Long Drafts Poems
Long Drafts Poems. Below are the most popular long Drafts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drafts poems by poem length and keyword.
"BLACK CAT"
SILENCE
prowls on soft paws
with sharp claws
Cutting up the
Middle Road
Dark shadow moves
SILIENCE
In absentia
Empty Absynthe
Puncture wounds
Cold wind blows
Over tracks
Skids softly
like warm
gants de Suède
on
Poets’ Row
Rat goes
Rat goes
Red scream
scarlet ribbons
LIFE
flows
Le Mort
blushes colour
a trite persuade
different streets
different gutters
Torn canvas sheets
contained between
prison bar margins
Drafts on the floor
crumpled
Blue fountain
Heart bursting
Love and Hate
Grows
Save Our Souls
Save Our Souls
Sins
Sisters of Mercy
and
Salvation Army Sargents'
Tambourines
Communion
Nibs lying next to
Garbage Bin
Finally Ash Felt
Rain on her
Bitumen face
Black Minx
Fur Pelt
Unfurls lazy stretch
Glass eyed
Minx
Back Alley Dreaming
Bad Luck
Bad Luck
Rolling loaded dice
blood boiling steaming
Brush strokes
Like glyph a glitch
Like glyph a glitch
Familiar mirror
Walks through Witch
Yesterday
Screams
Like glyph a glitch
Repeat curse
Repeat curse
Black Cat purring
Never lose
Hold tight
Pearls in Purse
7 Devils Dreaming
Sleepwalking
Graffiti Warning
Black Cat
Witch
Glebe
Last Stop Station
Rehearse a
Hearse
LIFE
Glyph a glitch
Reverse
(Lovejoy-Burton/May 2018)
1. Hanged Man
https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/hanged-man/
2. Death
https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/death/
3. Temperence
https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/temperance/
4a. Glyph
noun
a pictograph or hieroglyph.
a sculptured figure or relief carving.
Architecture. an ornamental channel or groove
4b. Glyph
https://www.thoughtco.com/what-is-a-glyph-2086584
5. "Black Cat"/Ladytron (Translation)
http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858716200/
6. Silience
http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/49792543182/silience
7. Seven Devils
- Is a Solitaire card game.
- Seven Deadly Sins
- The Seven Devils of Mary Magdeline
- Florence and the Machine, Seven Devils
8. La Morte, Le Mort, La Mort
Le mort = dead man = un mort, a dead man
La morte (with the e on the end) = dead woman, une morte = a dead woman
La mort (no 'e' on the end) - death; as in the concept of death
I Asked Myself A Rhetorical Question...
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.
The wood misunderstood the knife, the ax, the scythe
though for centuries it had sheltered man and should not
have misunderstood man's intent.
Wind chimes sublime mime melodies wordless tones
without rhyme noting not the passing of time.
The endless sky buoys the trees leaves on coy up drafts,
wafting orange, gold and green to the cheeks of cumulus white,
enjoying the dichotomy between soft and hard.
Thermal columns deploy destroyed bits of bough.
Seeds of all kinds entwine, caress, combine, they're of one mind;
they procreate by design, wind borne to other climes.
And so, the firmament complies for known reasons
not to be undone each season, each tree, a beason from on high
reseeding forests from the ax's treason; gifting the breath
on which all life relies.
Maple, oak, ash, pine, spruce and even palm, their numbers
whittled by man's metal, leaving homeless little creatures
trapped between man in the middle of a serious decline.
Even man's life is belittled for greed rules.
The smaller things those on wings are routed out on
wind and tide. Burnt sprouts crisp without, caused by drought
there's little doubt about their demise.
The beauty of a bumble bee, a ladybug, a seed blown on
an autumn breeze, they matter. The natural world man's torn
and tattered leaving empty nights without the chatter of the frog
and cicada. The owls they've scattered, their prey feed on poisonous scree.
Soon only waves of mindless prater will fill the wind come from the sea.
Forewarned by Prime now's the time to shift our focus to what's sublime
labeling pollution as a crime. Let man heal the clime
repay his greed with natures green.
So disengage decrease your horde, live a simpler life, be sage.
The earth breathes, in wood, wind, water, and metal now fire
burns the stage, the elements are God's gauge.
Damp this all to human rage.
would
could
should
misunderstood
wood
sublime
rhyme
chime
mime
time
enjoy
coy
buoy
deploy
destroy
entwine
kind
line
climes
mind
reason
season
treason
beason
undone
metal
little
belittle
riddle
middle
out
doubt
routed
sprout
drought
shatter
prater
matter
tatter
chatter
sublime
climb
time
crime
prime
gauge
sage
stage
disengage
rage
I cannot forget Trayvon Martin - slain teen
no matter manifold more young people
unthinkingly killed, who spirits aspire
to ascend higher than a steeple.
revisited and slightly revised today
March 14th, 2021.
