Long Drafting Poems
Long Drafting Poems. Below are the most popular long Drafting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drafting poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: January 30, 2024
________________________________________
I will craft melodies for all humanity,
Lyrics for both youth and elderly.
Drafting melodies akin to vanity,
Anytime, they dance for it tenderly.
Not designed to play in sword fights,
Neither for bloodshed nor conflicts.
But chimes that excite human lights,
With upped vitality—plenty of spirits.
Let me compose songs for the weak,
When life is stressful and delirious.
Hearts will steadily release their bleak,
With no fear of losing, seem imperious.
Allow me to sing a song for the youth,
Before they elapse along their way.
Musical displays of devotion and sooth,
Floating by carrying out life's freeway.
For the poor and starving, I'd sing,
When blackness obscures their sight.
Of bright and quiet homes' strings,
A place where there will be no night.
Our planet is tattered and restless,
Needs a clean and powerful melody.
To silence the jangles and zestless,
Of grief, pain, or iffy, cop a remedy.
Lyrics to ease everyone despair,
Until there is no more war or crime.
Alas, man's spirit will grow and care,
Peace may be woven rather than grime.
Sunday, June twentieth
thousand nineteen at eleven fifty
at 11:31 Post Meridian
Eastern Standard Time
will find Earth's North Pole tilted
closest toward sun. This demarcates
most daylight hours of the year for
people living the northern hemisphere.
Just shy of high noon sun (less than
twelve hours from drafting these lines)
nearest star in solar system reaches
highest point in the sky.
Hence hasty intent to beat buzzer sound
dashing off riding figurative one seahorse
open sleigh madly awk cross cyber sea,
aye rudder sally forth (slogging thru
virtual flotsam and jetsam) with poetic
obeisance paid to average size ball of
Earth, wind and fire, my out of this
world quasi stellar benediction, since
Earthlings traveled thru space/time
continuum circa Stonehenge, or perhaps
bajillion years ago, when predecessors
of present day primates (coon sitter terribly
less a bomb bin hubble), versus twenty first
century *****sapiens predilection for total
mortal kombat graphically spiraling downward
zeroing (kamikaze like), analogy drawn,
viz subjective mathematical roulette curves,
albeit hypotrochoids and epitrochoids staining
countless grains of sand, count them yourself,
yielding result (somewhere very loosely
approximating 7.5 x 1018, or seven quintillion,
five hundred quadrillion grains.
Such minutiae less significant within the realm
of present day *****sapiens, whose lives less
linkedin with phenomena affecting life on this
oblate spheroid, (which could come to a crashing
halt predicated on burgeoning human population
jeopardizing sustainable planet presuming
industrial paradigm prevails, thence man/
woman kind will unwittingly trumpet, and
or sound claxon (ex post facto), while
warming temperatures melt glaciers,
asper huge popsicles drowning
multitudinous habitats courtesy of
violent meteorologic cataclysms, where
Noah ark will be big enough to save majority
of creatures, and (wherein no art of the deal)
savvy enough to wall off sky high tidal
Katrina and the waves, then nature will (make
a killing) relishing tidying Atlas sized tureen
Black Country Communion 2 Poetry Contest, By Robert James Liguori
Poem inspired by The Black Country Communion song: SWAY
Written: August 04, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Daylight fades by the Black Mountain side,
A bluesy rhythm, my heart cannot hide.
Inspired to raid countrywide,
In search of solace and a place to confide.
The sky is virtually to crack.
As I wander down this lonesome track.
Lost in my Karma tonight,
Feeling the weight of every wrong and right.
Moving over, lost in the drama of the bullfight,
I watch the River flood, a sorrowful sight.
I was sent to deliver, such a blossom in June,
But now I'm caught in the midst of a monsoon.
Here come floods and typhoons.
My heartache deepens as a haunting tune.
My brother died, a pain I can't disguise.
Carrying his memory, I feel the weight on my shoulders rise.
Up on my back, we'll climb,
Together, we'll face the probe of time.
I'm done traveling; I've served in a way sublime.
But still, the wanderlust lingers in my rhyme.
Flag along the river,
A symbol of hope, a sign to deliver.
Such a blossom in June, fragile and fleeting,
I'm drawn to the water, its rhythm repeating.
Here come floods and typhoons.
Drafting tunes that blow you off in monsoons.
I crave to fight with you.
To face the storms, no matter how they brew.
I'll sway you with words and with passion.
A dance of emotions, a soulful expression
Do you hear me? Can you feel my plea?
In this bluesy rhythm, I'll set you free.
Ready and restless, waiting for fellowship,
Longing for connection and companionship.
Yet, as the night grows darker, I spy skies above.
To sustain searching for love
How do you make this coffee
One day I asked her
While stirring with a spoon she
Holding the cups came closer
Moonlight nestling in her eyes
Orange warmth from cups
The spoon circling clockwise
In the playful milky mixups
The door a little ajar
Jasmine fragrance wafting
In the smile strumming a guitar
A poem my thoughts drafting
Why? With French Roast, she said
Adding milk and sugar slight
Her long hair in a braid
Pigeons struggling for a flight
A cascade came out in the smile
Glistening warm coffee vapour
The signals so tactile
The palate-tickling flavour
No, I said
There is something more
While the aroma spread
Breakers hit the shore
Is it the touch of your hands
My buds tried to be flowers
She didn't expand
Twinkled the lilac hours
Then the voice so soft and cozy
Said in a golden glee
I made the cup of coffee
With my love and meraki
December 6, 2017
For Silent One's Meraki - Poetry Contest
You got my heart beating at scouring velocity I bet
The colors of your paint job would be Flambeau and desert sunset
You got more juice than a Holley 650 double pump carburetor
As kind and cool as the interior of a 68 continental coach door
Your mouth was built with the precision of a go no go gauge
Your voice the soothing hum of a well-bathed metal lath
With a mind that’s as on point as a floor-mounted drill press
The drafting baton that laid down your lines, curvaceous
Another thing I noticed is you shine brighter than chrome
With the simple yet complex beauty of a geodesic dome
In the realm of words, where knowledge thrives,
Teachers guide with wisdom, where the ink arrives.
