Long Fourth Poems
Long Fourth Poems. Below are the most popular long Fourth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fourth poems by poem length and keyword.
I
gave
him a
second chance,
a third and fourth chance.
He was a smooth talker- a fraud!
Prisoner of pretty words, I did not see the truth,
oh, I was smitten easy prey for a skilled abuser and yet I miss him still!
His
words
pretty,
charming ways,
his fierce deep kisses!
My chain was sweet lust and desire,
it was hard to push him away- it took all my strength.
I was smitten an easy prey for an evil man skilled at getting what he wants!
_____________________________
September 3, 2016
PoetryFibonacci/No More Chances
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 825-496-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Let's Talk About It
sponsor, Richard Lamoureaux
First Place
__________________________________
Submitted to the contest, Second Chances
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron
Second Place
NUTTY
We were in Paso Robles during the fourth of July
week-end strolling in the streets, after our sumptuous
lunch, where this vintage store caught our attention.
My ten year old grandson picked a pack of bubble gum
cigarettes and my grandchildren and I settled at the
outside bench, just sitting and people watching.
He peeled one of the sticks and started chewing.
He offered me one and somehow I got this idea of
showing him how to smoke a stick and asked my
daughter to take a picture of him and me smoking.
I texted the picture to relatives with a note “bad
influence, smoking cigarette candies ha-ha-ha”.
Did not stop there, I stood up and gave my daughter
one and asked Ricky to take a picture of his Mom and
me smoking like two street girls and I texted our picture
to my friends with a note “SMOKING HOT CHICKS”.
I got back texts of “silly grandma or bad grandma ha-ha”
and some of my friends texted back with “cute” and
one with “nutty girl ha-ha-ha” that made me laughed.
What a silly idea of a sixty nine year old grandma to
show his grandson how to smoke and a Mom to let
her daughter smoke with her for fun and take pictures.
My daughter and I do not smoke and I would never
dare do what I did with real cigarettes, honestly.
Somehow, I always come up with something fun, silly,
nutty to enjoy moments of togetherness and remember
them with such delight. I love being nutty, its fun.
Was called “crazy woman”, “nutty girl” sounds better.
9/19/21 "N" Poems, New Or Old Poetry
Constance La France
#6 - Nutty
There, that is our secret: go to sleep!
You will wake, and remember, and understand
— Robert Browning (Evelyn Hope)
Forever Seems Forever Away
On her little pillow, pink and silk, spreads
her lovely brunette locks, locked
forever, as forever goes. Only God knows.
Forever turned and pointing, with a shock
of red hair, brother’s hand secured in mom’s.
A Rockwell brush masterpiece, if Norm stayed
on earth. Flying away, the mind is a bird
that lands and stays until I must turn away,
because forever seems, forever away.
Coffin’s shut up, too soon and solemn, She’s
carried out, not as in the celebration of birth,
but in youth, not forgotten. I Can Only Imagine
played as the crowd bowed and prayed. Parade
of mourners delivered to her final resting spot. Forever
ago, eighteen years seems so. Much has changed.
But the look in her eyes, before they crossed
over, and as she smiled at “what a pretty dress,”
before her parents had to let her “rest.”
Before and after seems forever-after-unhappily,
yet, happily the family must contend to love
all the more the three siblings without the fourth.
For children, summer is swing sets and slides,
ice cream or snow cones, carnival rides,
the school bell’s last ring as kids flee the school,
hot dogs at ball games and days at the pool.
It’s pitching a tent and eating s’mores,
then down at the lake with rowboat and oars.
Summer’s the chasing of fireflies at night
and telling of ghost tales in flickering light.
It’s skateboards and bikes and just feeling free,
a volleyball net in the sand by the sea.
It’s summer vacation in one’s family car
with stops at motels when traveling far.
It’s sitting on blankets, eyes up at the sky
while watching the fireworks on Fourth of July
Summer’s a caterpillar; we want it to c r a w l,
then turn into a butterfly, the brightest of all!
It’s corn on the cob, and ever so sweet -
the melon the kid in us all wants to eat!
