Long Dickinson Poems
Long Dickinson Poems. Below are the most popular long Dickinson by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dickinson poems by poem length and keyword.
after Because I could not stop for Death, by Emily Dickinson
Because I would not stop for Death,
he kindly stopped for me.
A wilted bouquet in one hand—
a reminder of life's mortality.
We began to walk—he knew no haste—
side by side, as we always were.
In silence, no sympathies were spoken,
as he knew I often preferred.
We passed the house where I once strove
to play and know no sorrow.
We passed a creek whisking ashes downstream—
something I was hesitant to let it borrow.
Or, rather, it passed us—
the mist in the air quivering with a dog's final breath—
for only I began to falter
on our beaten and lonely path.
We paused before some foothills that seemed
serene, yet all too demanding.
The soon-to-be graves were scarcely visible here—
urns in my arms notwithstanding.
Since then, it has been decades, and yet
it still feels shorter than the day
Death first took my warm hand in his own
and his comforting coldness became mine for eternity.
Grief Unmeasured
I measure every grief I meet—
knowingly, they’re all related to me.
Some smaller, some larger,
but all carry weight.
Yesterday, a friend’s text arrived:
“Her daughter was shot in the head.”
The words formed a puzzle I needed to unravel:
What, why, where?
I kept asking.
Death came too soon for this young woman.
My thoughts turned to my own children—
why must mothers bury their offspring?
Black-on-black violence, a painful reality.
I reached out to my friend,
but she refused my texts and calls.
Understandable—the shock is overwhelming.
Will pain ever grow old?
Will humanity cease its violence?
Or will weapons persist indefinitely?
Why does existence hurt so much these days?
Will we run out of comforting words?
This morning’s headlines were grim:
“A young mother abandons her newborn.”
Heartless? Perhaps not.
Fear for the child’s life drove her actions.
What future awaits that abandoned soul?
What trials lie ahead?
Emily Dickinson once wrote:
“The meaning of life is just to be alive.
It is so plain and so obvious and so simple.
And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic
as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves.”
In passing, we find solace—
a piercing comfort on our journey through Calvary.
Let us deport-- with skill--
Let us discourse--with care--
Powder exists in Charcoal--
Before it exists in Fire.
~ Emily Dickinson
Good words anoint, ill words kill
~ Florio
It's said that sticks and stones break bones
but words can serve as weapons too,
so wield with caution what you write
let civil discourse have its due.
A finely crafted turn of phrase
will prove more winsome than a harsh
phillipic or a raging rant
that drags one's soul down like a marsh.
Are not our writings most effective
when our readers wish to read
our inner thoughts, instead of feeling
whipped by some ill-tempered screed?
When I hear thunder's crash, I flee
from lightning's sharp, injurious ray -
I hear your thunder, not your words
As though you speak a mile away.
I'm not promoting caged emotions;
ire and outrage have their place,
but when the missile shrieks, there's few
still left the message to embrace.
Written 21 Dec 2021
Written by Gail R DeBole
on March 16, 2022
Updated on March 21, 2022
What would Walt Whitman do?
Would he tweet poem after poem
If today was part of his lifetime?
Tweeting Leaves of Grass to the masses
Or would his poems be lost to the world
Amid the millions of poems posted?
What would Emily Dickinson do?
Perhaps, still a recluse, but with a technical spin
That jettisons her words throughout the virtual sky
To the masses amid thousands,
Floating amid millions of other poets’ words?
Would both their words compete for the virtual sky?
Words are competing, poets scrambling for
The attention, the connection to others, and, perhaps fame,
That the poets who came before earned
Without the Virtual sky.
The damp fog rising from the creek
Shrouded the trees with dampness
Sun peeked between cobalt blue clouds
Giving them undress
Silhouetted them against gray
Mighty appeared their stance
Like an army of soldiers dressed
Ready for action at a glance
Two ancient airplanes flew across
The quiet morning sky
If they had been silent would have
Looked like vultures that fly
The sun's radiance is brighter
Almost blinding but fog
Lingers with its cloak spread across
Hill, dale, creek, sticky bog
Feeling the chill within my bones
Warmth of inside calls come
Sun slips behind the jet trail cloud
Dove coos a welcome home
This is written in poulter's measure
8, 6, 8, 6 with one rhyme per stanza
2nd and 4th lines rhyme
Emily Dickinson used this much..
