Long Entry Poems
Long Entry Poems. Below are the most popular long Entry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Entry poems by poem length and keyword.
For some 30 years, I was faced with Cul-De-Sacs. No
resident in those Cul-De-Sacs exited without facing
my house.
A few years ago, I began to muse over the
significance of Cul-De-Sacs in my life. Occasionally,
I would drive through the Cul De Sac only to see my
house as others saw it. I considered the fact that
it's vital that we should occasionally place ourselves
in a position to see ourselves as others see us, making
it better to understand others as well as ourselves.
My first encounter or experience with Cul-De-Sacs
was when we bought our first home in California.
Our house faced a Cul-De-Sac. Our street formed the
only outlet for three Cul-De-Sacs on our block.
In later years, those Cul-De-Sacs became my primary
walking ground. My exercise routine consisted of walking two
short blocks, two long blocks, and three Cul-De-Sacs. I am
rather fond of this memory.
Our second connection to a Cul-De-Sac was with the
purchase of our second house. It too was not in the
Cul-De-Sac but faced it. At the entry of that memorable
Cul-De-Sac was a most beautiful tree which, from my
second-floor bedroom spoke volumes to me in the Fall
season. If that tree said anything, it shouted out to me
saying, "Look at me, I am the beauty queen of this Cul-De-Sac".
2523PSCtest,This or That, Vol 16 "Cul-De-Sac". Edward Ebeh.3P
He served as a deacon in his church and was as pious as they come.
(But on the side, he sold whiskey from a thirty-gallon drum!)
He taught the junior high Sunday school class and was a Bible scholar.
(But on the side, he 'stilled' moonshine way back up in the holler!)
He was faithful in tithing ten percent of his ill-gotten gain.
(For his John Barleycorn he used only the best obtainable grain!)
He occupied the same pew every Sunday listening with attentive ear.
(It was rumored about that he also brewed some very potent beer!)
He proffered an "amen" at appropriate times and wore a suit and tie.
(He was renowned throughout the county for his very delectable rye!)
His tenor voice blended well when singing, "I Love Thy Kingdom, Lord."
(On back roads he did a bit of bootlegging in his hopped-up V-8 Ford!)
He was the first to offer succor to widows, orphans and others left bereft.
(He'd run his still for years - at evading "revenooers" he was very deft!)
When folks were needed to serve on committees he was first to volunteer.
(When asked his occupation he replied, "I'm a 'Spirit'ual Engineer!")
At Yuletide he was generous with the parson giving him a beef, cash and pork.
(At the annual church picnic he surreptitiously passed a bottle to uncork!)
There couldn't be found a finer saint in all of Boondock County, Kentucky.
(He'll continue to "minister" to parched throats thereabouts - if he's lucky!)
Entry for Tania Kitchin's "Primiere Trophy Contest" Contest
This poem is worthy of a Primiere Trophy since it won First Place in the Poetry Soup International Poetry Contest in April 2011. (Won $50 and an Outstanding Poetic Achievement Certificate).
Gus got all of those who were allowed to attend
and "available" settled in around his big oak table.
He even put in an extra leaf to accomodate,
so there was enough space to keep from
slap fights and infighting of kin. He handed out
charmingly and diplomatically, the swami hats each containing an indian feather and a bedazzle kit- stone standard. He didn't have time to personalize
a moniker, this would have to do in a pinch.
Speaking of pinching weiners, Gus had to go to the bathroom, and was potty dancing and squinching,
this whole seance thing and having the floor for
everyone's attention was getting him excited.
On his way to the bathroom, he noticed Silky had
already fashioned his into a pimp hat,
cocked to the side as he slapped Penney for good measure to help break the hat in.
Penney fashioned hers into a pirate hat and shot Silky a look of smug mutiny. Kenny was too busy dealing
Vatican 2 pedopriest some product to personalize his for the moment. Gus pulled the hat from LizPiggo's
mouth and made his way, forgetting he locked
Nancy and Chuck in there and took a two story wiz
out the window. What a story! they were embarking
on indeed, was all he could think about,
except for the fact that he couldn't use the kitchen
sink because he couldn't find his step stool and
the arc of his stream no matter how proficient his trajectory would go all over the floor on re entry
unless he jumped toward the sink in the final throes.
He remembered what happened last time.
Wet floors and jumping were a wicked mix.
After he heard the voices seemingly coming from somewhere close "out there", he shook
the distraction off
and resolved to get back in there and get this seance underway. The spirits needed him !...
Form:
Why not come out of your shell,
breaking that hermit spell,
where the wallflower sits alone
without any backbone?
Contest the contests
without any further protests.
Find yourself at the end of the pier,
on the sunny side of despair,
casting a line into the belly of the beast,
letting that pent-up jelly on being released.
Your backbone will thank you.
There might even be a bounce in your shoes.
So why not untie the knot?
Because when I connect the dots, I win squat.
Everyone else wins a rose,
I get ... "la de da la de da"...the hose.
I’m tired of being disposed,
so this case (head?) should be closed.
This entry ... "la de da la de da"... was a dash,
But now it has hit the trash.
connie pachecho
12/16/25
Where have all the words gone?
It has been more than ten days,
since my last write of a one-liner poem.
Here I am lost, searching, searching
for words for nothing comes to mind.
My spirit is lost in a never ending
staircase, running, stopping, searching
for a door, an entry way or the final step
to find the words to pen, scribble, write.
