Long Engrave Poems
Long Engrave Poems. Below are the most popular long Engrave by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Engrave poems by poem length and keyword.
LOVING NEVER TO FORGET
The thought of you is a sweet dream in a beautiful nightmare
The sight of you makes my heart yearn for you; all I do is stare
I have given in my best and still feel like it wasn’t enough
I know that I don’t have much to offer; but in love few can be enough
Give me that chance and I will engrave your name in my heart
I have looked and don’t see any reason that will make us part.
Sometimes I think you built walls around your heart not to let me in
You are the only one my heart wants; don’t let any other person get in
I might have been with a few in the past but they are nothing to account for
Ever since I met you; I knew you were the one that I have been waiting for
I will do everything that is to be done; for you to know that am here and always
Erase every doubt and I will make you remember that I am here and always.
This has been part of me; now I want to tell it to you
When am with you; I over feel a whole presence of you
When not with you I feel like I was never ever with you
Too many doubts and trust; keeping me on the edge of loving you
All I desire of the present is to spend every special moment with you
To be everything you want me to be and be there special for you.
…Lordvip…
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
The first movie they watched with each other was Across The Universe
Ten finger tips reaching out sweaty palms and pounding heartbeats
Synchronous
Wholesome
Tangential
Parallel
Concentric circles
Overlapping passion
Evolving ellipse
Sizzling harmony
They don’t take a back row now but dance on an interwoven screen
Colour outside the boxes from a packet of life’s crayon and memories
Tentative Ying and Yang carry the lightness of an orange harvest moon
Heat of moments melt their curves together into virtuous embrace
While the sun slowly retreats from an ageing palette on circles of life
Coalescence
Reflections
Compassion
Shooting stars
The Universe knows no limits whereas joined at hips body mind they move
On a canvass of shadow play within the pigments of dreams aspiration desire
Charon’s ultimate voyage may it be far in the distance oozes impermanence
Wouldn't hurt a tree but the two lovers engrave a heart on the bark of their skin
Infinite endearment and sensual play brings kindness and furthers the cause
Breathing in
Breathing out still
Holding hands as
The Universe cheers
02nd July 2019
The soft paint brush delicately strikes
the right spots with uniqueness...
when your pensive glances project
with precision,skill and persistance,
to paint another image of reminiscence
and the colors are so iridiscent!
The features of that woman, so elusive,
are fine,graceful and attractive...
and if they are to come alive:
more trueness and realism
must be assigned to those piercing eyes...
to make this painting a true gem!
Unrealistic painter without guile,
let me enter your insoucient spirit
and teach some good strokes
of my compelling imagination:
to paint a more charming woman
with finer curbs, more sensual lips
and an unforgettable face...
until thought and action bind!
I am a modest poet not seeking fame or riches...
writing words that I engrave on time,
not being repressed or ashamed of reasons;
if honesty is to shine in my works:
my words must flow on each blank line...
for everyone to read, meditate and cherish!
Struggling painter,
executing immortal paintings
for others to criticize or admire...
dare to be different and open;
if a genius is deprived of expression,
his works are limited in inventiveness...
defeating his scope!
Unrealistic painter,
give life to those idling canvasses,
find usefulness in everything...
even in the blue-jays that sing;
inspiration comes from Nature
and individuals who manifest their passions!
Mr. Roscoe Schlink was drafted into the army in Bean Blossom, Indiana,
And was sent for basic training at Fort Fumble in the state of Louisiana.
He was given innumerable shots, yelled at a lot and shorn of all his hair,
Taught to salute, do an about face and issued baggy fatigues to wear!
He aspired to be a pilot but sarge said, "No, I need you in the infantry, son!
I'm gonna teach you ever' thing you need to know about shootin' this here gun!"
To the firing range they went, the sarge in a jeep, the corporals in a truck,
But Roscoe and his pals had to march fifteen miles - that was just their luck!
At the firing range they were issued weapons and instruction was begun.
Said sarge, "This here is yer rifle or yer 'piece' - don't you never call it a gun!
Engrave the serial number of yer 'piece' in yer skulls and don't fergit it!
And you'd better keep it as sparklin' clean as you will yer messin' kit!"
They tried to teach him to fire from the sitting, standing and prone position,
And to take careful aim and not fool around wasting precious ammunition!
Roscoe took steady aim and squeezed the trigger as he had been taught.
Bulls-eye! Alas, he hit another feller's target and his score came to naught!
He was sent to the European Theatre where he somehow survived the strife.
Renown for poor aim, his buddies steered clear of him fearing for their life!
But he redeemed himself winning the Silver Star, an honor his pals never got!
He was lauded for capturing two hundred prisoners without firing a shot!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Can't Let Go
Can't let go of the feeling....being lost without a cause just cause....
I have no Clause....no calls to being some one's....(belonging to no one)....
not just anyone's....but that some one who would always want me for me...
not who I could be...I can't let go of...
short passages with no aim in this poetry stained game...I stay a slave to...
making my pen engrave the words quicker then my mind thinks....
filling the paper with empty but thoughtful passages links...to a piece of my heart
yet another wasted unpublished word art...
I part with no dashes...write about lost and found love....
yup staying a slave to this felling I can't let go of....
Fighting with such a discretion when my mind thinks...
Visioning alphabetical words when my eyes blinks...
Jotting down so many sentences my hand stinks...
being a slave to this poetry stained game links
to a piece of my heart yet another wasted unpublished word art....
By:Peter T. DeSpirito
Dear Poetry
Yesterday when demons descended,
you poured hope through ascending angels.