One deliberate shameful death,
whose demise linkedin
violent cessation of breath
thank heavy gun wielding hand
innocuous thug disguised
as armed neighborhood watch
firearm brandished
as weapon of choice.
Once again rifling thru outdated drafts,
I unwittingly repost grievous bulletin
that made headlines nine plus years ago,
an innocent lad received fatal shot
into said unarmed teenager's chest
according to testimony
courtesy Doctor Vincent Di Maio.
Memory of aforementioned crime
relegated to dustbin of criminal minds
whereby dime a dozen killings
(nowadays barely register shock)
countless young persons
genetically bequeathed with
healthy dose of melanin
gunned down during their prime.
George Zimmerman (then age 28)
ought to be pitched into the
alligator and crocodile infested Everglade
for his senseless killing (outright murder)
of Trayvon Martin slammed
as involved some illicit wick kid trade
(a slender African American
more precisely youth flush with color
only 17 years young -
(birthdate - February 5th, 1995
death date - February 26th, 2012),
whose martyrdom grows
as days/weeks fade
an exemplary gregarious helpmate
swimming against the tide
to make the grade
now slain while just a youth -
the unfounded killing
by a neighborhood watch volunteer,
who felt afraid
that this dark skinned young man
appeared suspicious pulled the trigger
with comeuppance to be paid
though -- no retribution can restore
lifeless body, still
agitated waters nor offer shade
from the justifiable media frenzy
sparked from Geraldo Rivera made
even with unanimous
approval of guillotine blade
for violence cannot only rejuvenate
a promising future
evinced by Trayvon Martin
reincarnated into tree or leaf blade
but only serves to beget subsequent
violence now unto his grave
said teenager laid!
It’s that time again,
that airy hallmark intro, the vibrant soul ensemble.
Signpost to an hour long journey where passage, paean and piece come out to play.
Odyssey for fantasist and literary scion.
Earnest open invite to the madcap mind,
mine and those of others.
Each and every Sunday I’m religiously transported to exotic beaches known to veteran nomads.
Boundlessly I leap across the airwaves only to be stranded in some Middle Eastern plot,
the likes of which would put twin peaks to shame.
Without a fear I flit medieval back streets like
this ghost from other worlds,
cobblestone character
on wings,
melting pots beyond our daily grind,
landmarks that I’ve never seen before.
Out of body drama for us
fervent wishful thinkers.
Roles from ancient history now assumed but for an inkling, the icons I become, those rapid twists and turns of me the centre piece.
Maybe I’m that innocent abroad, clueless hiker, stony broke,
wandering a land whose complex tongue I’ve yet to master
or that moth-infested secret of the thirty year rule.
With a little latitude I’d silhouette my reverie landing on some poet’s scented flower or just as likely eavesdrop on the mocha sipping Monet, coffee cup aloft,
cast among the butterflies,
harvesting my thoughts on barren canvass.
Going back in time to famous childhoods
I’m some regal mother’s one and only joy,
a fragile baby cradled by maternal soothing sounds.
Imagine for a moment me the swimmer,
wallower in oceans Maya blue,
driven by the prospect
of Olympic medal glory,
fuelled by live wire rushes,
or the influential orchestrator sculpting drafts so lyrical they lift the Sony user into orbit.
But alas this wondrous flight ends far too soon, as that sonic rich arrangement slowly morphs into the haze.
Perhaps one day I’ll be the voice that hypnotises souls,
filler of a void with vivid wordscapes,
teleporting lives to fourth dimensions.
There’s always hope
After the election,
at least two things will continue without interruption: death and taxation.
After the election,
two kinds of people, the rich and the poor, will remain without interruption.
After the election,
I will continue to pray, to go to church, and keep writing new poems and stories.
After the election,
I'm not going to cry, worry, or fret over bad news or old stories.
After the election,
whether by mail, the internet, or bank drafts, bills will be due without hesitation.
After the election,
Airlines, hotels, and car rentals, will still expect us to make a reservation.
After the election,
College tuition will not be free, but young people will continue their education.
After the election,
Both winners and losers will continue their complaints and frustrations.
After the election, there will be less affection, but it’s unlikely there will be any defection.
After the election,
States will remain united, and none will decide to declare secession.
Although, after the election,
it’s possible there might be some new revelations.
However, after the election,
‘Trust me’, no Politian is likely to face any incarceration.
After the election,
The politicians will continue going in different directions.
After the election,
some will lick their wounds while others will have a celebration.
After the election,
Neither party will be any closer to perfection.
After the election,
No American soil will show lines of demarcation.
After the election,
There’ll be no need for ex-candidates to have better protection.
And finally, after the election, while Politicians will appear to be problem-solving, citizens will continue their own problem-solving without hesitation. 11032018 PS Contest, After The Election, Kim Rodriques
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.
