Long Crafted Poems
Long Crafted Poems. Below are the most popular long Crafted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crafted poems by poem length and keyword.
(alternately titled:
why yours truly crafted six electronic aliases).
No rhyme nor reason beatle browed
beastie boy long ago
created INXS of half dozen
email addresses gallivanting
feigning himself a most sought after
singular modest beau
courtesy crass brazen duplicity
eventually forced to eat crow
campy bonehead devoured carrion
(blech) property extinct dodo.
Egregious discreet escapades
sneeze silly explains at chew
(albeit lamely) philandering,
foolish extramarital dalliances,
I now regret and genuinely eschew
interesting complete one hundred eighty
sobering perspective regarding grandview
emotional shell shocked fallout experienced
courtesy this wanderlust myopic
quite reformed practicing Jew
whose doubting thomas belief, credo, dogma...
closely aligned with Unitarianism milieu
dirty deeds done dirt cheap willingly crafted
previous poems offering adulterated preview
years after, the missus
got told deux gals I did hammer, nail and screw
at present juncture within space time continuum,
yours truly maintains critical view
bespeaking polygamous antics,
now reviled when garden variety
generic primate initially acted cagey
while going bananas within human zoo.
I sought amorous affections
(think verboten fruit) cuz marriage went askew
(daily altercations transpired
between me and the missus),
thus as iterated above
unhappy husband stealthily finagled bravado
(dreamt up one after another digital pseudonyms
blithely cavorting debauchery ejaculating
unsuspecting self incrimination) cyber sex debut
successfully launched prurient hitherto
novel short lived role as Casanova
starring me... Matthew
Scott Harris whose hubris
coursed thru mine every sinew
until... worst fate than being caught
by cannibalistic Zulu.
His first story ever,
Scripted from a troubled mind,
It was a gloomy tale,
He didn’t know why he wrote that way,
The words couldn’t be crafted any other way.
His first story ever,
Written from the darkest part,
They were the horses that drew his cart,
He had a gory experience,
Its shadow was hidden in his chamber.
His first story ever,
Scripted from a bleeding heart,
He had sojourned through a shrivelled meadow,
In his room, the night had cast a shadow,
He could still turn the pages of yesterday.
His first story ever,
A walk to redemption,
Until the stages of completion,
It was his soul's panacea,
A way to usher tranquil into the flowing stream.
November 3, 2023.
The Crafter
From her pantry inventory
A list of ingredients, she selects
A spoon of this, - a cup of that
A delicate food, she projects
From off the dirty forest floor
A large log is obtained
Sawed, molded, sanded and polished
A beautiful object can be claimed
"Things" are crafted by human hands
That do enhance the way we live
But they are paled, when compared
To what our Savior, has to give
From the womb of a lowly virgin
Amid a meager atmosphere
Untainted by the touch of man
The advocate for sin, did appear
A plan God crafted, for all mankind
To restore Eden's bond
With love to great for us to fathom
Extended to all, who will respond
My goal is simply, to proclaim
There is hope for a fallen race
All who will heed the Savior's plea
Can be redeemed, by His grace
Colan L Hiatt = 01-02-15
© All Rights Reserved
"Advice from Snowy the Snowman; avoid meltdowns,
be well-rounded and happy, because life is short.
Quote by _Constance
My view is a winter scene,
from my warm kitchen window;
sipping my morning cafe,
with a purring kitty on my lap !
Snowy was made from new snow,
on a perfect winter day;
creating him with a soul,
but this love is quite fragile and short !
Oh Snowy has a green scarf,
carrot nose, coal eyes, twig arms;
on his head a red bird chirps,
and a squirrel is eating his nose !
____________________
January 26, 2022
Poetry/Verse/Snowy The Snowman
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1424-637-26
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
My inspiration is Robert J. Lindley's Form,
Lind30SU (Lindley 30 Syllables Unrhymed 7,7,7,9)
Written for the Standard contest, A Poem Crafted in
The Various Lind30 by Robert Lindley Form
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judged 02/25/2022
First Place
We all have certain attributes,
That make us who we are.
Certain things that God saw fit,
To use creating our,
Specific soul and manifest,
Our certain type of beauty,
And that's why we should realize,
That it's just not our duty,
To set about to single out,
The difference in each other.
We may not look or sound the same,
But in the soul, we're brothers.
It's not for us to think or say,
Some don't look as they should.
T'was God, Himself who crafted all,
And said that it was good.
"SHOW RESPECT FOR EV ERYONE. LOVE CHRISTIANS EVERYWHERE. FEAR GOD AND HONOR THE GOVERNMENT."
