Long Does Poems
Long Does Poems. Below are the most popular long Does by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Does poems by poem length and keyword.
The producer spoke to the TV executive with excitement yesterday.
New show idea! He said. It will be great in every single way!
What is it? The executive asked in a voice that was barely a hum.
“Married at first kite,” the producer said, as if he was his chum.
Been done, the executive said. In the seventh season we are.
No! The producer insisted. This show will be a shining star.
“Married at first bite?” the tired, worn-out executive asked
“No. Married at first kite,” the producer said as he basked.
How does it work? The executive asked. And is it fun?
They all have a kite,. Which ever lands at their feet is the one.
It might work, the executive said but your budget is less than zero.
Producer went to another network, where he is now a kite king hero.
Now we have a new problem, all merry and tight.
The vampires want a new TV show - Married at First Bite!
Once we sang
songs of summer,
now melodies freeze
in winter winds.
If only tears could
strum guitar strings.
Revealing the truth,
as your voice just lies.
Why whisper words,
fingertips refuse to play.
Sad songs,
hide behind metaphors.
The audience begs for one more,
but the tongue yearns for
a silent serenade.
In the ballad of yesterday,
there were smiles,
affectionate attention and
enchanting embraces.
Today
each song has no soul,
rhythm has lost its spirit.
Wounded lyrics,
dehydrating in empty
chambers of my heart.
Just because you sing it,
does not mean it is true.
Simple Musing
Written 5 March 2019
Posted 27 November 2020
Found this old poem, so thought I would post it.
Have no idea why I wrote it, nor if I ever felt like that.
She walks relentlessly to and fro
Silent, serene without much ado
What does she search incessantly?
Her shrinking weak, thin physique shaking
Her nerves and bones tingling and aching
Why does she run passionately?
She's senile. To me I often say
There's every sign I see, anyway
'Tell me your secret, my dear mother;
Is an evil spirit haunting you?
Is any power par pulling you?
Why this food in your carrier?
It's then when I went on her way once
Of course, out of meager eagerness
A half-dead woman she did show;
'She's my sister. Weaker than me, see!
Who's for her, in this world, but, me?'
She isn’t. I’m senile. Now I know.
4th May 2021
ALL YOURS (May 5) Poetry Contest
In the universe of the two rooms, she gathers her dreams between her palms,
She lets her fired hair descend upon the folds of our fleeting time.
"It's the end," she articulates with a voice sipping from the last silences,
Through the mirror in which we have often been born and died together.
I watch as she spreads the roots of fire over her shoulders,
In the innocence of what will melt and crumble under gazes.
I wish to be Adam, to feast upon the forbidden fruit of the heart,
But our Eden is now nothing more than a colorless portrait on the wall.
In bed, I embrace her lost silence, somewhere between my ribs,
My arm, a sleeping serpent upon her white neck, searching for the pulse of life.
My hands — two frightened mollusks — came to a shy halt on her skin,
Clasping fingers, joints, a prayer to the elbows whispered.
She rises and the nightgown becomes a kind of pale ghost,
"Enough," she murmurs, "this is fine," in the echo of her voice, a suspended goodbye.
I watch as the echo of her steps vanishes in the marble of the corridors,
Through the ajar door - a beggar of her silken memories.
As she leaves our concrete garden, under the swaying trees,
She asks — a final whim — "buy me high heels with thin spikes,
Shoes with black, thin heels," and then a moment’s reconsideration,
"No, I want them to be red." It’s a longing for shoes on the road to nowhere.
While the poinsettias shake under the weary sun, I close the door—
I close a book whose last page burns, and between the lines, does not.
His lines he always wanted to shine
With éclat and style mingled fine
To bedazzle and strike with awe
Those who bothered to read a line
For hours on end, would he ponder
On how he could rive you asunder
With some poetic turn of phrase
Perfectly pointed sans all blunder
Listen to what he learned at last
Content when he was with his writing cast
Easy on the ear, loud and clear
Words were raining down somewhat thick and fast
A maestro, he remembered one day
Had told him of some versed in display
Who sadly think have a lot to say
Yet, their dead words at the moon but bay
Flowing, flaying, flaming, fighting
Blowing, playing, blaming, biting
Loving, loathing, baring, clothing
All this juxtaposed in your writing
Fails to offer what it does take
To pregnant poetry make
Poetry boils from within
Insight absent, it will not take
Soulless words will never congeal
The pest of pomp, you can’t conceal
“Good wine needs no bush”, said the poet
The wise take not the fruit for the peel
The epiphany shook him to his sense
His lines now seemed a pile of nonsense
From here to Timbuktu, he thought
Ran the serpentine to eloquence
Poetasters push the pen too hard
They throw a wheel if you would regard
Literary knowledge is not enough
It takes more wisdom to be a bard
A ribbon of black
smooth and cold
the sheer rock walls
and a twisting path
dark lies the clouds
that be for me lie
and the golden warmth
left so far behind
I know not where
which way to go
and the memories fade
of what lays behind
here I cannot be
for it will not remain
I feel it slipping away
even as memories fade
on winds the road
and the waves still crash
cold grows the sky
and the coming rain
if I try just to stand
if I do not decide
the future will crush me
and bury my remains
into the darkness
my steps they do lead
and I would not take them
of my world it does fade
The bond between spirit
and awareness may end
with an inner conflict...
