Long Eight Poems
Long Eight Poems. Below are the most popular long Eight by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eight poems by poem length and keyword.
The warm spring rain is a steady downpour
on this foggy eight- wheeler
parked by a dark highway seen from nowhere,
as I hold and softly caress
your glowing photograph in my hands;
this wish seems impossible,
and imagining you next to me...
brings me closer to reality!
I trust, you'll remain faithful to me...
and mark down another empty day,
making you restless and insecure;
all in all, I am the same man you adored!
My feet trudge into the deep sand...
making me wish that there was more
to life than this useless sorrow;
I have loved you and been proud of it,
and I hope to make you the happiest...
when all this comes to an end!
I trust, you'll remain faithful to me...
as I am faithful to you to this day;
to give up everything we gave and felt...
would be none other than foolishness!
The spring rain has stopped coming down,
a patch of blue is seen though the bright clouds;
at least, my hope isn't completly gone...
that's a good sign for a guy who only wished once!
Is it Epson Salt?
All those nice villas along the coast are empty save for stray cats
and those too poor to live inland because the sea stinks like
bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out of too much
acidity caused by industry, and now it is too late to clean up the mess.
Fish in tanks are guarded and so expensive only the very rich can afford it,
say, bacalao; we have to eat fishcakes consisting of ninety-eight percent
mashed potatoes, and the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure-all medicine,
it’s too expensive, and only the well-off can afford to buy it,
and they, the rich, live years longer than the poor.
This has raised concern and social unrest, politicians on the left,
insist the poor have the right to be given a teaspoon
of the healthy oil every morning;
Mind there is synthetic cod liver oil, but it tastes awful.
Seagulls and terns have adopted well have earth-hued feathers,
sit in carob trees, sharp-eyed keep an eye for scraps of food and
scare tiny tots with their inane pirate shrieks.
From a safe distance, when the wind is calm, and on moonlit nights,
the sea looks as beautiful as written in fairy tale books, by
a marine biologist.
The near wintry fog hangs low around the porch
like an aperture of a grey sky
diffusing tinseled light …and in my quietude,
I listen to a whiff, a rhythm which anchors on gently
almost languid in the barren rail
of evening: Amidst this space, my breath heaves
through past years’ arduous nuance
chilled by mild regrets.
I must attest, my personal saga
did glide without much logic, shimmering not
upon moon’s flash—
yet, this heart’s temerity for loyal affection
abides... lauding the jubilant wonderment
from intimate kinship, a proclivity fired
by a soul content with hours spent
with brood, true allies who know entirely
that each lit marrow down the bones arises
from a devotion embracing radiant warmth,
when all those carefree, deep moments relieve me
from not being alone — in any wintry fog ever.
~
For John Hamilton: Eight word challenge-9 Contest
11/16/2018
Imagists use clear, simple language to paint a picture. Imagery, on the other hand, is use of flowery and descriptive language, and often figurative language, to create an image in the reader’s mind. An imagist would keep things simple, and not use imagery other than specific sensory details.
Wordless lines,indelible impressions with imagination set free to flower in the mind’s eye.Images rather than words remain,colour & space released,set apart,the extra from the ordinary,a moment seen and then heard.
Adelaide Crapsey The apex For me in the imagist genre
A well travelled lass named Adelaide
Innovative and never staid,
Unmarried,single but no old maid-
A short life,latterly full of pain,
Her epitaph,the American cinquain.
For the lovely Adelaide Crapsey
a long life was not to be.
In syllable,two,four,six eight&two
her cinquain made imagism anew
To the heart of the matter
windblown
by gusty amazements
a richness and complexity
fine and delicate
the beauty of verse
speech by ‘ear’
&reason tested
not in arrogance
but humility
& subtlety of form
Questions
alluring in novelty
foreshadowed
by conscious perception
Far and leisured
discerned by a prosody
of rhythm
The contrast of
speech appears musical
&
temporal
in the listener’s ear
She, who consumed poison
From the sight of blood that gradually rotted
For all she could do was endure the smell
Of a body bound to rot.
Blood is thicker than water
That blood was half of hers
But she masked the faint smell in rotting juice.
She knew, everyone else did too.
One claims to know the holistic answers
Until it becomes their situation.
I understand the imagined smell
And the body yet to fall
Through the black lingering mist.
Nothing shines upon them in your eyes anymore.
The wacky laugh becomes unsettling
When the empty mouth opens.
There is nothing funny to laugh at
When the laugh almost wasted him away.
The joke does not exist
When the joke exists inside the scrambled brains of eight years.
Innocence is sweet
Ignorance is perfect.
Now the woman saw the corpse for what it wanted
The rotting smell wasn’t so bad
Blood became thicker than ever.
Water became her companion.
Others await in the same wait.
Disturbed by the sight of the soon-to-be rotting body
Unsure of what to do
Except to drink the rotting juice.
Over eighty years ago, my father
made a miniature Model T Ford
from scratch to scale out of
paper, paint, cardboard, wire and glue.
He could cradle it in his palm
the size of a small teapot,
half globe used like a cake cover,
glossy black chassis, red trim,
a circular base of green felt.