Enhancing writing, a guiding light they bear,
To elevate students, their written tales to share.
They mould the process, each stage they steer,
Prewriting, revising, the path to steer.
Through drafting and editing, teachers impart,
Crafting brilliance, each writer's art.
Authentic tasks, connections profound,
Teachers weave worlds where ideas abound.
Persuasive essays, stories untold,
Students' passions and dreams unfold.
Scaffolded support, in steps, they lead,
From outlines to drafts, a writer to feed.
Graphic organisers, sentences to start,
Building confidence, nurturing the heart.
In workshops, they foster, a haven to shine,
Students explore, and their voices align.
Feedback, revisions, in a collaborative spree,
A nurturing space where all can be free.
Technology's embrace, a modern song,
Grammar checks and feedback are strong.
Digital platforms that students employ,
Enhancing skills, fostering writing joy.
Each learner has unique, a different needs,
Teachers cater, their pace to heed.
Customised guidance, pathways clear,
In growth and learning, they're always near.
In the circle of teaching, a quest they trace,
Crafting writers in each child's space.
With dedication, and evolving practice they glean,
For every student, a writer's dream.
In the pen's dance, in the writer's hand,
Teachers kindle flames in this wondrous land.
Inspiring, guiding, with hearts aglow,
They shape writers, making talents grow.
So teachers, brimming with inspiration's light,
Forge pathways for students, in their writing flight.
In the tapestry of learning, in wisdom's domain,
They foster brilliance, a writer's gain.
In memory of Ms. Devi Devavaram,
My headmistress with a writing charm.
Teaching the art with a graceful hand,
Guiding us through language's wondrous strand.
it was unnecessary and unkind.
all you did was cut me off
from conversing with the very community
of which you speak, of which I am a part.
if you want the whole place to yourself,
you’ll have to use your words—
I don’t do any better with hints than you.
that’s why I left, your inability to read
the room or allow a breath
inside of it other than yours—
you still haven't figured that out.
this is the same thing, claiming
the castle for your chaos.
and maybe it works—
people love your decorative moat.
but I’ve seen the drawbridge chain
tucked under your smile.
and I’ve heard the nonstop
dry-begging clatter of compliments
you locked behind doors.
what did it accomplish other than
isolating me from others?
you were never getting smoke
from this dragon in any form
other than verse—
isn't that what real poets do?
our version of breaking down the door
instead of breaking down?
you don’t have to answer to me.
I’m not knocking.
I’m drafting ambiguous blueprints
trying to build a new foundation
in this uncomfortable place.
consider using an umbrella at night
from now on. save that porcelain
hide from being moonstruck
when the post-truth recoil happens.
Spring of 1971, happy laughter
Multi-colored flowers and happy faces
we drive painted vans our parents can afford
We pile in, meeting new friends, some potential lovers
Peppermint breath greet us in half beat valentine waves
Idealists abounded, we flash peace signs in the cosmos
Woodstock knocks around in our dendrite highways
We are determined to drowned out the Viet Nam War
Grayscale news is nightly sharing things that rock our world
We wear rounded rose-colored, or tiny squared off blue granny glasses,
Love beads and two-fingered peace signs resound in our brains
Our hearts are determined to remain child-like magical.
We concentrate on the goodness of strangers
We create our own ambiance we children of the night
Star lit beaches catch our mirthful dancing
Our laughter is excruciatingly loud!
A magical time with an illusion that Viet Nam cannot touch us
Until she does, drafting one son at a time - mostly poor boys
Farm kids and poor kids from Chicago or St. Louis.
Gallantry has not let them escape to Canada.
We dance harder, flinging ourselves into each other’s eyes
Falling in love with every one of the future slain, not seeing fodder.
Helping the disappointed drafted enjoy their last ten days
Giving them brilliant memories for when they are miserable
wetted down in swamps, expecting to die
Reminding them of normalcy before their trip to this unkind place.
Mama Cass and Karen Carpenter are joyfully singing their folk songs
None of us realizing how illusive happily-ever-after is.
It felt like an unspoken dream of someone else.
It was a memory of Lisle, IL, quite a while ago.
I was waiting at the train station, to be picked up.
It was almost dark, and I was waiting. And so is a lady.
At least I thought so. And then I realized something.
She was not waiting. She was not there, not at all.
She looked at me in the eye. I was not at all comfortable.
“And the American dream!” She shouted!
I jumped from the sitting area. I was startled, anxious.
No trace of my car yet! And She went on muttering,
Which almost seemed a monologue, she is talking her mind.
I had to believe it has to do something with her way of talking,
That she is not waiting in that train station, not waiting for anything.
She had white cloths, not clean enough, and a bag with her. And a look.
It was almost evident that she was angry. Only that is true. True enough to panic.
I am drafting this, decades later. I am dragging moments from my pandora box.
I hated myself then. As, it felt like an unspoken dream of someone else, unknown.
yearning
of ritual
lethargic
in thunderstorm
through
huge chasm
of window&
watching
sky
darkened &
drizzle
dropping &
gust
howling
non-stop
yet stipulating
coldness
within
intimacy&
a glimpse
charming
longing
for flowers
blooming
rooting in
womb
relishing
drafting
sun and moon
elysian fields
of yesteryear
& blue oceans
crave
scooting
&
alleging
obsession
musings
notification
compelling
1St place contest winner
Written: August 1st, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.