Long Good book Poems
Long Good book Poems. Below are the most popular long Good book by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Good book poems by poem length and keyword.
B
Is for Book
E
Is for E-Book
Not E-T.V
Making Millions for Ryan Seacrest
A
Is for Author
L
Is for Library
R
Is for Reading
Not Reality T.V
M
Is for Made you Look
I
Is for
If you wish to choose
Mind Numbing Reality T.V
Above an actual good book
K
Is for the Kardashian craze
Consumer driven slave's
Who are famous for no reason
D
Stands for Death
C
Stands for Crystal Meth
G
Stands for people who are willing to Gun Lobby
But
S
Will only ever stand for 1 thing
Sorrow
And
Sorry
S is both
S
And
M
If you replace S instead of M
In Madness
You are left with
Sadness
~The Holy Bible ~
(Quatern)
It tells the beginning of man
How God created all from start
He made the moon, stars, earth, day, night
It tells of God's great love for man
It tells of God's great sacrifice
It tells the beginning of man
Its authors were inspired by God
Some deny, others accept it
And keep it so close to their hearts
Many walk in darkness, are blind
It tells the beginning of man
Thru this "Book" we get to know God
Meet Jesus His Son, our Savior
It's the "Good Book" to live life through
It tells of man's future also
It tells the beginning of man.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2008
August.03.2017
B- A S I C
I- N S T R U C T I O N S
B- E F O R E
L- E A V I N G
E- A R T H
-So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13(KJV)
-“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.
John 3:16 (NIV)
-Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.
Proverbs 3:5 (KJV)
- Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer
Romans 12: 12 ( NIV )
-The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.”
Exodus 14: 13 ( NIV )
“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
- Mark Twain-
~Author's Notes:
The " Quatern" is a sixteen line French poetry form or style. It is similar to the Kyrielle and the Retourne.
A scorpion in a crab's garb!
Has stung into my body cells;
Poisoning my joy's inner orb,
Has dug into me deep death wells…
Bitter emptiness in me shrouds,
Like dark eclipses in the Space;
Have heaven's galaxy's star crowds,
Dared dim the light of Divine grace?
I will not ask you, Lord, why me?
I've received your blessings many;
When I receive good things for free,
This pain is nothing worth any!
The scorpion has stung me sharp,
Creating in me lumps of pain;
My life, now, is a stringless harp,
Playing as though purely in vain...
Chemotherapy, surgery,
Radiation, all and sundry;
I'm like skin in a turnery...
The scorpion is still hungry!
Pain is cancer within cancer,
It springs up from any corner...
Like an expert ballet dancer,
It is the mourned and the mourner...
Headache, tremor, and nausea,
Dead dearth in any smell and taste;
Although losing the cornea
My vision still clings to be chaste...
Unable to eat what I want,
I consider everything waste ;
Realizing the true love bond,
It's not food. I love the love's taste.
Hands heavy; legs swollen and weak,
All hair emptied; eyebrows have gone;
Mental agony at its peak,
Every bit of beauty gone worn…
Tablets for everything: for hair,
For eye-brows; for a better look;
For the very breathing the air,
For making me read a good book...
Cancer is scorpion severe,
Yet, it is not my death sentence;
In life's purification sphere,
Cancer might be part of penance...
