Long Eraser Poems
Long Eraser Poems. Below are the most popular long Eraser by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eraser poems by poem length and keyword.
The saddest tale that’s e’er been told
Is that of pencil Sharp
He wrote so dark, so brave and bold
The critics on did harp
Disaster struck one fateful day
As Sharp wrote down a line
His pink eraser wore away
So marring Sharp’s design
Now Sharp decays in health and mind
His purpose now so dull
And as Sharp fails, he falls behind
And publishers are full
No time have they for useless Sharp
A point without an end
So on and on the critics carp
About his latest penned
To greatness go the other pens
And those whose use goes on
To write of mountains and of glens
For Sharp all hope is gone
I am cleaning out my junk drawer
It's been on my list to do
My junk is over-flowing
It's now long past over-due
Inside is my collection
Of things I sometimes use
Bits and nails and thumbtacks
And a dozen odd-size screws
There's a hammer and some pliers
And a pair of worn-out snips
Rubber bands in many sizes
And a load of paper clips
Two broken pair of glasses
That I should have thrown away
I put them there three years ago
Swore I'd fix them both one day
A dull blade pair of scissors
And an un-used long nail file
Pens and pencils and two note pads
And an eraser, look-like crocodile
I keep finding things inside my drawer
That I swear I've never used
This junk has left me addle-pated
Oh my God, I'm so...(((CONFUSED)))
'Form J- Just Write Me A New Poem' Poetry Contest
Sponsor Constance La France
3/22/2022
Its been a long time since she has felt free from this awry world
God only knows she had every intention of being good and waiting for the
pain to end, but dilly dally her she ran right into a pool of blood and then she died....
(Big eraser, smudged markings, tear stained pages, dirty white )
She was lonely and didn't have anyone to talk to except her cat Pandora.
Then one day P died and she cried all night, outside in the cold until the
moon took away her light and left her high as a kite;
(Crunch of paper, balled fists, hair unpinned, another immaculate sheet )
I tried to tell her she had to hang on but the angels came banging at her bedroom door. They in their frightful black cloaks and red neon eyes
glaring at her and screaming, " come "
(open window, frigid air, ice corpse, rolled eyes, still as a dice )
She tried to be a perfect girl for him but he took it all every single slice;
If you are reading this note dear me, it means I died in that chalk dust pentagram I once drew. As the last ember kissed the candle wax I must
have accidently slipped out...
(Ambulance sirens, hurried feet, defibrillator paddles, badges, scissors,
black shiny boots, friendly strangers, her? me? Silence )
I'm so very sorry dear me don't cry I'm fine, it doesn't hurt anymore.
October 2, 2021
Sponsor Silent One
Contest Name Letter to your future self
Let's pretend that
children we are,on
shiny bikes.
Whizzing about our
charming town.
So welcomed we
were by all the local
business owners.
Back then,a child could
buy an eraser from a
big jar.
Even go alone~not in
Daddy's car!
Times today so pressured,
fearful and fast.
No time for our friends or
so we ponder.
Till suddenly they are gone
and down under!
Cherish the minutes you
breathe.
People rushing past each
other?
Prevents us from time
and loving one another.
Make space for loving all
religions and colors,
But look, if you can into
their angel eyes!
You both can do a circle
dance of gladness, and it's
no surprise!
Messages do flash of hope
and togetherness.
We honor God and His
bountiful Holiness!
5/31/2021
I don’t have a drinking problem
I drink til I get drunk
Then I stumble home
Where I live all alone
And I diddle my own junk.
I don’t have a drinking problem
The problem is you see
When I am sober
I look the world over
And the world has a problem with me.
So I go to the neighborhood bar
Start with a whiskey and beer chaser
Every one of them that I belt down
Acts like a problem eraser.
All my troubles disappear
Then I fall off of the stool
I don’t see
What the problem can be
So, what’s the matter with you?
I don’t have a drinking problem
I drink til I get drunk
Then I stumble home
Where I live all alone
And I diddle my own junk.
I don’t have a drinking problem
The problem is you see
When I am sober
I look the world over
And the world has a problem with me.
So I go to the neighborhood bar
And put down a pint or ten
Soon all the old biddies there
Start looking beautiful again
I start flirting with the ladies
Must of’m older than me Mum
Then I pinch all the lasses
Upon their big asses
And get tossed out on me bum.
I don’t have a drinking problem
I drink til I get drunk
Then I stumble home
Where I live all alone
And I diddle my own junk.
I don’t have a drinking problem
The problem is you see
When I am sober
I look the world over
And the world has a problem with me.
So, I go to the neighborhood bar
Where I drink all day and night
My beer muscles start growing stronger
And I go looking for a fight
My slurred words start the trouble
My pushing eggs it on some more
I get punched in the eye
And in my reply
My face hits on the floor
I don’t have a drinking problem
I drink til I get drunk
Then I stumble home
Where I live all alone
And I diddle my own junk.
