Long Eclectic Poems
Long Eclectic Poems. Below are the most popular long Eclectic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eclectic poems by poem length and keyword.
My grandparents lived on farms – both sides of my family.
My mother’s parents and my father’s parents.
Overalls and button down shirts with pockets
Work boots for grandpas
Except my single grandpa did get dressed up fancy
For Saturday night dancing with his girlfriend.
He smelled wonderful too, wore a lariat with a turquoise stone
Shined his shoes as if he was going to church
My maternal grandmother was the only one I knew.
She wore a navy dress with large white polka dots
When we had weddings or funerals, and low heel shoes
The rest of the time I remember her wearing aprons over dresses
My mother was the first woman I saw who wore pants.
She preferred them to dresses, and took to polyester in a big way.
Remember the pantsuits of the seventies? I swear she invented those.
Matching tunics with wide legged pants.
My father wore plaid shirts or camouflage jackets
Unless he was going to work; then he wore a dark suit.
He was a salesman with a skinny tie.
He always looked crisp and clean; mom used starch on his clothes.
My style was wide bell bottom blue jeans that we called hip huggers.
When I was younger, and tops that looked maternity in the seventies.
This was the real style which horrified me in 1974, as I had to wear these blousy tops two years in a row
because I had a baby at twenty and twenty-one.
My new style is comfort. I am sixty-eight. I wear tennis shoes.
Elastic waists, soft clothes that are not tight, I love feeling free.
My husband is the same way – comfort clothes, elastic waists.
We like eating tasty foods; no blue jeans for us now.
We have three children. They dress according to their lives.
One has six children, but she dresses fancy and so do they.
Another has no children, she’s a professional. She dresses in suits.
Third child alternates between casual and fancy; working mom of three.
Our grandchildren are eclectic fashion displayers also.
Super controlled grandchildren wear traditional clothing,
Approved by mom or they do not leave the house.
The ones who are wild like our middle daughter have pink and blue hair.
I see dresses that are too short - the same as I wore in middle school.
I see pants that are too tight on boys, like we saw in the eighties.
I see boots not as cute as Nancy Sinatras or or go-go-boots.
Masks are the new fashion statement for the younger generation sadly.
And thus began their heroic journey through the fantastical labyrinth of the escape room, where every twist and turn carried the promise of freedom, laughter, and the unforeseen—the perfect remedy for chaos and an unexpected road trip back to normalcy. After all, in a place where even a bunny could be a hero, and a Man is a Woman, anything was possible. Even a Media run Presidential Campaign supported by Big Tech, Google and the FBI !
As Penney and Gus entered the vibrant escape room, the door clicked shut behind them, "Penney parted from the impending loom, weaving her curiosity in a gape driven plume; punctuating the chaotic symphony of the mall with a sense of immediate sanctuary. The room was a kaleidoscope of interesting colors, smells—walls adorned with whimsical murals of enchanted forests, floating bubbles, and scattered stars. Even some Left Wing styled fecal graffiti, as if plastered from the hand to Trump sign out of TDS. It felt like stepping into another world, far removed from the madness outside. A home away from home !
“Okay, what’s the first clue?” Gus asked, glancing around at the eclectic decorations, which ranged from giant inflatable mushrooms to shimmering disco balls. They needed to think fast, and the first challenge awaited like a Mother given the news that the police would be escorting her child home after a bonus round of shoplifting at Castle Megastore had landed her in the "Stoney Loaf".
“Over there!” Penney exclaimed, pointing to a large, comically oversized egg perched precariously atop a pedestal. “There’s bound to be something inside!”
They approached cautiously, the soft thump of their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet that crunched as they stroke on, I mean strode on, apparently-designed to match the room's carnival theme or was it Carnivaal, Carnibaal? No matter, with a gentle push, Gus nudged the egg, and it wobbled dangerously before them. A creaky voice echoed from within, making them jump.
“Beware the wrath of the bouncing bunny, and tell Nanceycat to invest in BlackRock!”, it croaked, before the egg split open, revealing a tangle of colorful ribbons and a single, glittering key.
