Long Chapbook Poems
Long Chapbook Poems. Below are the most popular long Chapbook by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chapbook poems by poem length and keyword.
Most imp potent and salient playbook page...
'bout fluffiness of hair after washing
Now get ready for...
yup intelligent persiflage
determining if potty "talk" gauge
correctly calibrated courtesy this sage.
Beats out global warming
by a long stretch
most important commander
must set example you betch
chore life no matter
if miserable wretch
survives impeachable offenses
enough to make me kvetch,
especially four more years
yours truly will once again become
bulimic anorexic wretch.
Versus important crisis
of planet Earth,
where Gaia's bountiful
nature woolworth
analogous wharf resplendent
docks side of ships berth state
housing electricity generating
mined resources inevitable dearth
warming chill folks
courtesy homey hearth
reminiscent during inchoate
fetal nine months
in utero signaling imminent birth.
Quite understandable reasonable,
non negotiable, inviolable...
blah... blah... blah
scalp itching blather
particularly to prioritize
orange-blond hirsute fullness
upon rinsing sudsy shampoo lather
as expressed by this
post baby boomer
pencil neck geek father,
who attempts to walk poetic feet
across cyber sea
miraculously to slather.
Trademark seedy nonsensical
farcical gobbledygook,
perhaps posthumously printing
bestselling blank paginated chapbook
ghost written by Trump
titled Art of the Steal
detailing head and shoulders how to look
suave and sophisticated all business
swiftly tailored harried style shook
White House disguised himself as rook
key "Fake" incognito president
recruiting apprenticed bartered bride
slow vacuuming trophy wife crook
cow hoard milching, kickstarting,
inciting, generating... donnybrook
coiffing pompadour resembling
forefathers windblown periwig.
Nope not even one hair
mussed out of place,
as if teetering fountainhead
supporting Atlas shrugged
top heavy topples
and crashes scattering
bajillion easy pieces everyplace
analogous to humpty dumpty
each and every last vestige
vanishing without a trace
exiting out cloaca
subsequently intently watching
toilet bowl royally flush
clockwise if within northern hemisphere
heavy enough to sink submarine
haint no reason yours truly might gush
even if abominable ballast
saves queasy passengers
plummeting thru aerospace.
I felt tears trickling down. After so many years. All persevering truce is a magnificent allegory , measuring minuscule salt portions with a grandiose precaution. The immediate call will be the lasting diva:
“When you are finally done, please surmise in return, your chapbook!”
The transportation was arranged, and the vehicle showed up in the morning. The hospice arranged the transportation before. The chauffeur was not that talkative, precise only to the questions asked.
Supplication is an effort here, even in uttering “Rabbana Hablana…” the accessories and the serendipity get involved in nerves and encyclopedic volume and diction , in a wild effort to tear everything apart, the risk management is such a “man-age-meant” portfolio.
I was looking at the machine , the automated device. The loci is in tune with the locus. The orthodox locus is in a fix with the unorthodox worldbuilding, visioning together, altogether. Godly, God knows how to shun too.
On the return trip, the passenger window had swiftly dispersed overlapping montages, urbane, luminaries and delineations with road marks, here and there.
The nurse was simpering while seeing me off .
“Are you a bachelor? Widow?”
I was staring, bluntly. A root cause, even beyond a handle or shackle.
“Many feel nostalgic, overwhelmed or fatigued while the mammogram is in.
Mainly Freudian, “
In an effort to keep my cool, I reply,
“By the will of God, my kids’ father is doing fine. We are on our own.”
“Social, so shall, socialized.”
April 2, 2024
footnotes
im tryina finish another 20 page chapbook
this is the first part of 2 of what i got so far because its too long for 1
then sneak is thin
an inch is in
transition is trinsition
Riverside
1 The Watchtower
Embryos and fluids
More sez smoke than a Buddhist
Not such a bad idea have the nudists
Never has Alicia Silverstone looked so clueless
2 The Fall
A bright sun comes out with its heat
Then, a cool breeze
On Howe ave, nana's place
Frosted Flakes
They say that time's money but really I'm just tryina waste away
3 '08
Peers all smokin' weed
Talks about how fun it'd be
Just turnin' 16
Google then sneak
About the 10th session later, lit deemed
Gettin' hooked a bit seems
Somewhere to smoke, not too but
quietly
4 August
16 years old, shoutin' and screamin'
A head full of dreams dreamin'
The sun beamin'
Sweat off of skin steamin'
5 Open Letter
Enough mistakes made
Seemin' to relate fades
From the old ways, change
For what have may placed
6 Lost
There's the bridge, to the right
Just over a hill, a cold winter 3rd Ward night
It's dark but a bit lit
A snow storm with an inch
Not too many but just a few people on their way
Not too late
On such a lost path
All that's left behind's so sad
7 Hope
Nothin's permanent these days
Not countin' on much besides tryina get paid
Never's known whatll go which way
Love blind without feelin' betrayed
Thinking about Brian's recent Footle contest (my crazy eyes had been seeing FOOTIE all this
time and just realized yesterday it is called FOOTLE with LE on the end) I proceeded to drive
to the movie up in Salt Lake, only place I was able to catch a showing of Chloe. As I drove
up there, I was racking my brain for a Footle, and suddenly, they started coming to me.
