Long Graphic Poems
Long Graphic Poems. Below are the most popular long Graphic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Graphic poems by poem length and keyword.
Eighty two years young, but still a trooper,
pen writes daily, he's an evergreen souper.
Behold the limerick king and his wisdom,
providing laughs from his humorous kingdom.
Five posts a day, one is bound to make you smile,
some a little naughty, but that's his cheeky style.
Long before his Benny Hill transformation,
he was rocking this poetry soup nation.
First post a two thousand and twelve quatrain
about soaring in clouds, free like an air-plane.
Master of many forms, posting poems galore.
Eternal legend within poetry soup folklore.
Yet his talents do not end there, oh no no!
Perfect Santa clone bringing cheer, ho ho ho!
A chess ace whose trapped many kings in checkmate,
but what he really wants is a pretty playmate!
Skilled graphic designer and portrait artist,
but now he claims he's a talented fartist!
Did you know he once played the five string banjo,
with his sweet wife Linda, many moons ago.
The Canadiana Folksingers were his group,
toured the world, but now he's happy with just soup.
This limmerjack, maybe a cheeky chappie,
but he will go out his way to make ya happy.
When you need a laugh to brighten up your day,
go read Jack Ellison, he has so much to say!
The Silent One
29 January 2018
Should'a Read The Fine Print
I am intrigued by all computer tasks,
and competent and skilled in every scheme
from word process and graphic arts design,
to spreadsheets, database and all between.
But, I became too confident last week
when I downloaded upgrades that were bad
for programs that I use...I acted quick...
and what a sad computer crash I had!
You see, the upgrade versions were not right;
computer froze with dreaded screen of blue!
Technician came and, for a hefty price,
it was repaired and set to go as new.
The moral is, I thought I knew it all
and cut some corners...shortened up the stint.
I learned a lesson I will not forget...
I really should'a read that dang fine print!
Sandra M. Haight
~10th Place~ Premiere Congest
Contest: I Really Should'a Read the Fine Print
Sponsor: John Lawless
Iambic Meter: 10 syllables and 5 feet per line
Judged: 04/28/2016
True story - This happened April 2, 2016, and I got my computer back a week later.
Thank goodness I had all my documents and important files backed up on an
external hard drive (done every day) whereby I hooked it up to an older computer and could proceed with my work - especially for Poetry Soup!!
In the realm of words, where knowledge thrives,
Teachers guide with wisdom, where the ink arrives.
Enhancing writing, a guiding light they bear,
To elevate students, their written tales to share.
They mould the process, each stage they steer,
Prewriting, revising, the path to steer.
Through drafting and editing, teachers impart,
Crafting brilliance, each writer's art.
Authentic tasks, connections profound,
Teachers weave worlds where ideas abound.
Persuasive essays, stories untold,
Students' passions and dreams unfold.
Scaffolded support, in steps, they lead,
From outlines to drafts, a writer to feed.
Graphic organisers, sentences to start,
Building confidence, nurturing the heart.
In workshops, they foster, a haven to shine,
Students explore, and their voices align.
Feedback, revisions, in a collaborative spree,
A nurturing space where all can be free.
Technology's embrace, a modern song,
Grammar checks and feedback are strong.
Digital platforms that students employ,
Enhancing skills, fostering writing joy.
Each learner has unique, a different needs,
Teachers cater, their pace to heed.
Customised guidance, pathways clear,
In growth and learning, they're always near.
In the circle of teaching, a quest they trace,
Crafting writers in each child's space.
With dedication, and evolving practice they glean,
For every student, a writer's dream.
In the pen's dance, in the writer's hand,
Teachers kindle flames in this wondrous land.
Inspiring, guiding, with hearts aglow,
They shape writers, making talents grow.
So teachers, brimming with inspiration's light,
Forge pathways for students, in their writing flight.
In the tapestry of learning, in wisdom's domain,
They foster brilliance, a writer's gain.
In memory of Ms. Devi Devavaram,
My headmistress with a writing charm.
Teaching the art with a graceful hand,
Guiding us through language's wondrous strand.
This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Rockwell was my rock
The reason I became
A graphic designer
Seeking fortune & fame
Achieved my portion
Of the fortune part
And fame, at least locally
Graphics was my art
Long before computers
I will king of the hill
Even after, my design skills
Were valued still
Worked on the art table
Longer than most
Wasn't sent out to pasture
Till later, I can boast
I still miss the challenge
That faced me each day
A big part still longs
To revisit yesterday
Surely at my happiest
While practicing my art
That pleased my clients
'Twas the best part
Receiving recognition
I sorrily still miss
Coz I know I'm still able
Now I just reminisce
Norman Rockwell was my rock!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Another prompt, just another poem,
but are these genuine feelings I'm showing?
I think of past versions of my existence,
changing with each season without resistance.
But now I'm too fatigued to study myself,
so leave me alone on a dusty bookshelf.
Sitting upon the edge of unread distant shores,
soul sighs, tired from being a misunderstood metaphor.
Sometimes the inner child loves to run wild,
try to be patient, he forgets how he once smiled.
I can't keep blaming those ghosts from childhood,
but it disturbs the mind when all I see is graphic blood.
I'm trying hard to control these red mists of rage,
to start a new chapter with new verses on a page.
I search for avenues that lead me to chapters of purity,
but this facade hides behind deep suppressed insecurity.
Low self esteem massacres my confidence,
I'm just a man who sometimes lacks common sense.