“Perfect!” Penney cheered, plucking the key from the chaos. “Let’s see what it unlocks.” She scanned the walls for a keyhole, eyeing an intricate door covered in glowing glyphs.
Death of a Dream
by Amy Swanson
Time
existence
goes by
*long drawn out sigh*
gray transforming
overbearing
the happy
once joyful
exuberant bright cheerful eclectic
becoming shadows
misty vapor
rising to the sky
fleeting...
gone.
Days gone by
weeks
and
months
and
years
motions of life
crowd out
emotions of life
This unrecognized yet all too familiar place...
This is where dreams are born.
This is where dreams die.
Spark of light
soft golden
struggles against
darkened mire
hope's ashes
faith's grief
love's despondence
Marigold hue
charred
sphere of night envelopes
Streaks and smudges
of pride
vanity
selfishness
cruelty
deface life's canvas
once glowing brilliant
-- now torn and tainted.
This unrecognized yet all too familiar place...
This is where dreams are born.
This is where dreams die.
Silence...
utter chaos...
sheer madness
consuming life -
they don't know.
They don't care.
They go about
*busily*
trading dreams
spiritual riches
for material fantasies
built with air.
Colorless
consumes the bright
one small spark
daring dream
chasing burgeoning shadows
until exhausted
extinguished...
no more.
This unrecognized yet all too familiar place...
This is where dreams are born.
This is where dreams die.
Into your being, Aeolus blew
an enthusiastic hunger,
Driving your curious and passionate nature
To swirl together in an eclectic dance,
Displaying a prismatic array of imaginative hues,
a zealous vortex, a colorful blur.
You were alive in a way very few
Ever were
This was you.
People said you were a mess,
a faltered and broken soul, they'd say,
an albatross placed around one's neck,
a sinking ship, a ball, and chain—
a disaster not yet made.
With jealous words, they chose to speak
but I saw the magic
they were too blind to see.
Your chaos was brilliant;
you were beautiful to me.
You calmed in my presence
enough that I could see
your aura painted with every color known to be.
And when your eyes met mine,
I could tell
they saw beyond my earthly shell.
And within your essence of spinning hues,
I saw something else there too:
a sadness,
a sadness I swore to love out of you,
to preserve the magic in your dance.
So I gave you my loyalty, time, and patience
for my love already lived within your essence’s grasp,
I was determined to heal the tear in your heart,
to mend without scars all your shattered parts.
While in my soul's embrace,
your shadows seemed to wane.
With time, the darkness did ascend—
you felt no more pain,
no heaviness within.
But as the shadows left your face,
your cyclonic presence softened its pace.
With your heart filled
and your sadness erased,
I watched your vortex still
and its colors fade.
Happy and whole, you felt content
in the family we created, in the life we lived.
Feeling ashamed, I began to pull away,
remorseful, burying the ache I could not explain.
I was angry with my own heart
for feeling confused—
in the absence of your color, I had lost my muse.
For the murder of inspiration,
my love stands accused,
missing all the initial cues
that the sadness I sought to remove
was more important to me
than I ever knew
I understand now what your sadness did—
it held open the wound where your magic lived.
And the pain that wound made, it gave like a gift,
stitching new feeling to every color it bled.
And with every new color, reality bent,
giving birth to a finale of colorful spark
That ignited the beautiful whirlwind of chaos
I loved with every ounce of my heart
Because Her Heart Is Tender, for Beth
by Michael R. Burch
She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget”
dove-white on her car’s window (though the wren,
because its heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her). As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget!”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET!”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
(The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when nestlings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
love's reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.)
She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET!”
because her heart is tender with regret.
Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, Nietzsche Twilight, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International
Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.
Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.
Because her heart is tender
Jacob’s Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.
Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!
Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch
The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.
It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.
It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.
Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble,
just like getting sloshed in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.
Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.
Written: August 11, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In a world saturated—with eclectic noise,
Synth melodies dance, enticing with poise.
An earworm takes hold—its grip never wanes,
As we crave for a moment to break free of chains
Through the cacophony, a floral dress sways,
A symbol of beauty—a delicate haze.
But beneath its soft folds lie tales untold.
Of war crimes committed, of stories unfold.