Posing like a shiny eight ball
waiting to be struck by
our pent up kid hands.
We pined to push it across
the basement linoleum floor.
But never could.
Keeping us back was the glassy globe
and Grandmother Lil's wary warning,
"Children, look but don't touch".
Same stern voice our mother heard
many times growing up,
we knew she meant business.
So when arriving at Grandmother's,
we'd march to its stately shelf
in parochial school procession
fascinated with this classic in glass.
As little more than toddlers,
we knew nothing of the "Tin Lizzie" saga.
So impressionable was I in the 1950s,
could there be a secret world in there?
I wanted to go in. But never could.
Didn't lift that glass till my mid-forties.
By then, the model was too fragile to touch.
Like an old, dried leaf ready to crumble.
It reminded me of those snowflake globes,
if turned upside down, snow scatters.
The wonderment of my dad's deft hands,
his piercing blue eyes focused on crafting -
bending, cutting, painting, gluing each part.
Thinking of what he was thinking then.
Concentrating more, I feel his essence -
his scent, his voice, his humor, his breath.
Today, when I recall the car in the globe,
I see a tiny cosmos, a bubble much like
the one I create to protect my privilege now.
Grasping for solace in other worlds is
a childish ambition only achieved in delusion.
Through the globe, my father still speaks.
Sometimes my eyes get glassy to think of it.
2/27/20 written
A Tender Moment From Childhood
Sponsor: Malaika Ray Choudhury
Pursuing more than a fair rightful need,
Man, thou hast cornered every craven toy,
Coveting vulture-like that grabs with greed,
Indulging more, way far less to enjoy,
Chasing false thrills on thy life’s every shore
To gratify thy voracious desires,
Fuelling around furious forest fires,
Yielding less and less, fielding more and more.
Thou hast far fewer brain spots of pleasure—
Those that fuel in thee a raging fire,
Beware, Nature has a rare erasure
On thy streetcar with a brake-less desire
That darts more dots O driving thou to strive,
Yet, satisfaction does seldom arrive.
Beware O man, ye covet in excess
In hedonic hotspots’ frantic mad chase,
Attempting to get more, enjoying less,
Amidst all boundless bounties art thou blasé!
…..
What ancient wisdom of ours long ere knew,
Science endorses now its weighty view.
________________________________________
Happenings | 01.04.2007 | desire, joy, pleasure
Poet’s note: A scientific study shows that wanting and liking are separate spots in brain controlled by different circuits. Only when these urges occur in sync, is the impact on brain powerful. But there is a catch. Brain has fewer mechanisms for pleasure than for desire. Hence humans are susceptible to wanting more than they can actually enjoy. Alas, science is only now beginning to understand the Indic thought spiritually and philosophically divined long ago, that too much desire which always frustrates man is not good. Minimizing one’s needs is the key to happiness.
This poem has four stanzas, progressively reducing in size— from eight, to six, to four, to two— the hedonic spots for desire must gradually reduce in sync with those to enjoy.
Sitting on a porch between two flags
I watch a man ride by on a bike,
a box of magic tied to his back.
Should I stop and ask him about it, Dad?
Should I ask God how you are getting along
in heaven without a bicycle? Without me?
Last night I forgot how it was --
the shape of your face, the slant of your nose,
the way you would laugh in the back
of your throat. You had laughed as you agreed
that my observation of rug makers, or scrub jays,
or magic trick artists was from a different
perspective that yours, one you had not
thought of before.
But now, I cannot recall what your perspective
was, as I balance grief and sanity in my old age.
I've forgotten so much since your absence,
so much of what we shared our many years.
But one thing I do recall, as I was only eight.
You said that you believed in a parallel
universe and asked if I could believe it, too.
The sun was warm on my shoulders
as we stood in our small dirt yard.
In my youth, sometimes walking down the street, I daydreamed,
fantasizing all the thrills fate had in store for me.
Reveries of romance became reality for such unbelievably short time
at last I tossed those foolish daydreams to the side!
What good were they? It seems to me, we’re dealt
fate’s hand, whatever it may be. Now as I grow older (wiser?)
I know where wishful thinking gets me. Old reveries have died.
I wonder now if it’s too late to wait again for fate to realize new dreams!
July 3, 2018 for Silent One's Eight Lines Of Fate, When You Wonder If It Is Too Late Poetry Contest
Seasons
Each season she will rise
Changing them with her sighs; to tame
the seasons with no shame
In life none can share blame; you see
Because she sets them free
Taking the old, so we can play
Refresh the earth each day, the land
she rules with iron hand
My attempt at this form! It is called a Luc Bat form!
The luc bat is a Vietnamese poetic form
that means “six-eight.” In fact, the poem
consists of alternating lines of six and eight syllables.
This form is interesting in its rhyme scheme that
renews at the end of every eight-syllable line
and rhymes on the sixth syllable of both lines.
xxxxxA
xxxxxAxB
xxxxxB
xxxxxBxC
xxxxxC
xxxxxCxD
xxxxxD
xxxxxDxE
And so on. Luc bat poems have
no set length or subject matter,
and some run on for thousands of lines.
Form: