Long Grammar Poems
Long Grammar Poems. Below are the most popular long Grammar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grammar poems by poem length and keyword.
The Lie
I am an insect waiting to be squashed!
I stare hard at the ground
as if fascinated, enthralled by it
while, above, eyes of cold-cobalt
wait to gouge and burrow out
any self-belief that might still remain.
“WELL?”
It always starts with that unsettling word.
Ironic as ‘well’ it certainly is not.
“COME ON!! I haven’t got all day!”
The next sharpened remark; his checkmate,
and the denouement usual swiftly follows.
I try to speak but my weighted words
require a wheelbarrow to carry them out.
I am snagged, on the jag, of repeated criticism
which over the years has shrunken me;
diluting my beleaguered confidence.
Most of my childhood years I understood
and welcomed the fluctuations of emotion
however the grammar and punctuation
of every day skirmishes of family life:
the questions marks, the exclamations, the..... ellipses
were rules, restrictions that became impossible to follow.
So here, once again, stands my father’s temper
attempting to confront nay dominate me.
At this point, if my body had consented,
I would have galloped over the nearest horizon
however all my moving parts had gathered together,
loitering, on a corner, spreading rumours and gossip
that had rendered me rigid and immobile!
My only escape, my bolt for freedom, lies… in the lie.
Yes, an untruth, that had lain in the top shelf
of my mind for many troubled days,
fermenting in its own insidious juices.
Now sliding treacherously from the corner of my mouth,
this worded assassin, homes ruthlessly on its target
…my firework of a father.
Suddenly his face tightens, a thought frightens,
his rigid body a jolt of electricity,
as disbelief snakes its way into his thinking.
His anger reddens, his reasoning darkens
and his fists…..boulder.
But the lie has lain down beside him
fabricating disappointment, bewilderment, distrust
deep into the windows of his eyes.. then...much deeper.
Gradually I turn the key in the ignition of my pride
carefully closing my hands, knitting my fingers,
creating a statement of both prayer and defiance.
Later a thought dangles in a corner of my mind,
a consideration, a contemplation of how far the lie
will layer down into my father’s subconscious
before he understands that the lie is a…
Trojan horse carrying … the truth!
Ian Souter
MY HEARTACHE WENT WITH YOU
The short sweet moment I had with you a week before
you passed, brought me contentment for it made me feel
our hearts touched and we finally connected and bound.
We were alone in your room when I said “I am here” and
I caressed you, running my hand through your hair, touching
your face, your shoulders, your arms and held your hand.
Our hands locked for a while and when I was leaving,
I told you “I love you” and you looked at me and said
“I love you too” and my heart was filled with ease.
You and I knew, you treated me differently and you
never told me why that I gave up asking and let go.
Although I never gave up showing my love for you.
I visited you three more times before you passed and
each time, I never had a chance to be alone with you.
My last moment with you was with all my siblings.
Surrounded by all my siblings, I was standing by your bed,
touched and looked at you and said, “I love you” and you
just looked at me and kept looking without saying anything.
My heart ached for you said “I love you too” to my siblings
and I did not understand why you could not say that to me
in front of them, clearly treating me differently than them.
The pang, the pain pierced my heart and I walked away.
Two days later, you were gone and I could not shed a tear.
My heart ached more for I wanted to cry and I could not.
As a loving daughter, I worked on your memorial service
for I could not let the hurt, ache, pain prevent me from
making sure everything was according to your wishes.
Six days before memorial service, in our siblings’ meeting,
one of my sisters told me that you did not give me anything
for I could afford what I want and I could be on my own.
I was the last person to see and be with you in the chapel.
I touched your face, your hand and took off my mask, kissed
my hand and put it on your mouth and said “I love you”.
I put my mask back on, touched your hand and said “goodbye”.
I never shed a tear, I looked at you one last time and although
I would never understand you; I left my heartache with you.