My outbursts of slaughter are just a means for defence,
apologise in advance if I caused any offence.
Forgive me, I can never take back the sorrows I caused,
but is that any reason for love to remain paused?
You won't see any tears, but they hide my fears.
I've seen through the years that torment never clears.
Encrypted musings of my heart hide behind pain,
Sometimes the wounds reappear and still strain.
I close every door to find silent solitude,
but these devious demons begin to intrude.
Ranting and raving as the Devil joins the queue,
wanting to take me to a darkness that I once knew.
Toxic vampires sucking at my bleeding empathy,
compassion goes out of fashion lacking sympathy.
I try to explain but my views only frustrate,
after a while it seems my opinions are out of date.
Then you wonder why I refuse to communicate,
ignorance of my emotions isn't up for debate.
Silence seems to be the best form of narration.
No one is listening to the angst of my damnation.
I'm content in the deep depths of isolation,
don't summon my soul without an invitation.
Silent One
23 March 2022
And I'm looking at new York canvas
Man in the mirror
Big lou Adler
?
Copy print
He teaches desire as illusion in anger
Next day air
In the lonely night
Without a lonely write
It's the next day bourbon
Forced regard
Article un, lend, take ribbon
Set type
Articulate
Juliet Society friendly alien
Anime graphic coupe design
Interworx server adlib maintenance up?
Cellular diplexing and atenuation adlib it
On atom photon plan it
Photon up
And back
Illuminate addiction devicing
"Mobile" station "worker"
Involved in grid i.e. infrastructure bands
Desktop publishing rubbish
Good for nor bot Chomsky
demons in illusion anger desire
Sniffy states of adhd
Slow jam design access key level nerd dropout
L.A. Doll
New York Doll anime coupe sign ups
502 bad gateway newswire interupt day
Your bad
Illiterate rebels
Body body body
The texts were horrible, vile, and mean.
They were from the kind of person none of us had ever seen.
They were graphic, and horrible, a picture came that was crude.
We all could guess who sent photos of themselves in the nude.
We had suspicions, and we had them for quite a while
About these texts, so horribly awful and vile.
We began to congregate, and we whispered about him and his sad little life.
Determined to make sorry and horrible his weirdness, we were mean to his wife.
We shunned them unmercifully and put our noses way up high.
We wished them an awful future, one hoped they would die.
We were horrible, and angry, and we became bullies.
Our minds threw them in dungeons, stocks, locks, jail cells and gullies.
We were angry and awful for a year and a day.
Confident it was him, not caring what he had to say.
We were the avid, upright accusers, and we did not play.
Many of us were shamed to our core, when we found out today
That it was not him at all, but one of the accusers, a man quiet and meek,
A silent monster, who had riled us, whose forgiveness we did not have to seek.
Donald Trump Das Fuehrer's Braggadocio
Wrapped up in the Christmas holiday spirit,
I surmise doth allow
nationally collective obliviousness
to steer ship of state
(these United States)
to suffer retaliatory browbeat
ting activates, detonates, generates
je nais sais quois maliciousness
upon North American consciousness
from wickedly vehement uproarious tirades
the "FAKE" president doth crow,
whereby every word uttered
by the misfit mealy mouthed madman
in the Oval Office directly
impacts Lady Liberty, sans dow
wager even when the brash,
defensive, haughty...commander
in chief doth raised by alternately
by one or both colored eyebrow,
which nonverbal hostile
body language triggers
concomitant domino fallout
to devastating effect,
whereby analogous nee
palpable invisible reverberations
trigger thee threat
of global mortal Kombat flow
war moves the dial on
the Doomsday Clock to foreshadow
the stark realization of glow
bull thermonuclear conflict to hoe
var ominously over planet Earth,
which scenario haint Noah Joe
king matter, cuz
more'n juiced *****sapiens know
wingly, would be decimated,
where from Noel fierce
riding hobby horse, could
weather thee irrevocable low
down, once bombs away loosed,
and poised to strike
every fibrous marrow
with an irreversible tendon cee,
yet some hardy
species might narrow
lee escape radioactive fallout,
and blithely usurp meaning overthrow
this most menacing creature,
whose opposable thumb didst pro
pell the nasty, short tempered,
and mean minded
to upset status quo
and shred of a fatalistic,
graphic, and horrific roadshow
no Wizard of Oz (zee us born)
negating, obliterating, and pulverizing
the uninhabitable landscape
with burnt offerings
much more frightful than scarecrow,
which worst case scenario,
could explode today or tomorrow
leaving no trace of unlovely bones
merely mass cremated powder,
hence forsaked salvation
from... say Beto
O'Rourke, whose actively
democratic gumption joisted paradigm
grim fate recklessly
(hypothetically) did veto.
Can't say that I'm comfortable with old age
but I'm trying my best to adapt
everyone gets there eventually and I wonder
if everyone goes through the same uncertainties
at a younger age with all it's exciting
and challenging new adventures
old age is the furthest thing from our minds
then WHAM... it hits you
either you're totally prepared for it
OR you're wondering, “WHAT NOW!”
to be honest, after an extremely active
and successful career as a graphic designer
I WASN'T PREPARED!!!
I am finally coming to terms with it
with the help of my family and
my many loving friends on this poetry site
something that never entered my mind
at an earlier stage of my very rewarding career
so what I'm saying is how grateful I am
to have the love and friendship
of all you sweet souls!!!