Long Exclamation Poems
Long Exclamation Poems. Below are the most popular long Exclamation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Exclamation poems by poem length and keyword.
In the dream of poetic verse
Your words
Are how my heart bleeds
The ways in which
I think
With a pause in between
Cryptic clues
An exclamation in
The center
Brings on the wolves
Of perfect grammar
Saying there should
Be words to fill
Those empty spaces
Left silent
For effect of pondering
The spell of the craft
Is the muse
Today, it was you
Who I stopped by
In the shadows
To read your words
With naught a comment
Yet, I was left with these
Thoughts of how I feel
When I read
The words you so delicately
Scribe
In the way my heart bleeds
Entangled visions
Drawn out with metaphors
Telepathic symphonies
Silently caressing the void
Missed by so many
Who need be entertained
Only by actors
Mimicking the truth
That is so elegant and delicate
To bleed from ones heart
Jested by those
Lost
Not in the dream
Felt from the flow
Of your composition
As I am
in my favorite inexpensive thai restaurant
i move to the right side of the table
she is less likely to see the wall to her right
i try hard to avoid a lull in the conversation
and aim to be more scintillating than usual
each time her gaze moves a few degrees to her right
i make a dramatic exclamation
i consciously avoid looking at the wall on my left
though it’s difficult
because I want to monitor its position
as i silently pray for it to move behind her
it seems like it can’t make up its mind
as it moves first closer
then farther
from her peripheral vision
it almost seems to be teasing me
tormenting me
we finish eating
i’m waiting for the check
i’m in the home stretch
almost paid and gone
but then
she looks
and sees
the cockroach
no more favorite inexpensive thai restaurant
I sat with the mark, sharp and bright,
Curved at the tip—a flash of light.
"Why the flare?" I asked, "What’s the need
For such a wild, untamed stampede?"
With a shudder, it shook, then did confide,
"I bring the twist, the rising tide!"
"Are you not lonely," I pondered aloud,
"In sentences lost in a sea of the crowd?"
It chuckled—loudly, with bold-hearted cheer—
"I thrive in the silence, the sound so sincere.
I live in the pause, the afterthought’s call,
In the space where meaning dares not fall."
"But don’t you worry," I questioned with care,
"That without context, you’d just hang in the air?"
It grinned in return, sharp and astute,
"I’m the catalyst, the jolt, the pursuit!
I’m the spark in the dark, the question unasked,
I’m the truth buried deep in a complex mask!"
"But when does the shouting ever stop?"
"Never," it said. "I’m the pinnacle, the top.
I live in the rush, the speed of a thought—
In the chaos of silence, I’m all that is sought."
"Then what of the others," I softly inquired,
"Those marks, those commas, which never conspired?"
"They’re meek, I’m afraid—content with their role,
They simply sit back, too cautious to stroll."
"Do you think then," I asked with some care,
"That without you, meaning would still be there?"
With a flourish, it said, "Not as clear—
Without me, the message would disappear."
Thoughts which spark reaction
Induce an odd phenomena
Thrusted lung eruption
Humour honourer
Anomaly in everyday observation
Light hearted pleasure centre
Imput turned exclamation
Content connector
Brain's fondle with mouth colliding
Induces shoulder jump aerobics
Family repertoire tidings
Relaxed diagnostic
May laughter be thy frequented medicine
Imbibed each time tickled urge arrives
Flowing dosage free to everyone
Vital juice of elated lives
27th August 2020
Written for: Living It Up For Laughter
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
I write about what time has forgotten
Conclusions in life
Paragraphs of hate
Wasted lines scribbled in blindness
The words seem strong but just fake thoughts
Exclamation points of failure take me through periods of darkness
I misspell the truth
The white out can't cover all this pain
Repetitive promises stop with each memory that I refuse to speak of
Free verse poems of hope trapped by the freedom of hurt
I take to different blank pages and still I feel I come up empty
Jealous of all
Despise my age think like i am 20 with no plan no direction
Writing down each time i feel sorry for myself
Consumed by anxiety
Only these blank pages understand more with each sentence i write.
Western delish scrambled eggs
Warm country biscuits
Spread with soft and cool cream cheese
Crispy bacon?—Please!
Herbal tea blending
Flavor ascending
This is so
Good!
