Long Characters Poems
Long Characters Poems. Below are the most popular long Characters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Characters poems by poem length and keyword.
I was born too late ... not far too late, but about seventeen years ...
Or so, for I have always been too old-fashioned, (In a romantic, true love
Sense), for the time period and era I grew up in. I knew this without question
At an early age ... books were some of my best friends, always, and I first
Read my favorite novel before my tenth birthday ... it was on the shelves
Of my dad's den, and the bright colors of the binding had always pulled at
Me ... so, one summer eve, I took it to the porch swing by the lake, and
Started. Oh, how it opened up a whole new world to me! An entrancing
World of exotic places and people and struggles! The settings and
Characters and relationships were so unlike my own, and unlike anything
I knew of ... it wove a hunger into my heart! A yearning to live in a bigger
World and experience its wonders ... it placed a seed of romance and
Charm and excitement, deep into my being, and more importantly,
Taught me the absurd inequalities of racism, at a time when my world
Was primarily one color. To this day it is my dream to make that
Wondrous place my home, and one day soon I intend to, (for real) ...
Transforming those lessons and dreams into a reality. Bless you and
Thank you, James A. Michener, for placing into my forever-romantic
And old-fashioned child's heart, those "Tales of the South Pacific" ...
I am forever grateful ... and ever changed.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Life Lesson From A Favorite Novel" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
He Knew When She stopped Smiling
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"Dissonance" by: De Manière Negatiboa
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Surgery niceness, started the response, it
caused most of us to see things
in a different light. Maybe we shouldn't
have wrote this song! We collaborated to
write and of the 14 main characters
involved with this creational piece
thought it represented a classical
mastering. Most of the critique
caused others to frown. It tuned
our ears tom want to hear better
things the lady said. She avoided
eye contact and completely turned her body
away from me. Avoided me like I was the Plague
Moving away from me to reduce her anxiety
or discomfort, such as ignoring
messages or avoiding conversations.
It made her happy to say she liked the music
but the song was like stepping in the horses dung
wearing a wedding gown. "You don't want it
on you, you know!" Days later she thank us for
our decency by removing the lyrics and smiled
enough to give me a little solace to comfort
me. They didn't like it is all we could say!
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"rebuilding a sense of integrity"
Rebounding from a review of your talent
or chose of material "pathetic" and "horrendous"
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it all seemed bazaar to me;
that Santa wore a thick fur lined coat,
but our sun gave off a blistering heat.
xmas characters wore overcoats, beanies and gloves,
but I was wearing shorts, T-shirt and thongs.
ice and thick snow covered the festive ground,
but I looked upon a dry ground covered in dust.
sky`s were cloudy, grey with no shining sun.
but I stood under blue sky with a blazing sun.
they slid over freezing snow and ice
I was cooling off in the deep blue sea.
The season’s trees were lush and green.
but the trees I saw were dry and brown.
when they were out looking for reindeers,
I had to look out for slithering snakes.
they placed the yuletide log to the open fire,
I turned on the air-conditioner way up to high.
people drank steaming cups of egg-nog,
but I was adding ice to my soft drinks.
even though the temperature was over 30 degrees,
we still had that hot, cooked lunch.
Finished off with warm pudding and hot custard.
(In the summer of 1960, filming began on
"The Misfits". Shot on location in the Nevada
desert, the picture was enveloped in a weird
atmosphere of doom from start to finish. For
the three stars - Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable
and Montgomery Clift - it would be the last
film they ever completed.)
Desert Hearts
What do you think of this?
A motion picture, wrought
in a wilderness, about a woman
loved by Gay, Guido, Arthur, Perce,
a woman who draws men
as thoughtlessly as breathing,
but whose beauty is her curse.
And what of three wranglers,
in the drum of the washing machine,
who live for chasing mustangs -
the dwindling mustangs,
whose fate is to be slaughtered
as food for dogs,
and whose destruction
draws nearer each time
they are chased?
Come with me to Reno,
the town with no water,
the zone of single strangers.
Meet five doomed characters,
moving through a slow gavotte
one deadly summer,
dancing on the spot
finding out anew what
they've really always known: how
to have and have not.
I think and write about them often…
but how would I define my family?
Are we a novel that adds a new chapter everyday…
or an endless ever-changing symphony?
As I’ve observed my family for 70 years…
enduring our losses….cherishing our growth…
I imagine the answer to what is my family…
is a little bit of both.
Each day my family pens another page of our story
an adventure, to us, divine…
It might be filled with laughter, tears, joy or sorrow…
as our characters intertwine.
Each day my family adds another sheet of music
some new lyrics or a melody…
that, in spite of our varied notes and styles
creates its own harmony.
Yes, each day I am blessed to be a member of this family
to read another page or listen to our ever-changing melody.
To be part of a family that to this day is magically transcending….
our story…never finished….
our music…never ending.
Not for the contest
No more do I despair
writing for contests with an off the wall theme
Those that want me to create a nightmare
from what was once a beautiful dream.
No more do I care
about Marvel characters who fight and kill
I'd rather spend my time writing silly limericks
for fun and honing a particular poetry skill
than worrying about meter and syllable tricks.
No more do I write
for contests where a sponsor forbids me to choose
how many spaces I indent each middle line
by someone who thinks they're a bard. No, I refuse
to write for a yobo whose rules constrict and confine.
No more contests
do I enter for judges who hold grudges and spite
or who offer friendship placements with a wink.