May 30, 2019
For Sheri Fresonke Harper's Objectifying A Season Poetry Contest
The puzzle of my hallow poetry
all the words a jumble
chaotic, formless, scrambled
an uproar unfathomable.
Deep are the caves perpetual I fall
searching for words eternal
poetry unfading and immortal.
Endless as the stars that glow,
and boundless as the ocean blue;
in a shambles, in a muddle,
until, the unveiling of the veil.
Despite the cacophony, I search
through the bedlam of words colliding.
And then, an apocalypse epiphany
the unfolding of a vision uncloaked
it was hiding down deep within
and now have spiraled up.
Endless as the stars that glow,
and boundless as the ocean blue;
in a shambles, in a muddle,
until, the unveiling of the veil.
I write with a madness and a fever
hysteria erupts in my mind
my thoughts a whirlwind of ideas.
Swirls of phrases multi-hued
a kaleidoscope psychedelic on paper
the pieces of my puzzle falling together
everlasting and everlasting.
Endless as the stars that glow,
and boundless as the ocean blue;
in a shambles, in a muddle,
until, the unveiling of the veil.
Endless as the stars that glow,
and boundless as the ocean blue, ocean blue, ocean blue . . .
_________________________
September 23, 2017
Poetry/Lyric/Boundless As The Ocean Blue
Copyright Protected, ID 09- 942-100-23
All Rights Reserved, 2017, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Eight Word Challenge 4
sponsor, John Hamilton, Judged 10/2017
Fourth Place
RIDERS ON THE STORM*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a storm gathers on the horizon,
bringing a reckoning long overdue~
the dharmic wheel’s broken,
mankind’s running out of time.
the storm ushers forth hell riders~
from the dark side of Aquarius
they arrive, not bearing water,
but a drought of empathy,
a famine of the soul.
the first, a shadow on wings of plenty,
a cornucopia of lies, spewing venom,
appears, dissolving truth, erasing the mark of decency~
the wind carrying the dust of what was,
into the hollows of what will be.
the dharmic wheel’s broken,
mankind’s running out of time.
The second, born of fire and brine,
a mirage shimmering on scorched earth,
plays a piper’s song of promised lands~
his honeyed words coat the bitter pill of tyranny,
the blackened tongues of lying leaders, chanting anthems of hate.
the dharmic wheel’s broken,
mankind’s running out of time.
The third descends, not on a pale horse,
but on a tide of discord,
teaching the brutal calculus of Cain~
brother against brother, man against man,
spilling man’s crimson seed on fields of hate.
the dharmic wheel’s broken,
mankind’s running out of time.
The fourth appears, eyes dilated,
pupils swallowing the light,
adrift on a chemical sea,
waiting for the acid rain to fall,
for the world to dissolve into broken promises.
He loiters, seeing the wars of ancient religious fools~
superstitious men clutching at shadows,
their gods demanding blood,
their scriptures twisted into weapons
of neon and steel.
But wait!
Across the still obsidian ocean,
on silver light he glides~
a solitary traveler arrives,
whispering hope, mending Dharma’s fractured spokes,
setting the Dharmic wheel in motion one more time.
*The title, "Riders in the Storm," is merely coincidence and not a reference to the Doors song with the same name.
I'll find a remedy for my broken heart.
A round of applause, you've melt my heart to stone.
I couldn't make you feel my love, from the start.
I'll find someone like you, I'll search for a clone.
A round of applause, you've melt my heart to stone.
All I ask is don't come back with a hello.
I'll find someone like you, I'll search for a clone.
I'll keep chasing pavements to find that rainbow.
All I ask is don't come back with a hello.
One last goodbye to your sweetest devotion.
I'll keep chasing pavements to find that rainbow,
Set fire to the rain and show no emotion.
One last goodbye to your sweetest devotion.
No turning tables, stop rolling in the deep.
Set fire to the rain and show no emotion,
its water under the bridge, I shall not weep.
No turning tables, stop rolling in the deep.
Rumour has it, there's a new name on your tongue.
Its water under the bridge, I shall not weep.