while youth is vibrant
and somewhat wild!
Think about what
the years will do to the young ones
picking over the bones...
to arrange plans foolishly conceived:
will their outcry resound
at the end of the dawn?
And as the confused mind
asks itself why to surpass limits
and stay loyal and true
to the ideals not yet
understood with conviction?
Recognization is an accomplishment of merit,
while honorable victory or shameless defeat
don't stand on the same rewarding platform
by strengthening or lessening their significance;
the loser will quickly adjust to the new norm,
the winner will reject and continue to thrive!
The ones who hunger for adventure
will achieve their goal with constant strides;
the ones who hold back, showing doubts,
will dream vainly without their tenure
when the struggle is no longer sought:
the weak spirit relies upon a faint hope
and the unclear vision it can't grope!
Think about what the years will do to a young one
whose dreams can be realized without any stride,
but are they so unattainable without grit and drive?
Does anyone attains a trophy without struggle and feel fine?
Do heroes fear death and not fulfill their destiny?
Do they partake in the revelry of blood alone?
What was the idea to engage in a battle of clashing sounds...
and not being frightened by the blasting sounds of cannons?
Hatism: My Beloved Crown
Before I speak, you have already introduced me. You brought me from the back pew, to the front row. You taught me how to be her, you set me free. I'm proud of who I have become and what others see.
You sit where destiny rests-high, intentional, and ordained. You are not fabric, material or form alone; you are positioning. When I place you upon my head, something within me stands taller. My posture obeys you, my heart embraces you, my voice remembers you, my mind submits to you, and my soul answers you. You have learned my hopes, secrets, and dreams. You cradled all of my secrets, and unspoken utternaces privately in your heart. You have learned the architecture of my mind, soul, and confidence.
You have mastered my angles-every tilt a language, every smile confidence, and every shadow a statement. Rooms shifted and adjusted when we walked in together. Not because you are loud, but because you are certain. I love you for the quiet authority you carry, that does not beg to be seen-but is seen.
I trusted you, and you have covered me in moments when words were unnecessary. When I doubted, you remained steady. When I was afraid, you stayed close to me. When I rose, you rose with me. Oil and elegance, fire and focus-you held them all without collapse. You remind me that elevation is a decision made daily. That obsession, when disciplined, becomes excellence. That a woman crowned in intention cannot walk unnoticed. Some wear hats, I wear alignment.
So I honor you-not as an accessory, but as an extension. Not as fashion, but as formation. Not as a style, but as a symbol.
Forever tilted in authority,
Yours in Elevation
(for Charlie)
What is it that causes an atheist
To suddenly want to attend church,
And think, huh, maybe there is
Something there after all?
I can see a gradual shift
As doubt and inquiry worm their way
Into an open mind
But a sudden 180 is unusual.
For me in my youth it was gradual
A steady eroding pushed into a landslide
By a sufficient dose of lysergic acid.
But even then it took awhile to really admit
I had been so wrong.
Of course the first step is doubt of what is
Combined with certainty of one’s ignorance.
And as we grow we take these first steps
Again and again.
It warms my heart now right down to my core
To see the example of another human’s sacrifice
Washing out in waves,
A veritable tsunami,
Across the whole world.
No need for drugs to open our heart and mind
When such a prophet does it for us.
(9/19/25)
It's a wonder how we get through life's start
with tears flowing from the first depart
but still we take that breath and bravely forge ahead,
wondering what we could have done instead.
We cry, we shudder and we laugh,
we eat, we grow and pass a little gas;
we study and we learn then easily forget
just what the purpose of it all was, and yet -
we search for it, hold it briefly in our hands
grasping for love to be near where we stand;
but so quickly does the time flow steal it all away
and the past seems nothing but a game we played.
Hold on tight, you never know what is to come
perhaps the journey's just begun.
It's the only way to, you know!
My favorite funny reality song of all time.
Monty Python's Always Look on the Bright Side of Life
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_-q9xeOgG4