Long Garde Poems
Long Garde Poems. Below are the most popular long Garde by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Garde poems by poem length and keyword.
Soaked up the atmosphere of Montmartre
Found café enjoyed French citron tart
Double shot of coffee went down so well
Then I heard the Sacré-Coeur bell.
With hand on my heart, I honestly say
The shades of the past forever hold sway
There's something unique about Montmartre
Air so different totally avant-garde.
Picasso, Lautrec, and my favourite Monet
Inhabited these streets and with colour did play
With hand on my heart under azure blue dome
Healing achieved its Montmarte syndrome.
With Hand on My Heart
Poetry contest
Sponsored
by
Mystic Rose
23/10/2021
Mine is a connection twix body and soul
Beliefs based on values, the earth as a whole;
In league with creation of moon and the stars,
To strings am related on tenor guitars.
In marriage enable the vows to confirm
Ensure that relations in love will stay firm.
Extend pragmatism in fields of mystique
Approach every challenge with focused technique
Directing attention in moments of stress
To angels who show you the way to success.
I came from a planet to keep hopes alive;
Of Garde am a number between three and five.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: What’s in a Number
Sponsored by Juliet Ligon
Placed 1st
© 7th February 2020
THE SCENT OF EARTH
Modern cities have grown in all possible direction
Captured by construction, expanses of soil aren’t seen
I live in a concrete jungle, our avant-garde creation
An uprooted tree, at all times I feel suffocated within
I wish so much I could go back where I had once been.
I remember fondly the green hamlet where I was born
On my eyes childhood memories hang like framed picture
The grass-covered land rolled with trees to the horizon
The land and the sky made for me an enchanting pair
I grew up there imbibing the pristine elements of nature.
After the scorching summer when the first rains fell
In relief the parched soil sighed exhaling the scent of earth
Embraced me with aromatic arms of nature I knew so well
The scent still wafts in me, nobody in city knows its worth
With the first rain I’ll return to a green land in my next birth.
February 18, 2018.
rainy season
grief, white hydrangeas
hungry caterpillar
In part, The Haiku Society of America’s definition of a haiku reads, “Usually a haiku in English is written in three unrhymed lines of seventeen or fewer syllables.” Further, Japanese scholar Shigehisa Kuriyama states, “The 5-7-5 pattern by itself does not make a haiku.” (Gurga, p. 1). Contemporary English language haiku have departed radically from the 5-7-5 convention, including the Beat haiku of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and Gary Snyder, the latter awarded the Masaoka Shiki International Haiku Grand Prize in 2004. The haiku of Robert Spiess are especially experimental.
I recommend two sources for further study of haiku: “Haiku: A Poet’s Guide,” by Lee Gurga, addresses haiku in it’s traditional form; “Haiku Poetics in Twentieth-Century Avant-Garde Poetry,” by Jeffery Johnson discusses haiku as realized by modernist poets.
Speaking personally, it is most important for me to enjoy writing a haiku, correct form or not, and for my haiku to be enjoyed by the reader.
Under any circumstances,
we do the best ... we provide
the possible to the impossible ...
We lend prestige to
who does not have ... we highlight the mistakes
we overestimate eventual hits
Correct systemic failures,
We grant "status" to those who do not have ...
All these things, quite discreetly ...
Non orthodox ways for facilitating, buying, selling,
nothing, nothing, nothing ... all in accordance
with updated interpretations of the acts and
procedures ... modern teachings of
political, commercial avant-garde ...!
PS any similarity is merely coincidence ...
I roamed among lucent stars through a baroque city
Which mirrored imprints from past-life scenes,
Bringing me to tears about deja vu moments: Awed by its
avant-garde streak, my very essence left me reliving the arts held
dearly in adolescence: Such uptown elan! The charmed cacophony
Of violins and guitars , of warbles by dilettante poets
Along Brussels Street gave me carte blanche to explore
Nights’ fired passion without ennui ...While the distinct air inhabited me--
This soul-connection was not time’s anomaly. My heart
knew I once dwelled flourished here , as a bona fide lyricist...perhaps.
--------------
Brussels, Belgium—March 2016
Contest of Silent One: Ten Words Ten Lines 2
1/25/2018
I wake up at a different time and place each breaking morning
And set a new path on this earth that beggars all forewarning
One day I’ll try my hand at walking backward down the street
While wearing something lissome yet distinctly indiscreet
Then possibly I’ll pass some time with Nitze-by-the-sea
Considering the ocean’s purpose nihilistically
And if there’s time I’ll blow my mind with something by the bard
For Bill’s a bloke who still can smoke the glibbest avant-garde
And then I think the time may come to speak of many things
Like why we hear of mannequins but never mannekings
There’s lots of things I’ve never done, take suicide for instance
There’s naught to do that’s really new when all is nonexistence
Thus every day that I’m around I try for something special
No line-of-sight approach for me, my life’s been more tangential
So if it’s something new you seek, well that’s just not my game
If all my days are different, well then … every day’s the same
October 24, 2018
Implant within me a seed monthly, though the pulverization derides me. Let it conjure hope and solace to shatter my reality as venomous weeds entwine it, sickening me as I lay still in the liquid birthed from my own fruit. Implant within me a seed; let the feral roots ensnare it, suffocating my every breath and cell until it ruptures--obliterated within my frail and aching tree. It be destined to return but stripped of the avant-garde its predecessor once possessed. Implant within me a seed; it’ll part for months, leaving my psych mangled as blood seeps through trypophobic perforations crafted solely by its hand. The seed, thriving as I decay, renders its final blow the day we die. Implant within me a seed; force it into a sanctum where it does not belong, and let fate, warped and distorted, contort my marred soul. That which I once refused to acknowledge shall now delude my senses, forcing me to reach for those who feel not love but only pity for my aberrant roots. Implant within me a seed; let me perish within its absence, yet perpetually suffer under its presence. Wound me with my own creation.
Your end creates you
It will return to rip you
Plant it, watch it die
Oh, Medical Residents
Perhaps, nowjust, perhaps, it was worth it to break my knee and thigh?
As those groovy young Med students, made me so heavily sigh!
All had a full head of the hair plus all their teeth, oh wow!
None had wigs or false choppers, like a lonely cow.
It was heaven for me as they busily made their rounds.
I just batted my false eyelashes and made very soft, purring sounds.
Who wants to date older men, most assuredly not me!
Lock me up forever with the young ones, and throw away the key!
Being young, avante-garde, handsome, and smart?
I think is heaven sent, they all hold a special place in my heart.
Tis no joke my physicians name was Dr. Wild.
I dreamt nights away....off being his “wild child.”
Memories of my Recent Hospitalization
Panagiota Romios
11/30/2021
.
so purty
mine flatter
i share
to mine right's
side
the celt from
ireland
thus
to mine left's
side
the celt from
france
"hol'lup
let me breathe"
came forth the scop's
speak
and mineself's
"they are dang
purty"
*I thought about giving this write
a less avant garde title, yet, it iz
"avant garde"...metaphorically ')