Long English Poems
Long English Poems. Below are the most popular long English by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long English poems by poem length and keyword.
"Predators lurk in darkness. Sometimes however cautious we are, they jump upon us to play havoc. We build dreams, but never know when cruel fate comes to shatter them. Life is so unpredictable."--- ~ By Poet~
On a tree, the Robin built a nest of intricate design,
A beautiful piece of art unmatched in décor!
It was amid the dark verdure of a hefty pine,
Thoughtfully placed at a height above the ground’s floor.
This habitat with its life and grace, none could ignore.
How suddenly the nest erupts into a clatter of sounds,
As the mother bird comes diving in with a wriggling worm.
Discreetly thrusting it into gaping mouths, into sky she mounts.
Comes again to see they are fed well and this to affirm,
She comes often and sees her nestlings are free of all harm.
At night fall, wherever she is, she alights abrupt.
From what infinite heights, God alone knows.
Darting into her nest as she hovers, the birdies suddenly erupt
Into noise, but soon the din subsides into perfect peace.
Bundled in mother’s warmth, the little ones go into repose.
From my window, I enjoy this diurnal scene
Repeating itself in methodical precision
Until someday take on wings and into sky, fly unseen
A cheery sight, with joy, every day I could envision.
Through years, I used to watch this drama in repetition.
But the next morn, what a shock, I lost my zest,
At what I espied through my open window.
On the ground lay the swallow’s shattered nest,
Broken and blown into pieces, what a depressing show!
By its side, lay a few downy feathers in a zig zag row.
In an instant, through my mind flashed past,
An image, I had seen the previous night
It was the glowing eyes of the black tom cat
That regularly prowls my courtyard to my great fright.
With sadness I visualized the horrid scenes of a losing fight.
In restless dreams I sail the night on celestial seas,
starlight serving as my guide on uncharted course.
I explore constellations with consummate expertise,
shared as a secret, but I'll never reveal my source.
My mentor is an impressive sage, a tour de force.
Some nights I fly around the moon with canvas wings,
landing on her surface for a brief respite in the night,
then journey, searching for love, around Saturn's rings
for a handsome dreamer, a gallant captain or a knight
to soar through galaxies with me when we take flight.
I've yet to find a seraphic to ignite my stellar flare.
My dreams may become a scrapbook of sad souvenirs
unless I find an elixir that will lead me to love's lair.
Until then I'll drink bitter wine, infused with my tears.
Where must my search continue, for how many years?
I shall savor the flavor of starlight while I am dreaming.
Thirst quenched in the waters during the moon's eclipse.
I hope to find a lover at my side, his sultry eyes gleaming,
whispering sensuous words before I surrender my lips.
I long to be seduced and caressed by his warm fingertips.
March 8, 2022
Quintain (English) Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Let's embrace and comfort each other,
because today is the day of sad memories:
awakening both the agony and the pain;
and should tears fall, don't wipe them...
let them gently flow into the fountain of grief.
Did that tragedy change us entirely,
bonding us together as a stronger Nation?
And shouldn't we pray and sing together
with the survivors of that horrible morning...
remembering that today is the day of sad memories?
No rain will be falling as it did last year, and how could we mourn
as yesterday and not understand that our beloved ones
do not wish us to grieve anymore? Perhaps sending smiles
to Heaven will help us realize that our prayers will make them smile...
wishing that today wouldn't be the day of sad memories.
On Ground Zero, where the mighty towers fell,
thousands will gather around the beautiful Memorial
with flowers and candles in their hands, being assured
that angels will guard this most sacred place...
to remind everyone that today is the day of sad memories.
My poem is dedicated to the victims and survivors of September 11
Moonlight was the only light to make streaks across
a sky full of suspense which even a thief was afraid of;
and as I dragged you along lamp-lit, narrows streets,
we seemed two ghosts wearing human masks...
but what was on our delirious minds, if not love?
Your wish was to be on the Ponte Dei Respiri to sigh and dream...
while viewing that moon with new eyes to catch that rare gleam,
but the quickest way to get there was to wave down a gondolier! But there was
no space as thousands of people, wearing masks, were riding in those gondolas...
without despairing, we stopped on the nearest bridge and passionately kissed!
I resembled the Phantom of the Opera without that disfigured face;
you seemed like the seductive Dodge's wife so glamorous and gleeful,
and your mask was of the loveliest blue as the sky over the Adriatic Sea...
when Saint Mark's bells rang and doves flew to revive their past glory.
Oh, darkness endure more to let our memory always be a night in Venice!
Entered in Nette Onclaud's contest,
" It's Mask Time "
Written by Andrew Crisci
A tank rat is a throwback to
Another place and time,
For somehow all that armor grew
Amidst primordial slime,
And now protects them in their crime.
At night, they sneak into my yard,
Tear up the flower bed.
My wife has pressed me very hard;
The thought alone fills me with dread,
For she wants me to shoot those suckers dead!
I cannot bring myself to this
And so I bought a trap.