They are so short, I could easily jot them down on paper atop my steering wheel and it was
a great way to occupy my time. Brian's little contest was a great inspiration for me. I ended
up with more than thirty (I thought they needed to be rhymed on both syllables) so now that
I know I can do the first syllable unrhymed, that should make it all the more easier to think
up even more. Please let me know your favorite of the bunch and the ones that are too
stupid in case I ever do a chapbook on these! YOu guys gotta try these. The trick is to
rhyme the words and then make a title to fit the poem! LUv, Andrea
Pickpocket Bunny
Grab it
Rabbit
Offspring of Tinkerbell & Frodo
Hairy
Fairy
Gerber’s Strained Peas
Easy
Pea sy
Shirley Temple with a perm
SURELY
Curly
Mrs. Ed on Laughing Gas
Silly
Filly
A Greeter
Hello
Fellow
Art of Love
Hold ‘er
Mold’ er
Survivor Food
Lizards’
Gizzards
Grape Jelly Kiss
Smucker
Pucker
Sour Lemons’ Motto
Blew it!
Screw it!
(Poem included in the Poems of Yosemite chapbook.)
Ineffable –
Still, I write these lines
trite.
A scaffold of words
which whence removed
casts only a silence
of long shadows.
To you, the paradigm
of living time,
I write ephemeral
wordless words.
You say nothing
though the wind wafts
words which speak
beyond words to each.
The sound of wind
continues in the stillness
and reaches into
the logos which
spells the visitors
deeper than these.
You speak centuries –
the entire time
of our adolescence –
when you’ve watched
as we wrestle with
the worst of nature.
You were made for fire
and your cambium grows
thick bark and fibers
over the scars.
Does too our tissue
grow over scars?
Wars, devastations?
Will these as well clear
the understory?
But you don’t create fire
you endure it.
Is that the difference?
This is your nature,
share and compare us ours.
We see your exposed rings
and the markers
telling us which ring
belongs to Christ
and the Inquisition.
I see my ring
but not the current
as only the living
scribe those rings
and they are being written.
Poetry overcomes time
and endows the ephemeral
with permanence.
Your permanence
is presence and in
this silence of time
the visitors sense
then understand –
they’ve come not to see you
but themselves.
I dream of magic lines but they elude me.
Chapbook on acrylic tube palette, janus-faced cave in
at the crack of dawn,
crescent moonlight awnings turn to circus of the soul,
images that colour dullard pages leave furrow on my
hayrick haggard brow.
Backwater sonnet form leaning towards some meadow compost rot.
Ghost written silhouettes, shatter fragile eggs on
loop pile Berber carpets,
yolk stain and pale brown chicken hash tags.
Tight rope knot escarpment found in tripod camera verse,
cliff edge heart-stop paen is just another
blue-sky canon over billed by birds of prey.
Poetic licence pointer to a learner permit doggerel,
aspiring metre patchwork but a tapered column
lost in grey day whimper.
Guangdong province text in lychee pink for window glaze.
Fleeting notions dangle at the sparrow hawk crossroads,
while grazing skinny red ballon formations overhead.
Mother of invention please shine your convex beam
upon this wellspring drought abandonment I swim in.
Sudden brain cell drafts a Jack-o’-lantern of disjointed phases,
stretcher bear the legless phrases that leave me
wheelchaired and infirmed in woolly states.
Timeline mainstream woofer whose lagging jacket hemline falls apart,
areole reduced branch slowly bleeds its cactus juice of inspiration.
A rush, a fever, quotidian fever,
no greater longing can us writers have.