(Living Bible) 1 Peter 2:17
"ANYONE WHO DOES GOD'S WILL IS MY BROTHER, AND MY SISTER AND MY MOTHER."
(Living Bible, The Words of Jesus) Mark 3:35
For Something Different Contest by Debbie Guzzie
Psychologically speaking, women are snakes and men are mice,
In the ancient theater of the world, where masks fall and rise in dance,
She, the slithery queen of untold stories, an endless paradox,
With a glance that untethers ships from their moors, in a sea without driftwood, without sails.
Beneath the suave murmur of her hypnotic violin, almost inaudible amongst the buzz of the scene,
Masterfully crafted undulations, through a curtain of deep, unfathomable mysteries,
Alluring in her eternal enticement, with whispers spreading divine inner deceptions,
Threaded along the fine string of the night, playing on the sensitive chord of a forever starving heart.
He, prey to an instinct too often defeated by endless scrutiny,
The mouse, a twitching silhouette amongst shadows, a knight of frailty,
Carving a path through crevices of reality, in search of his shooting star of cheese,
Towards which he sails, enchanted by the siren's song, on an ocean of uncertainties.
They are the timekeepers of our destinies, ticking away in contradictory symphonies,
Each with their solitude, each with their threads of fate and dreaming,
Setting the trap and becoming our own prey, in a game of divinity,
From ages to ages, one lending the other venom and antidote in the same cup.
Until the stars shall wipe away from the sky, and the Moon shall mute with fear,
The duel continues, between the secret magic and the unexpected murmur,
She, breathing her spells of love into night garments sewn with silver,
He, finding his way through the crevices of the day, with hopes like a spider's thread clinging.
And yet, is not love the greatest enigma in this strange tableau?
The woman-snake and the man-mouse, opposites and yet complements,
Catching in-flight the reversal of roles, where the snake is the one who forgives and the mouse protects,
In the jungle of emotion, where instinct becomes the guide and the fearful conquer, merely with the power of the heart to love.
In the melancholic hour of introspection, where twilight paints the sky with sadness,
Religious souls often walk, hand in hand with righteousness,
Forsaking the tender embrace of compassion for the cold certainty of being right,
Clinging to a fragile mantle woven from threads of egotism,
As if their faith could ennoble their identity with divine approval.
In the sacred sanctuary of belief, they build altars to their own image,
Domesticated echoes of God's infinite transcendence,
Reduced to comforting whispers that mirror their desires,
Learning of the Divine as children learn of Santa Claus,
Yet allowing those notions to ossify, remaining infantile and unchallenged.
Oh, irony, as we cast aside Santa’s joyful illusions,
Maturing our visions of myth and childhood fantasy,
While our understanding of the Eternal remains in the naivety of youth,
Unprepared to confront the vast, untamed wilderness of divine transcendence.
Here, in the labyrinth of our minds, echoes of childlike perceptions resonate,
Yet the true divine is an unfathomable abyss, a dance of shadows and light,
Beyond the gilded cages of our self-fashioned sanctity,
A whisper in the wind, a flame in the depths of night.
We baptize our egos in holy waters, seeking absolution for our vanities,
Enshrining our beliefs in stone, unwilling to weather the storms
That might erode our crafted idols, revealing the raw, untempered truth,
Which asks not for our righteousness, but for the tenderness of a compassionate heart.
In this silent pilgrimage through the chambers of our soul,
We must unshackle the Divine from our limited grasp,
Allowing the boundless to flow, to mingle with the currents of our existence,
To guide us through the dark waters of humility and grace.
Let us not forget, in our zeal to be right, the gentle call of compassion,
The holy whisper that beckons us beyond ourselves,
To embrace the transient and the eternal, the darkness and the dawn,
For in that sacred embrace, we find the wondrous, ineffable face of true divinity.
Thus, in the quiet of twilight, among the shadows of our beliefs,
We are called to transcend our domesticated notions,
To embark on a journey of deeper understanding,
Where compassion and humility lead us to the heart of the Infinite,
And righteousness melts away in the light of true and boundless love.
Awesome stars* are art works of the Almighty
Beauteous midst darkness, sparkling bright
Creation masterpieces supremely crafted
Designed perfectly to serve as eyes’ delights.
Extolling the grandeur of divine excellence
Firmament jewels driving astronomic flight
Galaxy ornaments that mystify constellation gazers
Heaven’s wonders are stars** for promises’ hoisting
Influence-compass intensifying travel-impact
Journey-leader to magi searching the King of kings with joy.***
Kindling reality-awakenings for inquisitive kids
Lights are the stars**** along truth-seeking luminescence
Marvels with wisdom-beam midst queries on magic or mystery
Night’s treasures as “diamonds in the sky” bringing wealth nigh
Opening opportunities to dream and soar with optimism.
Potential inspiration and muse source for poetry
Quiet, yet clear witnesses of victims in their justice-quest
Radiant gems to aspiring champions revealing rewards
Steadfast signs are assuring stars***** against skepticism
Testifying about timeless blessed celestial triumph.
Up above they are stars****** reflecting Christ’s glory ultimately
Victorious in asserting faith that vanquishes vain vision
Watchfulness they show, glowing for guided winning
‘Xcellence marks their illumining expertise surpassing any x-ray
Yes, they are shining in the Scriptures today and yon
Zealously gleaming and glaring with enlightenment’s zest.
*Genesis 1:16 And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also.
**Genesis 15:5 … Look now toward heaven, and tell the stars, if thou be able to number them…
***Matthew 2:2 Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.
****Jeremiah 31:35 Thus saith the LORD, which giveth … the stars for a light by night
*****Luke 21:25 And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars.
******1Corinthians 15:41 There is … glory of the stars: for one star differeth from another star in glory.
March 18, 2020
“Double Abecedarian”
5th place, "A Star's Heartbeat" Premier Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke; judged on 3/22/2020.
When I was young, a book was given me:
a small book with the title "Those Who Love."
Its female author I knew nothing of -
This dreamer poetess wrote beautifully.
Gentle, practical and solitary,
Sara was in love with nature and
understood the things in life most grand;
this dreamer poetess wrote beautifully!
She’d grown up reading poems of Emily,
Barrett Browning, Bronte and Rossetti.
A modern woman, wishing to be free -
this dreamer poetess wrote beautifully.
Her writing had a lyric quality.
I loved her metaphors and similies.
I sensed within her poems - untold stories.
This dreamer poetess wrote beautifully.
Her poems were crafted with lucidity,
for poetry confusing she’d not do.
Her type of writing influenced mine too.
This dreamer poetess wrote beautifully.
A love impossible she fittingly
portrayed, for “contradiction” was her life.
Conflicted, she could not remain a wife.
This dreamer poetess wrote beautifully.
She’d known a time of popularity:
A Pulitzer for "Love Songs" she received.
Then came her father’s death and how she grieved.
This dreamer poetess wrote beautifully.
Depressed and frail, she planned her destiny,
requesting notes to loved ones all be burned.
We cannot truly know for what she yearned.
This dreamer poetess wrote beautifully.
Did Sara Teasdale end her misery
when she put herself to sleep? Who can say?
Regardless. . . I shall think of her one way:
This dreamer poetess wrote beautifully!
Written 11/14/10
I combed cool waters of your baby blue
crystalline Jewel as you waded waterfall
waves washing my stellar rainbow rays
arching it melted into the warm womb
of transducing tangoing Earth
Her Violet Flame devoured us both
as nectared dewdrops to fuel the fire
our soma swirling into ecstatic orange
oxytocined crane flowers whispering
wisdoms to a hundred yellow butterflies
fluttering and flirting
They circled a sunken Atlantean apex
atop where you ruled anew with Baconian
brown locks surrounded by sirens serving
savoury silver sardines, oolite oyster shells
sang solos as dolphins dived, oceanic mouthed
In Ancient Egypt you followed my runcinate
rulings or indigo sorrow siglums, sighing
becoming slimmed seeker who served
Thoth well whilst wreathing my wounded
worthiness and fallow fallopian tubes
at pyramidal plumed midnight hour
In our Grecian lifetime you draped alabaster
urns lighting my marble mantelpiece
I watched breath enter your nebulae nostrils
as you crafted provincial proverbs instructing
slaves to whiten your garb with lemons from
our sculpted garden
On lavender Celtic hills we exchanged kilts
not knowing whose waist was whose
barefoot we flaunted sleek sharp sapphire
studded swords dancing necessary wild wars
Who remembered and who forgot
where in ether our nestling niche napped
as games of betrayal, fear or doubt
doubled into involuting circles and spirals
each tried to neck THE VOID as naked
excuse for not excavating heaving Heart
How much escaping, escapades, evolutionary
clocks cloak our cusps or cues or custard
synchronicities
how many summer summit starlings must
seek to sing of sorrow or of wolves, withering
willows, watermelons on this Planet of
coloured curriculums
holding dear our distinctive designs where
lacy lament is but another aperture into Space
I seek not to know !