Long Edna Poems
Long Edna Poems. Below are the most popular long Edna by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Edna poems by poem length and keyword.
Diamond in the rough, diamond's beauty framed
Upon hand of the lady loved by man
Lady who wears honor graces her domain
Lady possessed, owned: his games began
Diamond in the rough cuts to the core
Breaking down polished diamond whose surface
Begins to crack becoming his captor
Fed lies, half-truths, manipulated abased
Her confidence destroyed, looking at ring
Too tight like life, at least it sparkles still
Man_diamond in rough, untamed, would be king
Never will be, to dream of change unreal
Life being suffocated or life free
Choices made will life always this be?
Sponsor: Joann Grisetti
Contest: Copy Cat Contest
Author that inspired: Edna St. Vincent Millay
First Line of Poem:
Only the diamond and the diamond's dust
In the book that I have it is untitled
First line of poem used to find the work
Going back to my childhood home today
Oaks still there even though been long away
Your memories I take with me heavy
They are on my back; leaving them___ready
To be free of oppressing memories
Remembering him in his dungarees
Yet hard seems the memory of him now
Fierce, stony was his attitude somehow
Fear and tension he did bring to the child
Leave that one; go to another for awhile
Inhale the aroma of Sweet Shrub__spring
She would take child there__ the pleasant place bring
Her kitchen pleasant aroma__biscuits
Warmth, love, food, and comfort her best portraits
(After reading Edna St. Vincent Millay, I was impressed to write this one..)
Writings of Edna St. Vincent Millay
Even speak to me in these modern times
"To bear your body's weight" that she did say
To think and feel such thoughts today still crimes
"So she came back into his house again"
Writing about her life and her feelings
How she worked for women's rights way back when
Women were servants to men who's dealings
Treated women unfairly with no rights
Thanks to Edna_others who went before
There has been change; some not even in thoughts
Still those selfish men who steadily bore
Edna St. Vincent Millay you opened
My eyes in many ways this story adjourn
Sponsor:Francine Roberts
Contest: Tribute by sonnet
Tribute to Edna St. Vincent Millay
Click on "about this poem"
...Janet’s eyes went wide at the words,
Edna said,”It was so tragic.
Steve would come dance on Friday nights,
with the girls he worked his magic.
He met a woman that that dark night,
had no idea she was a wife.
Her husband came up, in a rage,
found them in her car, ‘at play.’
“He smashed the window with a gun,
they say he was seeing red,
aimed at Steve and opened fire,
putting three rounds into his head.
He fled the scene, up to Glendow,
the police found him hiding out.
The jury his life didn’t spare,
they gave that bastard the chair.
“The wife was shattered by the act,
some say that she moved up north,
can’t say for sure, but I know that,
she never came here no more.
A year later Steve reappeared,
and gave a girl a night of cheer,
just to flee before the 'fun,'
my dear, you’re not the only one.
“It seems every two months I speak
to another young thing like you,
most of them don’t believe it,
but I swear these words are true.
Steve just never had his fill,
and I fear that he never will.
Forever bound up by the wrong,
here his spirit lingers on.”
Janet retreated from the room,
bracing herself against the door,
desperately she scanned the bar,
looking out on the dance floor.
Steve still was absent from the crowd,
she didn’t know what to do now,
so she made for the entrance-way,
for in this place she could not stay.
But outside the fear faded fast,
and a breeze tussled her hair,
gently, like a lover’s hand,
as if somebody stood there.
A simple, quiet presence that
she knew deep down could not be bad.
Perhaps Steve really was a ghost,
certainly much kinder than most.
to spend all of your afterlife
sweeping the cowgirls off their feet,
she supposed there could be worse ways
to live out an eternity.
Bittersweetness ran through her mind,
she said,”Thanks Steve, for the good time.
Tonight stood out amongst the best,
and I pray, some day, you’ll find you’re rest….”
I can imagine : staring in the eyes of : Elizabeth Barret Browning
Seeing the " Glory of LOVE '; bring on the " Sorrow of LOVE "
The sweet outstanding " Black LOVE " of Edgar Allen POE
" Edna St. Vincent Millay " and I Believe in GOD'S Creation
To sit beside Carrie Richards; Watching POETRY Created
To Live , In the mind of the Teacher “ Carolyn Devonshire”
To Understand the Language , as the Great Master “ Dr. Ram Mehta “
To know ,FOREVER LOVE as the “ SweetHeart” ~ Linda-Marie ~
I have Forever Dreamed: of someday being a POET Laureate
How silly is my mind, when Emotions, have Died Long Ago
Words are Earthly : I can not understand their meaning, “PURPOSE”
If Only the HEART deep with-in the Soul : could write POETRY
“ I Could “
Woke up this morning and made you some breakfast.
You didn’t want it, this I could tell.
You walked to the stove and started to smell it,
turned up your nose, and said, "what the hell!"
It's just humble fare like my grandma Edna
used to prepare out west on the plains.