5/8/21 All Yours (May 9) Poetry
Brian Strand
4/23/21 Writing Prompt - Ache - Poetry
Constance La France
Used: PS Grammar Checker
There is another girl I know. She loves to people-watch during the time she has to waste, and when she has no time at all. There is a girl that I know who rests her feet on a bench, with her knees tucked tightly to her chest. There is a girl that I know who is glued to a pen. I watch as she writes as fast as she can to try and keep up with her racing thoughts. There is a girl I know who observes more than you would expect. She keeps her eyes to the ground until the world turns around. There is someone I know who has stronger feelings than everyone else. She has energy for days, but has learned to stay quiet and still. She has manners that were learned from movies and English grammar books piled in her room. Studying every day because she wants to respect others, like the way the world should be. This person I know is beginning to let her guard down. She frowns more often than she used to, and her mouth is closed more than it has ever been. I see how tired she is as she slumps down in her seat, her legs stretched out past her desk. She observes the people who have been hurt like her and writes about how she wants to help. Her words on paper, like letters that have been written but never sent. Once you become invisible, it stays, and she wouldn't dare cross that line. There is a girl who observes a boy she knows. He struggles to manage the hurt and balance pain and work. She observes his idiot friends and watches the way he hides behind jokes and smiles. There is a girl I know who hides behind jokes and smiles. There is a girl I know who loves everyone she knows, despite actions and reputations. She has been stuck in relationships that pressured gossip, and pain. But now, she is told her heart is too forgiving for her own good. Even if this is true, she doesn't care. There is a girl I know who has found a few people who care for her in the way she longs to care for other people she knows. There is a girl I know who has gone to the doctor and found two enlarged masses in her head. She has been diagnosed with six different kinds of migraines. Her body is weak, and each time she moves, she trembles. This girl I know was told the worst sentence she has ever heard. A doctor asking, “Holy , how are you still alive,” proclaiming, “you have really been hurting, havent you,” it almost hurts to hear these words even more.
A man unpresidentially known for the showerhead
Msholozi, the man in charge of singlehandedly running a nation into crisis
With him at the helm the public anxiously watches as the state of things degenerate
The rand has slumbered, corruption trivialised and unemployment popularised
Numeric’s play trickery on his unknowing tongue
And in his mind’s eye rules of grammar are easily ignored
Unpopular for his uninspiring speeches and refusal to obey protocol
A man who unapologetically lives above the constitution without fail
Without resolve he spends his term in office under the guise of ignorance
A generous man whose time is easily spend trying to resolve crises in countries outside our shores
He gets to lead a life of privilege without burning a sweat
He carries on blindly without taking any responsibility while the rest suffer the consequence
The unjust Msholozi hypocritically lives above the law but expects others to obey
The threat of prison bars didn’t hold him down because his connections served him right
A smart man with a dedicated entourage of followers to defend his malice
From the safety of his chambers he observes like Big Brother leading a nation to its downfall
As things spiral down he generously extents the rope to which the economy hangs itself
Cynically he laughs off his critics while the believers fan off the opposition
He doesn’t get his hands dirty since willing volunteers fight his battles
The booing and anger from a nation divided never unsettles this comrade
Without shame he takes merit from the achievements of others
He doesn’t worry about his endless failures since his inactions are blamed on the past
After all, he’s a diligent leader living in a utopian valley where all his citizens are satisfied
He sees no wrong, hears no concerns and does nothing to improve the nature of things
An unscrupulous man who dishonourably musk’s his failures by claiming what others have earned
At the sound of his voice the martyrs who selflessly fought for this freedom turn from their graves
Hi puppets continue to defend him like a messiah filling his silences with bombastic defences
He’s set in his questionable ways and is undeterred by motions of no confidence
Like the mafia his enemies are harshly eliminated from the face of politics but friends handsomely rewarded
The Seconds
[Excerpts]
(c) 2019, Anita Lerek
Section 1/4
First Generation - Before the Holocaust
Lvov, Poland 1930s. Mother, you were a Jewish girl but you were not expected to enter history. You played outside time like a star burning for trillions of years. Hands of pleasure created fire, and tossed in rags of exotic oils and sunflowers to heighten the mingling of school yard bodies barely formed. You lived inside bushes filled with chocolates, ghosts of guardians, and boys measured by swagger and expensive shoes
Your lives were handcuffed by words, set in the grammar of racial separation. But there was no one else, just you and your friends, beauty marooned in floodlit trance
————————-
Section 3/4
The Survivors
............
You lie on the beaches. You lie in the fields. You are bits of debris, tufts of life stuck together, shadows thrusting and contracting in search of embodiment
So many lost, beyond mouthing. What history removes, language cannot restore. Rather it is a burial ground, an anti-galaxy of boarded up stars. How many forms are there of nothing?
Ancestors cry out to you from pine trees and flowers, from buds and branches. You hear nothing. You seek out strangers. By touching them, you try to rouse a sleeping god of your lost civilization, to reach the boys, the sunflowers, the shadows begging to return
Your limbs touch, boxes smacking against each other, filling, releasing. You barely move. You let him have his pleasure. Then without a word, you leave, and return, to release the one valve, day after day; all others seized by horror. You never exchange names
—————————
Section 4/4
The Second Generation
..........
I was of the same cloth but not the same cloth. I did not occupy the same land as you. I grieved our severed skin
I come closer now, hover at your borders. Mother, your elements are wearing down, motions slowing, your fragments crumbling
Stop, stop, stop the cycle
of trauma: its birth, hardening into splintered towers, falling apart and re-forming
Let me into love before you leave me, here in this final land
where love crystallizes
into the expansive images
that cradle me
in beds of rock,
the last images
that I send up
to mend babel’s darkness
for trillions of years
Romans 13:1 - “The authorities that exist have been established by God”…
Though that seems more of a facade, long shot and a fraud from a world long gone
Since sin no longer seems fiction in this depiction of friction with biased predictions
An election... with no intention of protection for the derelict despite respective messages
Seems like these cycles are a hit-miss of plot twists and taut fists that obscure who God is
But we make no connection that contention from our own predilection sows dissension
And without intervention comes resentment, we need spiritual direction
But instead of resting in God’s embrace we attack others with a verbal mace
while we brace our own heart for impact, still intact, rate of pace faster than light in space
We’re caught up in the race but instead should race to erase the rays of hate from our own race.
Why do we debate the debates as we relegate and castigate with hate, then demand a rebate
or hammer their manner like it’s grammar, then try to conjugate what they obfuscate
Our minds are lost in space while propaganda confiscates our thoughts of late
Then traps them in relapse, perhaps inaction would produce the largest fraction of satisfaction
But our thoughts are funneled and fueled into to a brew of psychological stew
so heated and cruel it boils over derision and division, it’s no wonder we have tunneled vision.
Then when the door unhinges, pops open, it’s rigged with bigoted dissonance, explosives
that spring from an ocean filled with commotion from springs of offense overflowing
because we dared to confused fact with opinion and reasoning with motive
America caught between a persona gargantuan and aroma of pantsuits and emails scandalous
The purposes of service is not to deter with private servers or privates and perverts with backers
in reserve or greenbacks in reserves, we reserve the right to deserve more than this disservice
So when we venture into this realm of guesswork where conjecture is turned into adventure
When the cyclical turns visibly unbiblical with violently physical intervals fueled by the visceral
Instead of surrendering our heart’s rhapsody of magnitude into apathy and lassitude
...let us pray for strength to maintain a God sustained attitude of positive aptitude
Sweet dreams are fantastic and enchanting,
The golden wings of brightness are quite chanting,
The natural beauty of songbirds is like fairy dust,
In this dream, I broke down with joy and bust.
Oh, dream! The ominous curved shape was not scary,
Chimera! The vampire seemed merry,
Then the classic scary stigma of horror vampire,
Fear of satanic blasphemy grew as a damper.
Oh! I closed my eyes in horror at that terrible sight!
His hypnotic eyes stopped the trembling, awe-inspiring flight!
The Vampiric myth unsolved puzzle may be resolved tonight,
My heart raced as the ego chiseled my family's artistic heights.
There is tranquility and calmness in my head,
Trying to remember how beatific this time is ahead,
I am grateful to God for my golden vision,
which appears to be a wonderful envision.
A mysterious traveler from our odd planet,
At home, into the magical realm of sleep gamut,
In a dream, I filled out a waiver and escaped Vietnam,
And I joined the National Guard, my favorite aplomb.
My favorite subject at school was English Literature,
Dad said math and science were vital, not litterateur,
I focused on calculus and left grammar to my proclivity,
I learned to design technical visuals, not creatively.
We were labeled "baby boomers," but we were war babies,
It ensures the happiness of possible rivals abides,
Living in America exposed me to a touch of pioneer history,
Technology and industry drive us forward through mystery.
The dream ceased without falling for the intelligentsia,
She freed me from lethargy by having me fight inertia,
Without her, I could have abused booze and heroin,
It's simpler to surrender to laziness than to be a heroine.
I rode the conveyor to the consulting to provide luxury,
I wrote finance and tech books to show I hump Riff Poetry,
Now I am in search of mystical sights and cosmic vibes,
When the writing is over, I shall resume painting the jibes.
The most exciting dreams are abruptly interrupted,
When the sun's rays approached, rouse erupted,
Appealing experiences, from a need for sleep,
More people assumed occult esoteric creep.
1ST place contest winner
Written: September 15, 2022
The Mystical Dream Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Dry Facts Can Perform Juicy Acts
In the EFL community
all around the world
it’s an undeniable
and unpleasant reality that
no matter how well-motivated
you and your students are
no matter how real and acute
the need for learning
a language may be
no matter how well-equipped
the language center is
no matter how well-trained
your instructors might be
still, teaching a language
as a foreign tongue
in a foreign country
in a classroom environment
within four walls
is an artificial endeavor,
pure and simple.
Moreover, the minute the students
step out of the classroom
the little language environment
created in the room
is left behind,
lost and forgotten
until the next class.
Minds boggle at how lively,
how attractive,
how delightful and entertaining,
how effective and powerful
languages can be
at the hands of skillful comedians,
orators, actors, poets and authors
while they all become
utter bores, dry and irrelevant,
with chalk-and-talk-addicted
unimaginative, ordinary instructors
in the language classrooms.
Though language itself is dry
and teaching it mostly boring
the way you introduce it
may engage even the cynical students
if only you yourself believe
that teaching is acting.
Instructors must act
to attract and impact
never mind if students
react without tact
each act will surely get
a few shells cracked
“teaching is the art of changing the brain”
that’s a well-known
neurological fact.
Acting will deliver
student participation
a recipe for motivation
a remedy for alienation.
The target is communication
and retention, not full accuracy
nor perfection, and, please,
leave aside incessant correction,
which definitely leads to
disenchantment and rejection.
Value student participation
and production
encourage interaction
feed vocabulary in collocation
grammar, like medicine,
in the right dosage and proportion
and for God’s sake,
keep your chalk-and-talk
at a minimum fraction.
Remember, an ELT instructor is
a confidence booster
not an error-seeker
or hand-pecking rooster.
Who said ELT was
an educational roller coaster?
Nope. It’s more like a bread toaster,
which takes care of all on the roster.
Idris Esen, February, 2016, Istanbul
Say bye-bye to these:
"Hold, please." (Hold what?)
Typewriter Repairman Ads
"Dial this number..." (What's 'dial?')
Down-time... Offline
Compliments (Complaint Departments have swallowed them up).