In a theater of life—where battles are fought
And the war on terror—a relentless onslaught
Fragments of humanity shattered and torn,
As infrastructure crumbles, a world in mourn.
The echoes of transcendence, elusive and rare,
Whisper in the wind—a call to beware
In the midst of chaos—hope shudders and sighs,
A yearning emerges a craving to rise.
To break free from the dyke that holds us in place,
To find a raw path, a different embrace.
In this moment of darkness, it becomes imperative,
To seek out the light—to be truly alive.
War is papered over with lies and deceit.
Our souls are left with scars incomplete.
But amidst the destruction, a flicker of hope
A chance to rebuild, to learn, and to cope.
Echoes of transcendence—guide us along,
To a place where peace and harmony belong.
So let us embrace the power to rearrange.
And let our moods fly, with no limits in exchange.
Let us rise above the noise and find our way.
To a world where love and compassion hold sway.
For in the echoes of transcendence, we find our voice,
To rewrite the narrative and bear a different choice.
No longer trapped by the chains that bind,
We break free, leaving the past behind.
With hearts wide aloof, and minds unconfined,
We embark on a journey, leaving no soul behind.
Echoes of transcendence—resonate within.
Kindling a fire that spreads from therein
With every motion, we approach grace.
Leaving darkness, accepting a raw pace.
No longer defined by the wars of the past,
We build a future that will eternally last.
With love as our weapon, and peace as our guide,
We transcend the limitations and let our souls glide.
I love my family but am not wholeheartedly committed to them.
I am significantly detached from society as a whole itself.
I shall always embrace my inner child or inner self.
I am free to introspect and imagine as much as I want or even need to.
I hold gratefulness & appreciation: just never easy to sincerely express it fully.
I believe everyone is equally a potential hypocrite.
I think all things are "easy" to forgive, but some are hard to forget.
I research possible explanations for my personal spiritual beliefs.
I feel as if what you do in life only matters when it is recognized or "seen."
I feel as if people don't truly care too much about you or anyone else.
I can express myself however I want to, but only amongst loved ones.
I believe not in cliché love, I only believe in fleeting embraces and poetry.
I seem to lack empathy for others, but I am capable of personal feelings.
I have an eclectic mindset of beliefs; I am free to have it be this way for me.
I believe God is the Universe or a greater form of human consciousness.
I believe God is watching over me when the sun shines through the clouds.
I believe in the power of prayer, especially for things your soul desires.
I believe existential loneliness is a strong factor in my self-growth.
I believe I occasionally have pre-cognitive dreams.
I feel as if my little sister was born because of my prayer for her birth.
I often wonder and think about what could be my meaning or purpose in this life.
I believe all religions and beliefs lead to the same God.
I believe all deities are God Almighty manifested in many ways.
I believe in freedom of religion and tolerance for all sexual orientations.
I believe animals can intuitively know what you are feeling.
I believe that sometimes children know so much better than adults do.
I choose people who my intuition feels to be worthy of being my friends.
I feel as if I am fated to feel so alone in this world at times.
I retain my inner strength through the lonely times of my life.
Quite mild winter weather bourne this way
within environs of Perkiomen Valley
since latter months of 2021,
but also since me
January 13th, 2022 birthday,
I predict minimal snowfall
for remainder of 2022 winter,
what with just couple weeks
until Spring Equinox.
Within lil more'n a fortnight,
as tempestuous slam
dunk March madness closes curtain call
“in like a lion, out like a lamb,”
twill hove tested survivability,
asper flora, thru harsh winter, and
those most see ring robust will pass exam
unbridled love bursting asunder
cavorting, frolicing, instigating
wham bam thank you ma'am
lollygagging, orchestrating, romancing
while birds and bees pollinate jam
ming, humming, fostering sensational slam
dance, where flora lifts, wafts, and yawps
invoke warble, gurgle,
burble from baby in pram.
Meanwhile latent Mother Earth
quite pregnant with
multifarious potent new life
vermilion, violet ready to burst
asunder from Gaia's girth
dramatically altering landscape
with expectant birth
of animal and plant species distilled
within crucible, sans terra firma hearth
quite a contrast, when
polar vortex wrought dearth
whence Spring begets plenti
kindling, snapchatting, and twittering mirth.