She always swore it was better than dyin'
from the throes of severe hunger pangs.
I know you’re a cowboy from your hat and your buckle
and the way you hang your thumbs from your belt,
but seeing your face all green makes me chuckle
from cowboy vittles that you only smelt
My darling I believed you were the real thing
a genuine cattle hand through and through,
but now I'll have to go back to the saloon
to find another who'll eat possum stew.
11/19/2018
Edna Purcell
1912-1930
Dying a virgin was the least of my regrets.
Dying a chaste woman at 18 seemed a moot point.
I remember watching my momma die.
It was in summer, and I was 16.
Hopelessly disconsolate, that’s how I felt;
How would I live without her?
Why was she so cruelly taken from me?
How did she get so sick?
My demise, then, was the anticlimax of my short sad life.
Oh cruel Fate, you!
I despise your insatiable appetite for shattered lives;
Indeed, I spit on you for all the ill-timings and bad luck.
I spit on your wry smile, lurking there,
Behind the shadowy trellis,
Of private episodes with flowers and silk;
You, with those arrogant knowing glances,
Those imploding muscular arms of private desperation.
I died a virgin indeed, never having you,
Died with an empty heart and a reeling soul.
Life was just a foolish grab for nothing;
Always seeming to have enough,
But always wanting much more.
That was life, my life in this quiet religious town.
So, I died a virgin in 1930. I was 18.
Too late for me, I guess.
All I wanted, was to spit in your face!
Oh cruel Fate, wrecker of dreams!
Poems about Poets V
Edna St. Vincent Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
Downdraft
by Michael R. Burch
for Dylan Thomas
We feel rather than understand what he meant
as he reveals a shattered firmament
which before him never existed.
Here, there are no images gnarled and twisted
out of too many words,
but only flocks of white birds
wheeling and flying.
Here, as Time spins, reeling and dying,
the voice of a last gull
or perhaps some spirit no longer whole,
echoes its lonely madrigal
and we feel its strange pull
on the astonished soul.
O My Prodigal!
The vents of the sky, ripped asunder,
echo this wild, primal thunder—
now dying into undulations of vanishing wings . . .
and this voice which in haggard bleak rapture still somehow downward sings.
Why the Kid Gloves Came Off
by Michael R. Burch
for Lemuel Ibbotson
It's hard to be a man of taste
in such a waste:
hence the lambaste.
Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poetry, poems, write, writing, muse, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dylan Thomas, drink, drinking
Sometimes, one must say goodbye
to a true love, by and by,
and, so it seems, today's the day
I had to throw my true love away.
Perhaps you may think it strange
that the one I love is my cassette tape collection,
but consider -
she's been with me since high school,
growing with me, sharing good times and bad.
Like me, she's grown old and no longer useful.
She's just taking up space.
I must admit, I can't play her anymore.
So, one by one, I separated
the cassettes,
the plastic cases,
and the handwritten playlists.
I'll keep those playlists of carefully selected songs,
marking the milestones of my life, as keepsakes -
tenth grade, when young love consumed me,
Only Love Can Break Your Heart,
eighteen, when I went out on my own,
and pirated Al's record collection,
Hobo's Lullaby and Foreign Affairs by Tom Waits,
then to college and the dorms
old psychedelic records from San Francisco
Fresh Air, What About Me?
Dean's folk music records,
Joan Baez and the Child Ballads,
Barbara Ellen,
Johnny Cash's Christmas Album, The Christmas Spirit -
Johnny's recitation of The Ballad of the Harp Weaver
by Edna St. Vincent MiIlay.
My wife even liked some of those songs -
and then all the children's albums,
folk albums,
and children's folk albums -
Ol' Bangum,
that I'd played for my son.
Wouldn't you know, he developed his own taste in music.
Tapes copied from friends, libraries, radio shows,
too numerous to count.
I can remember all the songs, but not all the sources.
I'm amazed at how many songs
composed the soundtrack of my life.
Sometimes, one must say goodbye
to a true love, by and by,
and, so it seems, today's the day
I had to throw my true love away.
Our neighbor Edna is an incessant talker for sure
My husband says squawker, and I think so too
Weird words come out in a blather, somehow threatening
More than a bit of chatter, it is constant and nonsensical.
We call her magpie when we are alone, which is not nice.
For this infraction, we may someday atone, we know it too.
But for now, it gives us a tiny bit of satisfaction, strangely enough.
Edna’s words are fired forth in a spewing action, her ideas open.
It’s like every thought in her head has to come forth.
Does she keep nothing for herself? To make fun of us perhaps?
Her ways are curious to us, and her rhymes are twisted and disjointed.
A dash from subject to subject, and quickly back. It is difficult to follow.
There is a rhythm to her madness. She dances to her own rhymes.
Magpie’s rhymes. I like the sound of this, decide to write a poem.
Can never tell Edna of her help though, for she is an incessant talker.
Never listens to anyone else, thinking only her thoughts are important.