arrow.
So in twenty-twenty-one
She gave her works further reach.
She discovered a site called "Poetry-Soup"
It had so much to teach!
She has learned of many styles and forms
And this has broadened her scope.
She saw writing could simply be for fun
So to entertain became her hope.
She loved how basic objects
With words, could be raised to glory.
Something about it stirs her heart
And continues to enrich her story.
What she feels about people
Who poetry dismiss...
"They underestimate its power and worth
And don't know what they miss!"
The Pensive Poet has a space
To let her colours glow.
To "Write... Share... Inspire!"
How ever her ink chooses to flow.
I saw you standing over there,
As I just turned around,
but then I saw none,
And heard no sound
I saw a stranger at your place,
The rock if you ask me
To describe the state
Promised to never lose me,
And you yourself got lost,
What a strange scenario it is,
I tried my best to search you within the frost
Got to tell you so many things,
Got to know from you
That why a stranger holding your place,
Where are you?
Distances broadened,
Communication narrowed,
But I lost the gem,
The pain I swallowed
Is it too far where you went?
Can’t you come just for a while?
I will not let you go again, I will
Not let that smile to fade
Light years away are you?
Or the stars are your curtains?
Never knew I felt so strong
About you, where are you?
Accusations,allegations,mistrust,
Hopelessness,
These are the words I use for the stranger,
The stranger is frozen from inside,
Not at all like you,
Why you made him to act like you?
Come out with your sword,
And with a knot.
To cut the loose ends,
To tighten the knot
But all this can happen
If its you,
Even though I don’t know,
Where are you?
How are you today?
My friends on Poetry Soup.
I trust you are feeling well,
And put your worries at bay.
I think Poetry Soup is a very apt name
A macedoine of people,
Not one of them is the same
A mixture of people
All in an enormous pot
Not vegetating
As we all write poetry a lot.
If we had to have a veggie name
I would choose to be a pea
There are many peas in this pot
Similar to me.
The pot is full of flavours,
Some are bitter, some are sweet,
Making taste buds burst to savour
A deep-rooted treat.
Belonging to PS
It has broadened my mind,
I question things now
More than I ever did before.
It has brought kindness,
And encouragement,
From Penpals to my door.
A beautiful mixture of
All different kinds.
Who at times beg to differ,
Or find a marriage of minds.
If you read this rhyme,
I hope you will see
The sincere thanks,
Appreciation and love
Sent to you from me.