Also uniquely designed hue man
denizens of every stripe nurse
tender affection expressing
amorous poetry and verse
rejoicing, the dead of winter,
and attendant frostbite curse
frozen folks felled, thence carried
away in horse drawn hearse,
where heavy grief ameliorated
as natural holistic
narcotic brings pacific
balm, calm, and psalm snapping,
crackling, and popping
wide web with electric
ambient ancient, yet contemporary music
punctuating the air with lulling lyric
since time immemorial
recognized as greatest soporific
equally savored, whether
devout or atheistic
nonpareil eclectic dreamy
harmonic melange cathartic
aural, diurnal, integral
quintessentially converging harmonic,
democratic, and anthemic
congregation replete with fantastic
incorporation, viz diversity galactic!
(continued)
V
Has it not occurred to you how I sat with you
dear sister, counting the chicking back of the
evening train by the window sill and then
got up to wind my way down the snake infested rail
to shoo shoo the cows home to brood
while you gee gee-d the chicks to coop
and did we not then plan of a farm
a green milking farm to warm the palm
then turned to scratch the itch over in our minds
lay down on the floors, mat aside
our thoughts to cushion heads
whilst dug tapioca roots heaped the dream
and we lay scraping the kernel-less
fiber shelled coconuts
O Bhama, my goatless daughter kid
how I nursed you with the callow calves
those mutual moments forced in these common lives
and then, that day when they sold you
the blistering shirtless sun never flinching
an eye, defiant I stood caressing your creamy coat
and all you could say was a hopeless baaa..a..aa
and then, then, that day as we came over the mountains
two kids you led to the thorny brush, business bent
the eye-balling bharata natyam
VI
O masters of my fading August dream
For should you take this life from me
Know you any better
Than when children we have joyously romped
Down and deep in the August river
Washing on the mountain tin.
Now on the growing granite's precipitous face
In our vigilant wassail
Remember the children downstream playing
Where your own little voices are speechless lingering
Let it not be simply said that a river flows
to flourish a land
More than that he who is high at the source
take heed:
For a river putrid in the cradle is worse
than the plunging flooding rain.
And the eclectic monsoons may have come
Have gathered and may have gone
While the senses still within torrid membranes
thap-pooo-ng
thap-pong-ng-ng
thap-pong
(for "Glossary of Vernacular Terms" see next page)
Conversation with an Angel
I live in an average neighborhood, in Colorado Springs. I like to refer to my street as
the ‘all American street’. Most of the homes in my neighborhood were built between the
1890’s and early 1930’s. Our yards are reflective of our personalities, so I believe. An
eclectic mosaic of manicured and not so manicured lawns, xeriscaped, not so xeriscaped
yards fill the view as one drives down the road.
We still say hello as we pass by, and many walk our dogs or just enjoy the company of a
loved one for an evening stroll. With Pike’s Peak as our back drop I think most of us feel
blessed to call our neighborhood home.
One night while out walking about an hour before dusk, I noticed something not quite
right. A little out of place if you will; between the road and the sidewalk is a section
of yard for each home, about 10 feet from sidewalk to curb, with Elms and Oak trees
agelessly garnishing the street, I happened to notice a man about two blocks ahead, bent
down ‘doing something’ quite contently. Nothing out of the ordinary, I guess I was just
fixed on the length of time he was bent down. As I approached, I imagined what he was
doing, “an injured pet maybe or damaged sprinkler head”. As I came closer I noticed he’d
look up in my direction, and back down again. I had a sense that whatever it was he was
doing; he wanted to be done before I arrived. I picked up my pace, more curious than
worried. Finally, as I crossed the next street; he was within ears shot of a quick
“hello”. He looked up and nodded back, then down again at whatever he was doing. I could
make out his features and knew he was ‘not from around these parts’. It was summertime,
and his appearance was quite disheveled. His face was unshaven, not a beard, but a few
days growth, wrinkled and tanned as if he’d been homeless for a while. His hair was
tousled, bleached from the sun with wisps of gray. I found it odd, that he had on a long
tan rain coat, blue jeans and sandals with no shirt underneath.