My elderly friend and I walk along
the raised flower beds
full of rainbows of blooms,
becoming the mother and daughter
in the famous Renoir painting,
now with the daughter grown up.
We slow our pace,
gazing at pink and yellow dahlias,
velvety purple salvias, blue delphiniums,
hanging baskets of pink bleeding hearts,
red begonias everywhere we look.
Greenery frames the fountain’s dancing spray.
Down the paths of roses,
yellow, orange, white, lavender,
fuchsia, and bright red,
sunlight catches on my friend’s white hair
and the silver metal of her walker.
We stop at a carousel, watching
the pastel horses, the frog, the pig,
the cat with its fish, the goose, and the rabbit
rise and fall, round and round,
until she turns to me.
We part, as I head to ponds of lilies,
surrounded by orange flowers
I don’t recognize.
I picture my friend, smiling amid the roses,
her words echoing inside my mind:
I’m holding you back...back...back...
Go see the rest of the garden.
Go see the rest of the garden.
March 13,2021
Flower or Flowers in Imagism Form Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Note: This is a poem I wrote for my self-published chapbook Song of the Katabatic Wind: Poetry of Travel through Western Canada, which was made for a church fundraiser.
[This poem first appeared in the anthology, "The Soul and the Singer," Young Publications, c. 1968. It was reprinted in my first poetry chapbook "The Lady in the Pink Hat," Candor Press, 1969.]
God rises from that distant hill
And surveys His wonder in silence still
Without reproach or bitter muse
For mankind's hostile subterfuge.
Not yet incensed with holy wrath
Against the impoverished aftermath
Of beauty laid in ruthless stubble
Amid earth's bent and broken rubble.
The mount remains in glory crowned
Majestic height is capped and gowned
And quietly repairs the ravaged simple
Chosen for the Almighty's temple
God rises from that distant hill
To frame the noble triune will
Responding to inhuman guise
With piercing but loving emerald eyes.
[From the note at the beginning, this poem was written sometime during 1967. I was twenty-six years old, at the time, but I had been writing poems since I was in elementary school. Most of them have been lost over the years.
This particular poem was always one of my favorites, and I was delighted to have it appear in an anthology by Young Publications, 1968.]
FIRST PLACE WINNER
for "The Throwback Challenge" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
March 8, 2022
D enver, Colorado was the place that Dave called home.
A fterward, he headed east and learned to write a poem!
V iolins he loved to play and did professionally,
E njoying his years in many a symphony.
R etired, now in Michigan, he thrives on poetry.
A mong the many poets here, Dave’s one of a kind.
U tter fun and introspection in his work you’ll find.
S upport of fellow poets, Daver likes to lend.
T hanks to him I give for being a good friend.
I njustice I have done you, Dave, with these lines so few.
N ine cats you shelter know there’s no one else as sweet as you!
*Daver is the name that Dave Austin goes by. He was among the
first poets here to greet me and become a very good friend of mine,
even doing book exchanges with me and later buying my most recently
sold chapbook online. Daver, I appreciate your support and am very
glad to have met you here at Soup! (also, he loves mythology and
has written numerous poems based on myths.) One of the outstanding poems
of his that I love is called “Brother - Billy.” Just type it in with his name
and check it out! It’s on one of those last pages that few people visit
past our regular 200 poems that are easier to see.
For the Gift Exchange Contest of P.D.
The poet dreams, and with a simple glance
at trees or sky or at a mountain spring,
begins to write, endeavors to enhance
each sight of beauty with imagining.
He paints midsummer as a day of gold,
the song of birds at twilight as the tune
for his beloved, whose aspect is extolled
and likened to the splendor of the moon.
At times, his heart is pained. It seems that doom
pursues him in that chasm where he grieves.
He finds he still must write. . . and there may bloom
sweet wistful roses on his journal’s leaves.
Though meager be his assets, he bequeaths
to us a treasure with the words he breathes.
Entered 10/22/2020 for Line Gauthier's Have You Published Poetry Contest
From my chapbook: Dancing the Unicorn: Lyrical Blooms 2
I had won a chapbook deal for my Lyrical Blooms 1 entitled Dreaming the Unicorn, and I followed it up with a part 2 Dancing the Unicorn, a 44-page chapbook pubished in 2008 by Shadow Ink. The book contains poems of various themes with about two poems per page and organized by types of poetry forms. Blue roses are scattered through the book. Shadow Ink sadly stopped publishing.