Manhattan Soliloquy
...dedicated to Hart Crane (1899-1932)
As I dream the sounds of morning sliver,
cut my senses; slow, persistent slices
pierce my eyes to ragged wakefulness.
The muffled cries of merchant hustle and
the honking of the traffic, the noises of
a summer's day displace my reveries.
I wake, and through my window I see
barges in the harbour, bustling like
beetles, scuttling over busy waters,
dragging ships with overflowing cargoes
safe to rest - the dockhands primed
and ready to disgorge the merchandise,
as sunshine washes monoliths of steel
and glass in dazzling refinement - Manhattan
like a mass of golden bars, smoldering and tall.
Steam and smoke engulf a vibrant scene
encompassing, then drifting into nothingness,
the sky a blazing blue, the docks a maze
of rarified activity as yelling fills the air.
Beams irradiate my garret - drafts of bright
and humid air like punches in the stomach
take the breath out of my lungs and leave me
gasping. I sit and watch you sleeping on the bed.
You stretch atop the covers like a vision,
your legs and arms a picture in repose;
I do not dare to wake you from your dreams,
your limbs splayed like a strumpet, you expose
your naked form, my touch will flutter your desire.
your body 'wrapped in mine,
our souls a living sacramen
to love and joy divine.
I enter you and all the stars explode,
fulfillment is our quest,
our shining testament.
As evening gently falls the windows glimmer,
the city glistens now from altered light;
the glowing falters as the sun dips slowly,
dying in the West, makes way for night.
Activity's still rife, but in my garret,
I reach for you as darkness settles soft,
I hold you in my arms, forever blessed,
while stars are quietly dancing up aloft.
...dedicated to Hart Crane (1899-1932)
As I dream the sounds of morning sliver,
cut my senses; slow, persistent slices
pierce my eyes to ragged wakefulness.
The muffled cries of merchant hustle and
the honking of the traffic, the noises of
a summer's day displace my reveries.
I wake, and through my window I see
barges in the harbour, bustling like
beetles, scuttling over busy waters,
dragging ships with overflowing cargoes
safe to rest - the dockhands primed
and ready to disgorge the merchandise,
as sunshine washes monoliths of steel
and glass in dazzling refinement - Manhattan
like a mass of golden bars, smoldering and tall.
Steam and smoke engulf a vibrant scene
encompassing, then drifting into nothingness,
the sky a blazing blue, the docks a maze
of rarified activity as yelling fills the air.
Beams irradiate my garret - drafts of bright
and humid air like punches in the stomach
take the breath out of my lungs and leave me
gasping. I sit and watch you sleeping on the bed.
You stretch atop the covers like a vision,
your legs and arms a picture in repose;
I do not dare to wake you from your dreams,
your limbs splayed like a starlet, you expose
your naked form, my touch will flutter your desire.
your body 'wrapped in mine,
our souls a living sacrament
to love and joy divine.
We make love, and all the stars explode,
fulfillment is our quest,
our shining testament.
As evening gently falls the windows glimmer,
the city glistens now from altered light;
the glowing falters as the sun dips slowly,
dying in the West, makes way for night.
Activity's still rife, but in my garret,
I reach for you as darkness settles soft,
I hold you in my arms, forever blessed,
while stars are quietly dancing up aloft.
...dedicated to Hart Crane (1899-1932)
As I dream the sounds of morning sliver,
cut my senses; slow, persistent slices
pierce my eyes to ragged wakefulness.
The muffled cries of merchant hustle and
the honking of the traffic, the noises of
a summer's day displace my reveries.
I wake, and through my window I see
barges in the harbour, bustling like
beetles, scuttling over busy waters,
dragging ships with overflowing cargoes
safe to rest - the dockhands primed
and ready to disgorge the merchandise,
as sunshine washes monoliths of steel
and glass in dazzling refinement - Manhattan
like a mass of golden bars, smoldering and tall.
Steam and smoke engulf a vibrant scene
encompassing, then drifting into nothingness,
the sky a blazing blue, the docks a maze
of rarified activity as yelling fills the air.
Beams irradiate my garret - drafts of bright
and humid air like punches in the stomach
take the breath out of my lungs and leave me
gasping. I sit and watch you sleeping on the bed.
You stretch atop the covers like a vision,
your legs and arms a picture in repose;
I do not dare to wake you from your dreams,
your limbs splayed like a strumpet, you expose
your naked form, my touch will flutter your desire.
your body 'wrapped in mine,
our souls a living sacrament
to love and joy divine.
I enter you and all the stars explode,
fulfillment is our quest,
our shining testament.
As evening gently falls the windows glimmer,
the city glistens now from altered light;
the glowing falters as the sun dips slowly,
dying in the West, makes way for night.
Activity's still rife, but in my garret,
I reach for you as darkness settles soft,
I hold you in my arms, forever blessed,
while stars are quietly dancing up aloft.