06 June 2021
Cancer Ivy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Dawn flings
Sunburst of skyline
Now springs
Moods pine
Sparkling murmurings
Wild wine
Heart sings
Sacred psalm divine
Joy rings
~~~~~~~~~
Fine glow
Play of fond light tints
Warm show
Soul mints
Mind in vibrant flow
Soft hints
Form grows
Splurge of sensuous tints
Feel knows
~~~~~~~~~
Fresh looks
Sojourn hand in hand
Nice hook
Fond trends
Pathway by this brook
Love blends
Good book
Time to understand
Good cook
~~~~~~~~~
Time here
Eastern sun attends
Good cheer
My dear
Touch of ample grand
Faith steers
Love tends
Each to each endear
True friend
~~~~~~~~~
Waves splash
Touch of surreal sight
Bright dash
Joy lights
Pound of wavy clash
Glimpse sights
Fine flash
Touch of deeper flights
Sure stash
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
31 January 2015
Singapore
Out in the driveway
Sits my old pickup truck
Whose tailgates the first place
I learned about love
Its held on with cables
That are rusted and worn
While its seen better days
Its weathered the storm
That old rusty tailgate
Helped see me through
When I lost my first love
We shared in some brews
And I have to admit
It don't matter the make
The lessons I learned
On that rusty tailgate
Outside of my door
Sits an old front porch swing
Its splintered and tattered
And blows with the breeze
But the lessons I learned there
Passed generationally
From grandpappy to my dad
And then down to me
I sat in that porch swing
And learned about life
From those who had lived it
And never lost sight
Of what's most important
It still tugs my heart strings
The lessons I learned
In that old front porch swing
School never taught me
Much about life
And the good book still teaches
Me every night
So if your looking to learn
Be sure to lean
On an old beat up tailgate
Or squeaky porch swing
Tailgates and porch swings
Hold the lessons in life
Ones where I kissed my
Now second wife
I don't know about physics
And those sorts of things
But the best lessons in life
You'll learn on tailgates and porch swings
I learned from the masters
Who unconditionally
Taught me the lessons
Of Tailgates and porch swings
"Humor can alter any situation and help us cope at the very instant we are laughing." –Allen Klein
A GOOD SENSE OF HUMOR BLUNTS THE SHARP BLADES OF REALITY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I lay on the table, a modern-day sacrificial lamb,
pillow cradling my head, a fortress of foam and fabric.
Then came Velcro, the sticky embrace of a high-tech straitjacket,
my legs and wrists secured like a reluctant burrito.
Into the tube I slid, a terrified astronaut on a mission,
the ceiling loomed, a metallic sky, almost kissing my nose.
I clenched my hands until they turned white pondering
“Is this what it feels like to be a sardine in a can?
The sounds began, a symphony of whirs and clicks,
the MRI’s own version of a pop concert—
I imagined it had a fan club, “Team Tube,” with its own T-shirts
while I lay there, a star in a very narrow universe.
I tried counting, “one, two, three.” But sigh…
my thoughts were spinning like socks in a dryer.
I imagined bystanders strolling by, pointing and staring.
“Behold! Look at the sweating patient in the tube!”
The minutes crawled, like a snail on a treadmill.
“Perhaps I should have brought snacks
or at least a good book.” But alas, I was tethered,
a captive audience to my own claustrophobic anxiety.
So I lay still, the sounds swirling,
I chuckled softly, because if this is life,
then I might as well enjoy the ride,
even if it’s a little cramped and a little weird.
After all, who needs a spa day when you can have an MRI,
a slow, relaxing rollercoaster ride into the belly of the beast.
Oh, the absurdity of my situation, and the irony of it all—
Here I was, a human pretzel, searching for sanity inside the MRI.
Then, suddenly, the whirring ceased, the ceiling pulled back.
I emerged, a superhero in a hospital gown,
Velcro stripped away, ready to conquer the world
with a newfound appreciation for open spaces.
Poem written for “A Good Sense Of Humor Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality Poetry Contest,” Natasha L. Scragg, sponsor, July 29, 2025.
For years he proudly wore the uniform of his beloved nation,
Fighting in many conflicts seeing mankind's terrible desecration.
In the heat of battle he often looked beyond the horrible strife,
When one day he could pen his dreams about the good things in life.
He tried to erase from his mind the lingering nightmare of battle,
The clash of steel, the billowing smoke and the musket's rattle.
He retired to a peaceful life and forsook the weapons of war,
To muse and write of ordinary things, letting his imagination soar!
He wrote of the magnificence of a beautiful, fragrant rose,
And the peaceful innocence of little children in repose.
The grandeur of the Creator's mountain, stream and plain,
Trees, sunshine, the moon, the stars and life-sustaining rain.
He wrote of children anxiously pondering choices at a candy store,
And of mighty waves from far-away places rushing to the shore.
He told of the virtues of attending Church and Sunday School,
To handle others with loving care, as if each were a precious jewel!