Though I will not impart a kiss
Or hold them in my lap,
I let them go because it seems I am a tank rat sap!
----------
Seventh Place Winner
for "Quintain (English)" Poetry Contest, 2/4/22)
sponsored by Emile Pinet
Raindrops splash against the glass,
with a pitter-patter sound.
And the storm is slow to pass
while the rain pummels the ground
where muddy puddles abound.
Thunder clouds, purple and gray,
roll across a murky sky.
And on this dank, dreary day,
dejected birds, will not fly:
hesitant to even try.
Shadows pool in silhouette,
shading colors starved of light.
And everything is all wet:
giving the wind its sharp bite,
as a sad sun slinks from sight.
I struggle to shake the blues
and keep the doldrums at bay.
For my melancholy muse
is not in the mood to play:
on such a depressing day.
~Brief Encounter~
My head is spinning, my body too
It’s beyond belief that we finally meet
Words of love you have whispered are true
In your arms you hold me and sweep me off my feet
A smile so shy for a second till our lips meet.
The sparks fly, was there ever a meeting like this?
No need for flowers or gifts, no fancy things
Held in your arms and just welcome a kiss
Nothing more is required, no promise of rings
Just to meet finally, make mine, and your heart sing.
Hands that do touch, hearts beat as one
Breath that is shared, eyes closed quite tight.
Your arms give me strength, until you are gone
It was just a brief encounter yet it felt so right
I’ll watch and I’ll wave until you have gone from my sight.
© ~GG~26/10/2102
If this is my last poem, a masterpiece it will not be,
nor a poem of sorrow written deep into the night.
No self-recriminations or guilt. That is not me.
By nature I’m a sonneteer. My poetry is light.
A song of happiness and gratitude I’ll write.
As imperfect as I always was and still am to this day,
I have a gentle spirit and am kind
like many others close to me, who I am glad to say
I did not have to look too hard to find -
good friends who understand my heart and mind.
Yes, good friends I’ve always had; they are my prize
for my simply being on this earth, for little do I do
to merit their affection. In my eyes,
they are roses; from random seeds they grew!
Some flourish yet today in my garden of friendship sweet and true.
Then there are my sisters, who from my mother’s womb
came to share a strange and wondrous childhood with me.
I’m lucky, for this fate did not spell doom.
Though woes would soon ensue from a blended family,
we found great pleasure in a lifestyle of simplicity.
Older now, with children, my sisters and I thrive.
The memories we made together, like a song,
linger, and I’m happy to be alive,
knowing that my children too belong
with me in spirit, for our bonds are strong.
Yes, friends and family, and so much more:
a husband who works hard and has been true,
the children of my children and the pets that I adore!
There are students who have touched my life; they’ve come and gone,
but how I hope that in their hearts a piece of me lives on.
If this is my last poem, I must conclude
with things I got to do! I got to play,
see movies, write my poems, eat good food,
and read of places that I got to visit far away!
Thank you, God, for everything, is all that's left to say.
Written Aug. 28, 2015 and now used June 26, 2016
for the Second Place Contest Contest of Laura Loo
The wheel of time makes seasons come and go
The touch of their fleeting footfall I feel
Through my life’s meadow they all saunter slow
Their attributes have distinctive appeal
Nature prints unique image they reveal.
The ashen autumn sky loses the glare
In the cold span of calm clumps of cloud crawl
The frosty dawn feels the chilled touch of air
Blowing through bush at winter’s arctic call
Across bare landscape with stripped trees of fall.
Winter has come on fading pale sunray
Spreads snow on auburn pastures of wasteland
Brought us the much awaited holiday
Of merry Christmas time so very grand
Children wait to get gifts from Santa’s hand.
___________________
December 29, 2022
Syllable count : 10 per line (HMS)
Rhyme checked with RhymeZone.com
Contest : A Christmas Special
Sponsored by : Emile Pinet
The wisps of climbing clouds float slowly away,
brushing the azure of the end-summer’s ashen sky.
The returning birds bathe in the glint of the blue bay,
in the twilight gleam to the amber nest they all fly,
as autumn arrives with crystal ambiance on the sly.
In the lucent threshold of the sun-soaked horizon,
it splits the surreal sunbeam in the spectrum of rays,
sparkle of hues spilling from the palette colors the dawn.
Bowed down slender blades of fawn grass sway
in the crisp air on the lap of meadow turning gray.
They wear crafted crown of the shining topaz dew,
flickering with the flair of dawn’s chalcedony glow.
Lining the sun-burnt cinnabar garden path paved anew,
dry trunks of the sepia trees stand on the soil fallow,
hear in rustle of golden leaves autumn’s footfall slow.
As the setting sun sets fire in the fading satin sky,
making a surreal collage of vermillion ember bright.
Under its crimson radiance I wait with the spirit rising high
to greet the stars sprouting in the pellucid autumn night,
in moondust I long to be suffused with the aura of delight.
October 14, 2020