Over these years that I won't count
writing poems with my preferred rhyme
I really don't want to write any other
it grabs me to desire my utmost climb
I just really love not only to write it
but also to read those that master
show themselves ro rhymer in art form
what beauty they convey above the norm
My favourites would indeed be many
Dickinson, Rossetti, Frost and Johnson Flint
many more masters of this proven craft
too many to mention but there's just a hint
It brings such peace and calm
to lift my pen and write a line
putting one's mind to work on words
considering what's read is indeed mine
Such enjoyment received to write
this indeed truly is my addiction
wish I had found it many years before
lover of rhyme indeed is my conviction
(This is written about the one addiction I do have and that's poetry and especially rhyme, it has such a calming effect upon me keeping me calm and at peace.)
Rhapsodies of Dickinson, Whitman, Wordsworth
and other writers of renown
lift my mind and soul up to the sky
then bury them in the ground.
With their myriad thoughts of love, life, laughter
and luscious lines of pain,
releasing me to worlds of wonder
before pounding me again.
With words that tease and please the senses
Of sight, taste and sound
From days long past, yet still they last
Eternally profound.
With their sagacious seeds of wisdom
planting jealousy in my head
for the words I write by day or night
are but a meager attempt instead.
Oh! How I dreaded for the bee to come
But he came this summer with all his kin
He has invaded the peas, beans, and corn
They have turned the garden into their den
I have not seen the Purple Martin yet
Coming to swoop and dive at early eve
Surely we have enough bugs to feed him
And his family this I do perceive
Why has he stayed away_not come today
Did he loose way coming from winter's stay
Or is the housing here too old, too small
To accomodate growing family
Maybe too humid for him since trees
Have been removed__trees that carried breeze
Lifting him high on air currents to swoop
Early in the morn and early dusk's eve
(Needs work..Yet; Came to me after reading Emily
Dickinson)
Form:
She Speaks Through Me
December 30th 1830
May 15th 1886
139 years ago
You wrote extraordinaire poetry
Can’t fathom, so many
Creative thinking
Creative writing
Cultivating pen in hand
Thoughts racing to the ends of the earth
A small desk to write on
So long ago
I’m right here with you
Massachusetts to Texas
I can only imagine ever meeting you in person
You speak to me through brilliant poetry
How did you even find me?
I’m writing with a learning disability
Maybe one day
Upon velvet skys
Poetry found us beyond the azure horizons
Send me a post card
Through rhymes and rhythms from heaven
(Emily Dickinson)
You give me the desire
a love for composing
word symphonies
yet you give me
the cross of mediocrity
to bear
day by day to know
there are others
who are prodigies
and I must hear
the thunderous applause
while at best
I get the praise
of those who seek to console
my dying soul
I must eat my heart alive
while the words burn inside
demanding expression
soul confession
unborn masterpiece extrication
I fall to my knees
and plead
While I beat my chest
in fervent heat
"Bless me...Bless me...
Make me like him
Make me like her
Make me more than all of these
Make me the best
a word genius
For this love of words will not set me free
Till it is MY name that they chant
My name on their tongues
My name branded on their minds
the Maestro of Word symphonies
Oh, Let it be ME, ME!
BLESS ME!"
Yet...
day after day
night after night
and in my dreams
I see, I see....
I see them take their bows
I see their work showcased
praised
immortalized
while I?
I sit at my desk
and try once more
to write
to...WRITE
the sublime....
Eileen
The movie Amadeus rocked my to the core. "In it, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was killed by his jealous rival, the court composer Antonio Salieri. Salieri cleverly took advantage of Mozart's fondness for drink, his financial crisis, and his obsession with pleasing his deceased father, and tricked Mozart into working himself to death."
Murry Abraham did a wonderful job of portraying Salieri. There is a scene where he argues with God about the wonderful musical talent he has gifted Mozart, who seems undeserving to him, while HE has to live with mediocrity in musical talent. I can relate. I LOVE poetry. It is my life, and yet...I have to watch as others write so effortlessly and reach the pinnacle of fame. It is hard to do. :( Some days are better than others. On the good days, I'm happy that I can write a poem now and again. On the bad days....I want to cry for not being another Shakespeare....or Donne, or Dickinson, or Gibran, or Rumi, or....and the list is endless.