"Mail me your resume."
Shame, and its cousin, Guilt
Pay Phones and Phone Booths (Sorry, Superman)
Cash (esp. pennies)
"How do you do?" (How do I what?!)
"Chick," "Piece," "Stacked," "Hot Number"
The Debt Ceiling
Brown Suits
Brown Fedoras
White Bread
White Big-City Mayors (in the USA)
Math Facts
Grammar & Grammar Schools
Heroes
Good Samaritans
Public Drinking Fountains (except for dogs and cats)
All but Mega-Gigantic Hospitals
Modesty
Cash Bail
Drug Busts
'Land Lines'
Gasoline-fueled automobiles
Private Health Insurance
Private Doctors
Free Museums
Disturbing the Peace
Roth IRA's (at least, Roth IRA's whose distributions are tax-free)
Peacetime Economies
Gun Laws (The Wild West roars back)
Non-Mixed Use Zoning Laws
Fair Elections (Did we ever really have them?)
Ideals, Idealists, Idealism
The 'Renaissance Man'
Daily Newspapers, Print AND Digital
The 'Weather Channel'
META
Music Majors, Art Majors, Anthropology & Sociology Majors
Cooperation
Cashiers
Receptionists
Cleaning Services
'Straight People'
Teachers
'The Four Freedoms'
Courts (You'll get a ticket and either pay or go to jail...)
Courtroom Lawyers
'Law and Order' Politicians
Non-TV Ministers
Dentures
Non-union University Personnel
Non-gated upper middle class and upper class housing
Neighborhood Watch Groups
Public Schools
Childhood
Non-government Day Care
Nursery School and Kindergarten
Free Public Libraries (You'll pay for those Drag Shows, lol!)
Free-TV
Non-Tip Services
'The Great American Novel'
The Home of the Brave -- Oops! (I mean, of the 'Guardians!')
'Lesbos' and 'Homos' (Can you believe we used those terms?!)
Marital Sex (What for?)
Foreplay (Now it's just "Fore! Here I cum!")
~ Roger Dodger, Over & Out!
Eating alphabet soup with a straw so you can play Scrabble with the leftovers
Lyrics from an obscure band is music to your ears
Shaving off the November scruff that was plastered on your face
Nightmares are less frequent yet still take their toll
Promises that I will wake up - drink some water - and fall back asleep
The medication makes my mouth arid
spitting out vowels and consonants and shaping them into poems
choking on the nouns and verbs that populate my speech patterns
laughing to oneself and thinking "Maybe I don't have an accent."
Raising one's glass to wish good health to a room full of people whom you cherish
breaking down into tears - but you're in the shower - so it all blends in
trying to remove the dirt from underneath your fingernails that you have anxiously chewed
dancing to a song that has been over for five minutes but the chorus remains in your mind
choosing not to look up the lyrics to the songs on your vinyl album
holding, breathing, remaining pure to the one young woman whose heart you protect
Remembering the words of your late grandfather who told you not to wonder too much - or you'll get lost yet I found the courage
to look into the eyes of Death
and say "Check Mate."
All of my dreams end up with me doing some project and looking down - just to find my exposed body
I even watch what I eat before I go to bed - but the raw and gritty details remain
to tell the truth - that things are terrific - I'll tell my therapist
I was born in the December of '92.
Walked this Earth for seven years.
Decided I know what I am destined to become.
Emerging from a crystalized coocoon.
I spread my wings and learn to write
Poems about loss, love, and human nature
Rearranging the pasta in my bowl to spell out
some SAT word I have only used twice
in conversation
laughing at my grammar, my spelling, and my love of the Oxford Comma.
Captializing Words That Don't Need Capitalization
because Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman did it first
Taking time to think things through and telling yourself : "You're stronger than you know."
My weakness: "Carbs and late-night with Craig Ferguson."
My strengths: "I am a writer and a Poet I shall remain."
Do we have any more alphabet soup?