I don’t have a drinking problem
The problem is you see
When I am sober
I look the world over
And the world has a problem with me.
My short story continues with this insightful excerpt:
A Century Turns: Soviet Union's Life Expectancy: II
"A fictional perspective of articulating an ambitious nature that hinges on varied facts," ... by the Poet.
And now ... the school bell has rung. The park that he pleasures in both muscularity and mentality, ills in parity--in a nutshell--the school has taught him that the eraser is the better half of a pencil. It is always the seldom used that comes to the aid and heals the whole abused. That illuminating factor was his focal point that would encourage his future from the descension of the crown, and to the ascension of communism's embrace.
oh ...
Gustav, how you pique the senses
captured passion's plural tenses
lovers twined in percale folds
caught supine with spattered golds
porcelain dolls in fetal slumbers
brushed sublime in tans and umbers
bold, the bleeds of Burnt Sienna
stippling scapes of fair Vienna
Yellow Ochre, Prussian Green
Cadmium Yellow, Blue Indanthrene
trees like soldiers, lilting boughs
abstractions spun of silken vows
ceilings meant to thus adorn
gilded graces - Heaven-borne
waters, tranquil - tresses, bare
a world composing textures, rare
you struggled long to e'er refine
your critics and uncommon line
subjects some then found appalling
yet, remained, your faithful calling
imbibing absinthe, sans a chaser
life you sketched with no eraser
and while we mortals can but dream
you left the world your gauzy gleam
so death would not define the worth
of genius meant to shake ...
the earth.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Klimt" Poetry Contest, Anthony Slausen, Judge & Sponsor.
Our brains, the experts do opine,
Have a left side, a right side, and a dividing line –
But that daunting corpus callosum
I fear to cross it - there to, here from.
I started out upon a path
Of dedication to studying math,
A fascinating field for sure,
Its revelations beautiful and pure.
But then, you will be sad to hear
Of my unfortunate IT career.
I’ve done my time, and now I’m free,
As I can now exclaim with glee.
So how am I to spend my time?
Is there a mountain yet to climb?
I still like math’s secrets, so sublime.
Perhaps, I’ll discover a new kind of prime!
But I can hear another voice
That says I have another choice.
What is the source of this refrain?
I think it’s the right side of my brain.
Dare I cross that mountain range
To my right brain so new and strange?
There may be wonders to behold
Or even splendors of pure gold.
But, what if I should make a chunk
Of something similar to junk,
The sound of which it makes is clunk,
The smell of which resembles skunk?
A mistake in math, like eleventy-six,
An eraser and some graphite fix -
But for a right-brain belly-flop,
It’s me to which, I must apply a mop.
But I resolve, right here and now,
Flops won’t make me have a cow.
When everything is said and done,
The important thing is having fun.
I have closed the main gate
After that I closed the door
Something more to be closed
So I closed the window pane
All these efforts are insufficient
To keep away cousin of worries
The past sweet memories came into sense.
What kind of memories are these
Which remains young with chastity
Days are passed to make things old
But failed on a high society lady
This partiality made me nervous
So i tried hard to erase them
With the oldest natural eraser
But it didn't work well
Then I tried the newest technologies
Like delete, filters and editing apps
Unluckily they all said sorry
Now what can I do
Have something more to try
First I switched off all lights
Then closed eyes as monk in penance
Made dark cabin of science's lab
But experiment didn't get success
When all efforts gone vain
I knew the facts
A prey has no more choices.
An old farmer,
bent forward,
even his shadow
has grown old.
Upon his shoulder
lies
a lonely afternoon.
Quite a lot of time
has been spent
around rice
and ash gourds.
If I could rub away
the marks of age
from the body
of this lifetime
with an eraser,
would rebirth
then glitter
in my hands?
On the sky
of the night school
I have stuck
a handwritten moon
with chewing gum.
I could not become
a teacher of mathematics,
nor could I become
milk
in the breast
of a teenage girl.
Now I catwalk
on the runway
of a black hole,
sit in a restaurant
and eat chow mein
with chopsticks,
go to the PlayStation
and destroy submarines
with a joystick.
With every step,
an intoxicating
love
echoes.
In the water
of the ploughed field
is reflected
the sky,
torn apart
by the deep blade
of the plough.
Beside melancholy
walks
what I am searching for,
but I do not know
what it is.
It remains
within my being,
a fever
drawn out
from apples
and pears.
That fever,
I act out.
At dusk,
young women,
filled with evening,
light fires
with twigs and straw
on their moist bodies.
Beside them
wanders
the cat of the night.
A frog lies dead
on the road.
There is no memorial
for it.
Beside one tree,
another tree.
Moonlight
rests upon their heads.
All the truths
of life
gather
in the lolling,
lush heads
of rice.
Now, come,
let us draw
a door
upon the body
of age,
and exchange hands
with
the Brahminy kite.