Forget broken promises, from when we were young.
Rumour has it, there's a new name on your tongue.
I couldn't make you feel my love, from the start.
Forget broken promises, from when we were young.
I'll find a remedy for my broken heart.
The Silent One
17 November 2017
Pantoum rhyme poem with 11 syllables per line.
The pantoum poem consists of 16 Adele song titles. Titles are below.
The pantoum consists of a series of quatrains rhyming ABAB in which the second and fourth lines of a quatrain recur as the first and third lines in the succeeding quatrain; each quatrain introduces a new second rhyme as BCBC, CDCD. The first line of the series recurs as the last line of the closing quatrain, and third line of the poem recurs as the second line of the closing quatrain, rhyming ZAZA
Remedy
Melt my heart to stone
Someone like you
All I ask
Hello
Chasing pavements
don't you remember
I can't make you love me
Make you feel my love
Sweetest devotion
Set fire to the rain
Turning tables
Rolling in the deep
Water under the bridge
Rumour has itl
When we were young
"It happens just because we need to want, and to be wanted too, when love is here or gone to lie down in the darkness and... listen to the warm.” -Rod McKuen
Fulfillment calls for the emptiness,
in the pursuit of the obsessive love.
Love lingers in the wounds of loss.
Waves swell and heave in sigh.
Rhododendrons, you loved so much, bloom in silent reflections.
River we would swim together goes on.
Time, like the sun and moon, smiles, along with Buddha.
The time in two empty cups still raise sounds.
Those rhythms call for the clouds.
The colours of heat beautify them.
The embellished clouds cannot help fulfilling the wants.
They understand they are wanted.
They listen to the warm call born of my earth.
Rains come down on my bare body.
I count the sounds.
First, second, third, fourth, and so on.
The wounds of love enter my breath.
I float on a lake, for your sake and mine.
____________________________________________
May 7, 2016
Submission for: Listen To The Warm–Prose - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Laura Loo
Glad iPad so capable that you just can’t dismiss it,
And it’s your best buddy as it’s always near, around;
Thin lightweight, you have the power of a sys, the kit,
As it can do anything which a computer does hound.
You can buy and download apps to place them too,
On any desktop: third, fourth, fifth or even the sixth,
But you need to remember to move your long queue,
Of iBooks onto your iCloud to make space xenolith.
It’s beautiful to look at as it’s pleasing to the eye,
Full 9.7” display with 2048x1536 resolution clarity,
Which is 3.1 million pixels or 3145728 dots to cry,
Out your every screen call and your vids in lucidity.
6.1mm thin and you can fill at ease a 64 bit memory,
It’s dynamic graphics provide A8X chip performance,
An M8 motion coprocessor for your gaming allegory,
And you can sit on it for 10 hours, no charger glance.
The first desktop, the opening screen gives a space,
Of so many different apps for your fine enjoyment:
Photos, the iBooks, mags, Notes and the clock face,
Calendar, Maps, Games, and the Settings cement.
And lets not forget about the necessities at the base,
Email, Safari and iTunes to give instant access, grab,
And the App Store as well - blue - does deftly encase,
Infinite games, word processors and sports apps fab.
Passcode mandatory, nobody invited or to be let in,
Your close relationships can’t render you violated,
Because your private messages are your own bin,
And your own elevation is by your pith proliferated.
And now the Pro Pencil for budding artists, painters,
Who want to digitally sketch, draft or paint portrait:
You can rest your hand on the screen without errors,
And it draws lines, if you pressure, of any weight.
Red Ribbon Week and I have a new novelty junk for kids’ kit.
Pencils, suckers, bookmarks, red ribbons; the kids will have a fit.
There is a plethora of choices of novelties this week.
but I know better than to give them a choice or a peek.
So, I make an executive decision, quick like long-haul truckers.
Kindergarten through second grade gets the red suckers.
Third and fourth grades get the ribbons with shiny letters.
Fifth grade gets the pencils to fight over with their betters.
6th grade might get the bookmarks; they are drug-free but tough.
And maybe a sucker too; it simply depends on if we have enough.