Long Fragment Poems
Long Fragment Poems. Below are the most popular long Fragment by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fragment poems by poem length and keyword.
“Can you feel the soul of an abandoned house,
can you hear the whispering? "
Quote by _Constance La France
Standing before this old, dilapidated house
Memories leap out from the moss-grown crevices of my mind,
Like snakes uncoiling, rather like bees swarming,
Fragmented, scented and sour!
I remember my old maternal uncle,
Who had turned a widower at forty-one,
The presiding deity of a joint family of fourteen.
Most of the time he sprawled in the armchair,
In the enclosed patio of this massive homestead
In the living room was an old grandfather clock
Ticking away like the faint heartbeats
Of that decadent house with crumbling plaster
He had seen heydays with many a ceremony of great fanfare,
When the house used to board all kith and kin
And the granary was full of paddy and tons of black gold.
But as time slowly weakened his torso,
The house too lost its onetime splendor.
His children got scattered far and wide.
They went to hoard fortunes abroad.
But grand uncle refused to move away.
With a shock, one day we heard of his death.
He left the house orphaning it forever.
Now the house remains fragment of an old memory.
Though once I thought I had escaped,
The compulsions of the past,
Now I discern, I am still pinioned by it!
As I stand before this house, my ears perk up,
To hear what it whispers, its one-time glory,
Or its sad deserted state?
I wonder if I can ever enjoy the love and life,
That once so luxuriously bloomed inside!
~ PLACED FIRST~
May.27.2023
Writing Challenge ‘C’ Quotes Poetry Challenge
Sponsor- Constance La France
Cantata
He stood there on a plateau that only had a tree,
And since he had appeared from nowhere, there
Was there no past to bother with?
He sat under the tree mainly because it was
getting hot, the tree had big, thick leaves and
Beside the tree, there was a barrel of cold water.
During the day, the plateau became shimmering
He saw ponies trotting past like a knitted poncho.
Since he had no past, a fragment of a future
Instinct told him they were going to the Green Vale
That had grass, shade, and a lagoon that reflected
The sky, or was it the other way around?
He sat there and tried to visualize the future where he didn´t
Exist, but he failed, which made him human.
"Each experience is locked within my heart and only I hold the key..."
Stifling heat,hectic surroundings,locals their lifestyle
politeness,honesty stems from karma overwhelming profile
hardworking for a pitance,food to provide
sending money to the village,the family to divide.
Monies earned in cities,triple valued north
tourist prices enable the workers to go forth.
Youths sleeping beneath cardboard,such a crying shame
reds and blues collide,goverment all to blame.
On arriving home,no possibility to explain
the differance Thailand throws from luxury to the pain
however life goes on,in Pattaya o so what a thrill
to walk the golden dragon stairs, the giant Buddah on the hill.
Paul Beadnall for:
Sponsor
Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Contest Name
A Fragment Of Life
21/8/11
POIGNANT ECHOES
(Combo Verse Forms)**
Go with the flow, go with the mood;
Live what you know, live what feels good.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Wind sifting
Bamboo vines sway;
Dawnlight bursting
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Love wears a style,
Zest works the glow;
Charm floods a smile,
Pulse primes the show.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Listen
Empower
Enlightenment
Walking in the sure light
Now here
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Love
Live
Beauty
Pulsations
Bamboo in the wind
Rapture in sensational feel
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Becoming tints, being hurls poise;
Lovely lines surge, lively words fling;
Brilliant touch mint, crazy hint voice;
Purge of sure urge, choice feels the sting.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Lines and lines dash,
Piles and piles clash!
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Salty sea spray, wind in my face;
Play primal pay, glimpse glowing grace;
Unknown this day, this abrupt space.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Choice follows poise
Be of good cheer
No need to rush
Things happen
For a good reason
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Poignant feelings in sacred forfeit here;
Malingering maelstrom of crude satire;
Living and loving in precious good cheer.
Belief beyond the enlightenment fire;
Spur in sure feel of fanatical sire.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Leon Enriquez
14 Apr 2014
Singapore
(Note: Combo Verse Forms** -- Sequence as follows:
1 Couplet, 2 Haiku, 3 Quatrain, 4 Cinqku,
5 Fibonacci, 6 Quatrain, 7 Couplet, 8 Rhyme 3-line,
9 Free Verse 5-line, and 10 Terza Rima fragment.)
In the hush of a May morning,
I wander through the murmurs of a forgotten meadow,
where time weaves through the tall grass,
and the stones speak softly of the past.
Old, weathered headstones, stoic and silent,
etched with names that once danced upon the lips of loved ones,
now cradled in the earth's enfold,
their stories carried on the wings of the wind.
The sun, a gentle brush upon the horizon,
paints shadows long and memories vivid,
as I trace the lines of history with my fingertips,
each mark a testament to sacrifice and valor.
Here lies a soldier of the Civil War,
his name a faint echo, his deeds etched deep,
the moss clings to his epitaph,
a guardian of his tale, a silent testament to his courage.