It's not fair to good poets who get N/A'd as a backbite
I've no more interest in participation with pen and ink
No longer care
to write for judges who give novel length instruction
Yes, rules should be followed, but not to such extreme.
It negates poetic license, serving as a poetic obstruction
making that contest sponsor, head of his or her regime.
No more writing
for those who prohibit adjectives and adverbs be used
or if the sponsor has never written in the specified form.
The power that some feel as a judge can be abused
while preaching about dos and don'ts from a platform.
Oh, spare me
from those who don't know the use of literary devices,
metaphors, proper grammar, and over doing alliteration.
To anyone who wants to enter contests, my advice is...
"Don't take a crown seriously. It will lead to abdication."
No more issues
to deal with sponsors who change their minds midway
through contests because no entries for the theme... bizarre,
and decide, without warning they have the right to say,
"I can do what I want." Who made them the contest czar?"
No blight is this
on judges who sincerely host, giving up their leisure time
to make PS a place where everyone can take an active part.
Those who appreciate good fun in free verse or with rhyme.
I applaud the fair-minded sponsors who have a good heart.
A few weeks ago, I decided to not enter PS contests any longer.
On Friday night, when shadows tilt,
The fellows gather on the silt
To play the game of Muhdo wild,
Where rules are strange and brains are biled.
First comes Bimble, long and sleek,
With a head shaped like a teapot spout,
His left hand is a single leek,
His right, a mallet stout.
His feet are broad like wooden spoons,
He hums odd tunes to silver moons.
Beside him sits Grumple-Gloo,
Whose noggin resembles a folded shoe.
His fingers are like spiral vines,
His left foot stumped, his right aligned
Like three small pears upon a tray—
He chuckles as he joins the play.
And Snargle, wobbly, grand, and tall,
Has a head shaped like a bowling ball!
His palms are broad as flying trays,
His left foot hops, his right foot sways,
Formed just like a crescent moon,
He slumps upon his chair by noon.
How play they Muhdo? Simple, see!
You roll three acorns in the sea,
Then toss a button through a ring,
And flub the song the finches sing!
To win, one must first slap his knee,
And yell "FLUM-GLUB!" at precisely three,
While balancing a buttered tray—
Thus Muhdo claims its winner today!
They speak in squeaks and burbling blips:
"Oh frump the ziggle!" Bimble drips.
"More fritzle-froth!" shouts Grumple-Gloo,
"The wizzle-wump belongs to you!"
They feast on pickled thimble-crabs,
And soggy, fizzing jellied-dabs,
Slurping lukewarm beetle-juice,
And fermented dandelion juice,
Crunching down on salted stone,
And chewing sour marrow-bone.
At last, bold Bimble slaps his knee!
He shouts "FLUM-GLUB!" at three-p-m,
He drops his mallet, drops his leek,
And lets out one dramatic squeak!
Upon the news of victory won,
He spins around three times in fun,
Stuffs a teapot in his ear,
And gallops off with hearty cheer!
Writing
by Edmund Siejka
At 2 am
Writing is not for the meek
The mind is dull
Ideas are stale
The telephone is unplugged
Everyone in the house is asleep
Not a car on the street
You have what you wanted
Don’t you?
Uninterrupted quiet
A peaceful nook
For pen and paper.
So what holds you back?
Distracted
You turn
Listening to something outside
Rummaging through the garbage.
Turning back
To the blank screen
You try to focus
Characters hide
Tired
You ask yourself
What was it said about imagery?
Lines lurk in the shadows
The word dialogue sounds French
Your hands are weighed down
Fingers are heavy
It is then
You realize that keypads
Do not move by themselves.
Maybe, just maybe, an idea
Will step out of the darkness
In the night, trees move ever so slightly
Leaves rustle in the breeze
Tonight God
Has not smiled on you.
Inspiration is such a fleeting word.
Spider Fires
When we are beaten on not once,
but over a course of years,
a thing happens that occurs...
and sometimes but not always,
goes away.
Most times,
we do not live long enough,
for that to happen.
It is the thing someone says or does,
that is similar in a mirror,
but not the same at all.
The characters have changed,
the actors have traded places,
the shadows dance backward,
but the substance of life,
is less concrete, then it should be...
by now.
Like pins and needles,
under your skin,
or in your ears or eyes...
Complicated and complex ideas,
made into small tiny pieces,
to put in boxes...
with and without lids,
accordingly,
as to the age of the dish.
Take pills, therapy, and doctors,
all have say in the idea, that something is wrong.
They, of course, are right,
but it is not what you might believe.
It is far simpler than that.
Escape the pain...
of someone that has trapped you in a web,
of lies and deceit that was not first hand divulged
in the beginning of the dance.
Take a cross and hold it high and tell them...
to obtain their blood elsewhere,
and that the innocent have grown teeth and fangs,
and will do justice to murder in the night,
should the lesson not be held close to the heart.
*Inspired by Edmund Blair Leighton's painting of the same title
She wanders into the garden,
A glorious book in her hand.
It's bound by the loveliest cloth,
And the story inside is grand.
The story provides an escape
From a life of duties and rules.
The characters become good friends
And prose adorns pages like jewels.
As lavender perfumes the air,
It mingles with wind through the trees.
She loses her place for a time
As pages are blown by the breeze.
Surrounded by flowers and shrubs
And shaded by trees that seclude,
She clutches the book to her chest
And basks in this sweet solitude.