Where have all the words gone?
I could not find any, every time I tried
to write a tribute to my brother,
who left so suddenly, unexpectedly.
Neither could I write a eulogy for him.
The time came a few days ago to bid
our “goodbyes” and I came empty.
No words came at hand, except
bits and pieces of our childhood.
The memory of the two us watching
and listening to Bruce Springsteen’s
Born in the USA tour, years and years ago.
With no other words in utterance,
I read one of the old poems I wrote
“Tell Them You Love Them Now”.
Where have all the words gone?
Yesterday, I listened to a premiere
of a piano piece, a Sonata in minor.
Sad songs are played in minor keys.
I felt so lost searching for words.
Words that could let go the sadness,
the sorrow of not seeing my brother
alive to tell I love and appreciate him.
Nobody was allowed to see him
and he died all alone in the hospital
without any love ones surrounding him.
So heart breaking, leaving a hole
or tearing all our hearts in our family.
All of a sudden, I am finding the way.
Or reaching the end of the stairway.
The words welcoming me back covertly
and now coming to mind, like the sun
penetrating the thick clouds, gleaming hazily.
3/8/21 All Yours (Mar 9) Poetry
Brian Strand
Sophie was born with Cerebral Palsy,
On the 23rd of January 1997, she’s 19,
And trains at Loughborough University,
But was born in Nottingham’s glean.
She’s won thirteen major titles, is top,
In sprinting and in runs middle distance,
So in the 100, 200 and 400 metres pop,
She beats most folks by persistence.
In France, Lyon, at the Worlds in T38,
Sophie ran the 100m to take the gold,
And in the 200m she took silver weight,
To begin her career with a sign foretold.
She was enthused by London’s Games,
She this entry into the athletics arena,
Stood her well for the European Games,
In Swansea: two silvers medals for her.
In 2015 Doha held the Worlds that year,
And for both the 100m and the relay, golds,
Then she put another silver in her bag, tier,
When she came second in the 200m folds.
Then in 2016 at the Europeans most dear,
In Grosseto, Sophie won two gold medals,
Plus one silver again for the 200 metre pier,
In which she excited the crowd with pedals.
Rio arrived and yet again for the 100 metres,
Sophie won the prize of gold, on the podium,
And also for the women’s relay 4x100 metres,
Her team took home the gold from the stadium.
On the approach up to Rio there were rules,
About what she ate and drank, no rubbish,
And Sophie Killer with sports nutritionist tools,
Gave Sophie a strict diet so she’d flourish.
A flash in the planetary cause,
a momentary held applause
on the evolutionary roll of time paused;
These last seconds on the timeline hesitate
when man appears upon fostering the world's fate
and the future lay waiting at the entry gate.
He loots, he burns fastidious.
he murders the people indigenous
claiming conquering superiority as if it were religious.
This is not religions toll,
this was not humanity's goal,
this in not Christian, Muslim or Jewish states
this is a world on the brink of late
bent on self destruction and hate.
History's lesson remain unlearned
distorted, twisted, scorned
laying in a rubbled heap
denial and lie making all life cheap.
Is there such a creature as an honest man in power
the hero of the hour
stretching out his opened hand
that reveals the gift to understand?
We, the people of this earth
take pride and gratitude of every birth
and it's time the leaders do
those that claim they represent every me and you.
If we're not careful and diligent
the earth may not be that resilient
find your heart and your roots
recognize the power in the truth.
I hear someone a-knockin’ at my door,
It’s you again, have we not had enough?
The problem is a complete lack of respect,
Well, your disfavor is shared no need to bluff.
I am much smarter aware of the tricks,
It’s you again, these guiles made me tough,
The problem is your way or just hit the road,
Well, your roadway is rigid spited with rough.
I grew my growth away from your tree,
It’s you again, rage hidden by fluff,
The problem is kindred but with spirit lost,
Well, your heart lacks craze among lovin’ stuff.
I insist you go with that same ol’ leave,
It’s you again, blazing amidst all the slough,
The problem is clear with no extra toll,
Well, your smoke is long gone merely a puff.
……………………………………………………………
Contest Entry: Desperate Housewife
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A
Placement: 7th Place
So many new things that I never have tried
The list that I saw left me completely bug-eyed
I could go see a shaman or learn to play cricket
Raise termites for profit or learn to drive stick-shift
I could homebrew some beer or maybe some moonshine
Go whitewater rafting in torrents of pickle-brine
But here's the 'new thing' that I want to do
Something that may change our lives, me and you
I want to speak good of all people and things
The key to real peace, which speaking good surely brings
Now if you dare think this can't be attempted
That from a challenge like this, folks like me are exempted
~ Well, just 'cuz my tongue's always oozing some acid
Doesn't mean I can't teach it how to be placid!
October 18, 2018
Entry in "Trying Something New" contest
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
Sometimes I rush home
from some brief mindless excursion
hurrying into our home,
believing you're still here despite known aversions.
Then upon entry and turning of the key
you are not here,
then comes that realization and knowing agony
you're gone almost a year.
Having said our last goodbye,
given memory of that final kiss
doesn't make it easier to deny
the knowledge that you're missed.
The reality is forever dies.
I miss your laughter and your voice
even your pain filled tears and cries
death was certainly not our choice.
Living still held promise, life and hope
and now is but a memory alone
locked in an empty house of mirrors and smoke
once a loving home.