Nearby, a marker from the Great War,
its marble face kissed by countless seasons,
the letters worn, yet proud,
each one a pulse of the past, a beat of bravery.
And there, a soldier from the Second World War,
his headstone stark and simple,
standing in quiet dignity,
a sentinel of remembrance amidst the rustling leaves.
I pause at a grave adorned with a verse,
a fragment of Walt Whitman’s soul,
etched into the stone, a bridge to the eternal,
“O Captain! my Captain!” murmurs through the air,
each word a thread, binding the present to the past.
The breeze carries the scent of wildflowers,
a delicate bouquet of memory and mourning,
as I stand in reverent silence,
the weight of history pressing gently upon my heart.
In this sacred space, where the past breathes still,
I find a connection to those who came before,
a shared humanity, a collective memory,
etched in stone, held in the quiet enfold of the countryside.
On this Memorial Day, in this ancient, rural resting place,
I honor their lives, their sacrifices,
and in the echo of Whitman’s words, I feel the pulse of time,
a reminder that their legacy endures,
woven into the very fabric of this land,
forever remembered, forever revered.
I will be blithe tonight.
The wind is high
I will walk alone beneath the sky
I will not let it happen, this tendency
To see oneself so righteous, so sober
The monotony of age overcoming
Rejecting what is curious, young and free
Because they are young, never will I act
As though their wholeness could be packed
Into that fragment of their knowledge, their youth
I will be a person, a growing cell
I will retain the right to wish and rebel
I will throw octopus arms that will invisibly grow
To squeeze a thought, which once ran swift and keen
Not into a stodgy pattern of routine
I will look at the sky tonight
And count the stars tonight
And I will make a wish
And I will dream of young things....
Sounds of Silence !
Where did it all go wrong ?
What brought on this Silence ?
Bitter is the taste of cold, gray winds of silence.
A formidable force that harbours shadows.
Shadows fragment, splinter, dissipate with times passing.
Time becoming the purveyor of so many questions.
Questions that receive no answers from the wind,
receive no answers from the unlit halls of silence.
Silence, enslaver of the story that could be told.
A story Silence has deemed to never set free,
remaining buried deep within its sarcophagus.
No birth realized from that prevailing, cold wind.
Still born is the essence, the heart of the story.
Yesterday, now flying upon the wings of history.
Those yesterdays will, it seems, never metamorphose
into a future, not any kind of actively shared future
as the story rides bareback upon the cold winds of Silence.
I am truly unable to fathom the essence, of this silence,
the depth of thought, of experience that gave it birth.
I know not the currents that drove all upon the jagged edge.
B. J. “A ” 2
March 25th 2019
The wound is the place where light enters you
What I Am Now
flickering light glows
kind soft touch of your warm world
to what I am now
"wounds of past disappointments
light has healed fragment moments"
nuisance remnants of the past life suffering and anguish brought
beautiful journey for building future inspirations of the person I’m now
as I take a deep breath
I have become stronger
the past has laid a path
to believe with fervor
love has made it better
11/28/2015
Make "A Poet’s Dozen"
One modern Haiku: 3 lines: Syllables 5,7,5
Couplet: 2 lines
Free verse: 2 lines
English Quintain: 5 lines: Rhyming scheme ababb
Contest: Quote me Rumi Poetry Contest
Sponsored By: Silent One
The stone.
Plain, Dusty, Worn. Full of holes and shortcomings.
Like me.
A droplet of water.
Changing, transforming.
Washing away the dirt, grime, muck.
Leaving behind a metamorphosized canvas of color.
The stone.
Altered forever. Carved and painted by the presence of water.
The water, falling, flowing, changing, forming.
A drip. Droplet.
Rain, Pouring down on me. On the stone.
Amending. Smoothing away the flaws.
The water of life, cleansing.
The stone.
Mended.
Turned from a pebble - like any other - to a unique fragment.
Smoothed over.
Remade.
The droplet, driplet.
Changing, moving me, like Him.
Wearing away my imperfections and sins.
Smooth, like the rock. Beautiful.
His.
A fragment of matted stone breaks surface,
it is already colonized
by moss and fungi factories.
Eventually all will churn
green spawns to green lawns,
not yet of course, ‘yet’ has to wait
for the rain and the blood to settle.
Stone must be crushed
by the weight of circumstance,
a microscopic slime
pushed up above a miasmic mud
to become our living graveyards.
The Shawnee come and go
their last battles a war dance
passing like fireflies
on a summers night.
Layers of settlers add calcium to forest roots.
Time seeds towns,
industry turns rough hands
over mind-made wheels.
Worms grow fat.
Tornadoes of antique shops
emerge out of a storied history.
Abandoned Mills evolve
into art galleries.
Old railway lines end
where they began.
The moss returns,
blight creeps as it levels.
The larger the urban sprouting,
the more the moss and lichen flourish.
Eventually though, Ohio
will leave its foliate forest temples
to be discovered
by incipient microbes
that even now
live on the underside of rocks,
as codified plans and veined blueprints.
of a future expansion.