© Joseph, 10/10/2007
© All Rights Reserved
The Epulaeryu poem is about delicious food and drinks. It consists of seven
lines with thirty-three syllables. The first has seven syllables, second line five,
third line seven, fourth line five, fifth line five, sixth line three, and seventh line only
one syllable which ends with an exclamation mark. The Epulaeryu poetic form
syllable count is 7/5/7/5/5/3/1. Each line has one thought relating to the meal,
and concludes with the ending line expressing the writer’s excitement and
feelings about the meal. The Epulaeryu poetic form was invented by Joseph
Spence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This poem was written in response to an assignment in my online poetry class: “Why does an ordinary life feel like a failure in today's world?”
Because Instagram is a museum,
and we are the unpaid janitors
of our own lives~
mopping up the spillage
of seemingly
unremarkable mornings.
Because someone’s balcony
is always brighter,
their coffee more artful,
their sadness more cinematic.
Our sadness arrives
in discount sweatpants,
unphotogenic.
Because the algorithm whispers:
You could be the main character,
but the plot demands
a montage, a twist,
a soundtrack swelling
as you jog toward redemption.
You are still tying your shoes.
Because the word ordinary
has been hijacked and laundered
into something suspicious~
like a plain envelope
in an age of glitter bombs.
Because we forget
how the spine of a day
is built from quiet commas,
not exclamation marks.
How the heart keeps
its most sacred receipts
in the pocket of an old coat~
a ticket stub,
a note that says come home soon,
the way the light looked
when it was enough.
Capital letter …
Right now, please note: it is time to dust, not write.
Dust was eating away this besieged body;
Amassing with all the misery that delights in ambush.
It crept into secret crevices,
Quietly dulling senses, as it blended in;
Softly choking, mimicking flu,
Before weaving a blanket so thick
It embraced and insulated;
Gently burying body under the weight of
An elephantine duvet with speaking tongues.
Write now, right now that house pride has succumbed to ash
As caked and empty cans and bottles decorate.
The dustman hurried by the empty drum
For rubbish barricaded the front door.
The inconvenience: to eat, drink, shop, to pay bills
Without leaving one’s desk these days.
Friends and adversaries seep out of pens,
Alphabetically springing to colourful life.
Who dares miss a thought so precious, so elusive –
Might never occur again.
So grasp it, rack it; right, left lobe battle dire emotions and reason.
Let dust prevent thoughts from leaving from whence it came.
Incarcerate all grey matters.
Now one can write how it feels to have dust as qwerty companion.
Then fling open the door,
Let light and the world in.
Shout: “I write because I can.”
Full stop … Exclamation mark!
End.
(PS: begin again.)
I still stand
Have a chance
Mike in my hand
Lyrically band
Drums beating
Cymbals clashed
Titans passed
Powers situations
Bolts metaphorically hating
Pacing Blues
Sue pursue
Royalties with no moves
Jacking prices
To get a sail
Back down river bends and boats
Seattle with no coasts
Trailing door knobs without a turn
Skipped
Tripped Sun burn
Comcast
Infinity
Antennas remotely
Coated Symphony
Operatic Anomalies
Fake paced with properties
State faced moralities
Given sentence no warning
Exclamation interrogation
Periodically visitations
Paroled up
Handcuffs taken to another case
What stand
Back at it again
Chance
In the digital kitchen where metaphors boil,
I cast my rhymes into the simmering soup,
Hoping for gold in the luminous toil,
Watching the cursor in a silvery loop.
A notification blooms—a digital flower—
First place! The screen turns into a glowing violet,
I am a giant for one shining hour,
Wearing a crown made of a pristine sonnet.
The poets applaud with binary applause,
My words are like pearls in a silken sack,
Suspended high above the gravity laws,
Without any intention of looking back.
Then comes the speechlessness—a vast, white void,
Another contest, another empty plate,
My rhyme is shattered, a paper humanoid,
Left in the digital vestibule of fate.
The soup is bitter, the pixels turn to grey,
I drown in the stanzas that nobody reads,
Watching my reputation drift away,
Among the respectable mentioned weeds.
I am climbing a ladder made of commas,
Falling into a valley of exclamation points,
Winning and losing, the constant dramas,
Where the screen aches in its digital joints.
The winner is a ghost in a tuxedo,
The loser is a shadow on the wall,
Yet both are feeding the same hungry ego,
In the soup that tastes like nothing at all.