It says in the Good Book there'll always be wars and rumors of war,
But the old soldier had seen the folly of war and made it his chore,
To espouse a truism he had learned, this a very simple rule:
"If folks would follow The Golden Rule, they'd be apt to be less cruel!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
As we descend into our togetherness
There are her tears and whispers of "be gentle with me"
As she condescends into our passion
We hold each other firm with messages of skin and heart
We fall deeper into each other
She has hesitance to fully surrender her body
But is caught up into thoughts of his piercing blue eyes
Which can seduce her when her clothes are on
She shivers and the articulation of gentle kisses
On nape and notch (And why now am I thinking of hop scotch?)
"Hey! No!" "Kisses, focus on the kisses"
As we are warm for each others form
And the smell of mahogany in this cabin
(In which just moments ago we were both enjoying a good book)
And in each other we smother as inhibitions
Are now falling away (and the smell of French Toast)
Why French Toast when I am enjoying the interrogation
Of my lover lips? Oh sweet lover who has gently and caressingly
Wooed me into a chase of orgasmic finality
And into the afterglow of post coital spooning
Wow and whew (with a heavy sigh)
Maybe now the French Toast
The Bad, The Ugly and The Good (aka: Bad, Badder, Baddest)
The Bad
I am the gun-toting, God-fearing Ganja Gangsta.
I’ll smoke you, pray for you, then have my daily siesta!
I answer to no one, and fear no man; No Sir!!!
I answer to only One Master. That’s Heaven’s Prime Minister.
I am the player-hating, man-baiting Sister Disaster.
I’ll woo you, thrill you, then …kill you; true that, mister!
I just swagger thru the city with my ‘Ghetto Blaster’,
I don’t mean sounds, fool!!! I mean my ‘piece’ … to blast ya!!!
I am the mean-looking, menacing Monster Mobster.
I’ll cut ya, shred ya, and have me a pasta fiesta.
I do not boil ‘em…! No sah!! I’d eat a live lobster!
I’m so mean ….Hey! ..I’ll even steamroller your hamster!!!
I am the fast-talking, Bible-bashing Pastor Imposter.
I’ll bless you, fleece you, then sex-up Sister Disaster
I’m just a shyster - but please don’t tell the Menacing Mobster!
She’s the God-fearing Gangsta’s wife - and the Mobster’s sister!
The Ugly (Badder)
I am the flesh-eating, life-sapping, Cluster-Sinister.
I am impartial; care not for class, colour, creed or gender.
I am microbe, but not a person-respecter; ask the sex inspector.
I am sorry, but for me to survive, you have to become a spectre.
I am the tear-jerking, game-changing, people-Prankster
I get called ‘*****’, ‘Sod’, …some even call me a ‘Mater-Conjugator’.
I don’t like Gangsters, Mobsters and especially that dodgy Pastor
I may get mad, or even get even; Call me ‘Life’, or call me ‘Karma’.
The Good (Baddest)
I am the Beginning, the Alpha/Omega; Heaven’s only Prime Minister
I wrote the Good Book, but look inside, I have never been a Jester!
I carry fire and brimstone to bolster my holster - you’d better helter-skelter!
I mete out justice, and vengeance administer: you'd better pray faster!!!
(Fg 81.5.8 - January 2016)
So much to complain about,
The choice for what to rant about gets bigger every day,
Just thinking about complaining is enough for my brain to
put in a complaint of its own,
With other body parts about to follow suit.
The time it takes to process a complaint,
Are grounds for another.
Yet still injustice calls and every now and then my pen starts twitching,
Or I hear that familiar dial-tone and once again I have failed,
To calculate the odds of reaching ears that can distinguish a sour note,
Or of finding a mouth with a tender pallet,
So, I press forward sometimes in company, often a force of one.
Exposure to the limelight does not make my face glow,
There are other games I prefer to play.
I get no thrill out of complaining,
No sense of adventure calls me to come hither.
Many times, I have complained after the fact,
Or waited in vain for someone else to get off their couch.
Truth be told, I'd rather read a good book.
Yet the thought of losing the right to complain,
And living in a world where nothing ever changes,
Occasionally causes me to set my book aside and reach for my pen,
So, I won't have to reach for my gun,
As each day the price of not complaining goes up a notch.