You appeared when bitter ones disappeared,
taught me how to glorify unwritten ink,
conversed with me in free verse
and in the crime of a toxic rhyme,
when some tried to poison my mind,
you were the remedy,
illuminating the flames,
of an imprisoned soul -
finally set free.
In the melancholy of grief,
a moonbeam muse became my nemesis,
reflecting veiled vulnerabilities
like a mirror revealing chronicled
secrets of suppression,
where vocative vowels
connected consistent consonants,
alliterating my soul in a
plethora of persimmon
and periwinkle petals.
Sometimes you fade,
but always return like an intimate scent.
You shelter me on rainy days,
make peace with the past,
soothe in times of sorrow,
wrapping around me like a scarf
when the page becomes too bare.
When deviants sabotage
song sheets of harmonious chords,
you personify serenity through
the simplicity of a haiku -
together we become nature.
I have always been a poet,
unable to let go of expression,
so no poem is forgotten,
even those unspoken
and covered in dust.
In times of betrayal,
our verses remain sacred,
despite selfish syllables and
multi layered metaphors,
forming monotone moods.
Hoping those obsessed with obscurity,
find themselves in the stars.
Our odes to the wilderness,
revealed goldfinches at dawn,
singing under a static scarlet sunrise,
slowly shading into tiffany blue,
signifying poetry, brushstrokes
the colours we envision.
In the stillness of silence,
we drift in idyllic meadows,
where our thoughts roam,
away from sly shadows,
hindering the blossoming
of our handwritten reveries.
Under my skin,
you urge me to find romance,
but sonnets of love
are a restriction of words,
cursed by iambic pentameter,
so I only yearn for the one
whose ballad portrays the
consonance to my assonance.
My beloved poetry,
you do not define me,
unless our words are seeds,
which bloom with sincerity
and promise me,
upon our last breath,
you will engrave one
last love letter on
my tombstone of solitude.
SIMPLE MUSING
27.08.26
Shema ("Listen")
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You who live secure
in your comfortable homes,
who return each evening to find
warm food and a hearty welcome ...
Consider: is this a "man"
who slogs through the mud,
who knows no peace,
who fights for scraps of bread,
who lives at another man's whim,
who at his "yes" or his "no" lies dead?
Consider: is this is a "woman"
shorn bald and bereft of a name
because she lacks the strength to remember,
her eyes as void and her womb as frigid
as a winter frog's?
Consider that such horrors have indeed been!
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them in your hearts
when you lounge in your beds
and again when you rise,
when you venture outside.
Repeat them to your children,
or may your houses softly crumble
and disease render you equally as humble
so that even your offspring avert their eyes.
Primo Michele Levi [1919-1987] was an Italian Jewish chemist, scientist, Holocaust survivor, writer, journalist and poet. He was the author of two novels and several collections of short stories, essays, and poems. He is best known for If This Is a Man, his account of the year he spent as a prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp in Nazi-occupied Poland. His unique work The Periodic Table was shortlisted as one of the greatest scientific books ever written, by the Royal Institution of Great Britain. Levi's autobiographical book about his liberation from Auschwitz, The Truce, became a movie with the same name in 1997. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Italian, Jewish, translation, man, mud, woman, bald, nameless, houses, homes, bread, eyes, womb, empty, void, frigid, lifeless, horror, horrors, hearts, write, etch, engrave, inscribe, children, offspring, disease, avert, reject, race, racist, racism, man, men, woman, women, house, home
The days of old have a certain manner
The hardness of issues that sometimes matter
With shadows and echo's they bring up the past
The worries of tomorrow that grab and hold fast
Histories once worried in their day
Set examples for us to learn and display
News and stories the media has a say
To make us worry of how to go and which way
Gossip and rumors with whispers have a crave
Telling secrets and lies that send some to a grave
Speeches and announcements with mics engrave
Issues that move us to act with haste
Letters and notes in there own silent space
Tell their own story without the expression of a face
Whispers and signals tell secrets few know
Embarrassing answers from friends and foes
Thoughts and ideals may reach a dangerous goal
The evil of the heart when the damage unfolds
The wants and desires of ones secrets sold
The shame and mourning when the secrets are told
The judgement that follows eventually told
The way of ones thinking expresses their goals
The vile and the pure go their separate ways
The truth and the fiction will find the end of days
#My_Lookalike_Dilemma
Feels like a Curse, since my childhood someone somewhere looked like me, Nigerians call me Ogah, Somalians calls me Their Own, got punished for being a Lookalike, forced to witness my Purity feathers raffled, bruised from inside out,
fear cripples my bones, I'm never free nor safe, anywhere in this world, voices in my ears, of languages foreign to my own inquisition, cause commotions in mind, wanna break free, run without gazing back, my Lookalike haunts my peace,
troubled from dusk to dawn, shadows peeps through my sanity, I'm crowded by evil, pulling me sideways, trying to reap apart my already confused and scared self. I wanna go home to my mom, into her warm palms as she holds me and assures me of my safety, maybe there, I will die in peace, for there I'm no stranger, nor a lookalike, for there nobody questions my whereabouts or ask my name
wanna go back to my mom's womb, for its the only safe place I have ever been, this world is against me, would have chosen to be different person, came in different frame and pigment, but that's late and irreversible, my Lookalike made me a subject of scrutiny,
lift my eyes to the most high, underneath waters and beneath the Earth, take me while I still can say my plea, before this world take away my voice and judge me enough and prosecute me for crimes of my lookalike,
I'm no Lookalike but my mother's son, engrave my my real deeds to my tomb for I'm savaged by a Lookalike curse. My heart drips, drops of my fending strength, ebbing away and I reiterate, I'm no Lookalike but my mom's son
#Poetic_Ink