Long Hyphen Poems
Long Hyphen Poems. Below are the most popular long Hyphen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hyphen poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a new English gang in town
In the town of Punctuation
They call themselves the “Punch U” gang
A solid gang with a strong foundation
The Punch-U gang members consists of:
Hyphen - the gang leader
They call him Dash
He is charismatic, clever, a born leader
Firm but fair…. excepting no gang trash
Exclamation point ! Dash’s right hand man
They call him Lanky
He is confident and likes to make his point
Dramatic and often a little cranky
Asterisk * Dash’s girlfriend
They call her Starr
She is smart, astute, keeps mental notes
A free spirit who sings and plays guitar
Question Mark ?
They call him Curly
He is so very inquisitive
Often indecisive
A deep thinker and quite surly
Comma ‘
They call him Jack
He is quite the lad and joker
Jack often steps out of line
And needs to be kept on track
Brackets ( )
Identical twins called Jill and Joy
Always together or never far apart
Fun and happy
Popular with the boys
Full stop .
They call her Dot
Outspoken and very definite
Always likes to have the last word
Often heard saying “ Now thats it….just Stop”
Quotation Mark “
And yes they call him Mark
He likes being the centre of attention
Being in the know
Does not like being left in the dark
Apostrophe ‘
They call her Sue
With Sue there is always something else to come
Taking short cuts
Is what Sue enjoys to do
Colon:
They call him Number-Two
Funny, entertaining and chatty
Though sometimes he takes it too far
Talking a lot of poo!
Sole (and soul) brother waves magic wand (poof)...,
and eldest sister absolved of guilt once and for all
Be happy don't worry
understood how thee feel sorry
for never defending me madam norry
(a real word meaning "woman of honor").
She (mine eldest sibling)
unfairly self burdened with blame
must jettison emotional baggage claim
forsooth (upon her person) pardon I exclaim
courtesy reasonable rhyme typed
within Macbook Pro
and linkedin Lenovo screen frame
now after LXII orbitz round the sun
able, willing and ready to relish game
of life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.
Upbringing gifted me
with older kin named Amelie
Beth Harris (the - hyphen McGeehan)
hashtagged after she pledged troth
said first twixt Boyce and Harriet
donned mantle of protector
trumpeting forewarnings against bullies
lest they verbally and/or physically
assault puny socially withdrawn brother.
Later existence (mine) witnessed unbridled wrath
more'n half my lifetime, a long time ago
hurled at greased lightning speed at yours truly
dealt Matthew Scott Harris
one after another severe psychological blow
courtesy father and mother
caw zing pent up (internalized) rage,
they did viciously crow
and spew expletive laced ultimatums
one direction did flow
buzzfeeding an introverted boy
emotionally and physically he failed to grow
rarely did practice social graces
such as saying "hello"
even mirrored reflection ignored
hated to see his unsightly self
body morphology melded
courtesy anorexia nervosa
(thank dog absent bulimia)
apparent starvation know
body else understood -
odd... even years (née decades) later
I too feel totally clueless, and lo
and behold extremely angry mow
ping with purposelessness
at sabotaged existence (mine)
at upsetting family dynamics status quo
cause ducks never lined up in a row
aptitude to become sufficient unto myself quite slow
which found singular son (before marriage)
unable (NOT unwilling to work though
preference against shoveling sh*t
created toward mom and dad
(both apologetic before their deaths)
yet while livingsocial
triggered no end of woe.
some poems ask to be naked
they have no use at all
for punctuation
not even for an en dash
an em dash nor hyphen
they play with a flowing grammar
that must be read like water
or paddled through on a leaky canoe
the poet can then hide behind
these unchained words
while demanding to be truly heard
while of course
all the suggested literary pauses and in-breaths
can be just a matter of spacing
it is quite a scrabble game
one played with disjointed symbols
on blank tiles
a stylistic approach that can
if done right
be thought of as avant garde
or pointlessly regressive
but
we all like a nude
a form without garb and baggage
and perhaps some of us wish
wish we could walk on water sometimes
One sad day, some years ago,
I got news that my father passed away.
He lived a long and happy life,
so I felt joy and sadness on that day.
Perusing a box of photographs and things,
his drawing, a poignant feeling, would evoke.
In his childhood crayons, it was beautiful -
a tree that seemed to be an oak.
Between a person's years of birth and death,
there's only a hyphen left to show,
but, in my father's unexceptional life,
he left something more - I know.
My brothers and I, quite frankly,
I would not celebrate.
Many fathers before and after him,
by having offspring, regenerate.
Yet, when I was a boy of nine,
My dad would, my brothers and me, provoke,
by planting in our front yard football field,
a native sapling, a California oak.
That tree is now my favorite brother,
huge, but kind and strong,
hosting an entire ecosystem,
with squirrels, and birds, in song.
In their short life upon this earth
many want to build a legacy.
Here is my advice for them and those.
On a sunny day, go plant a tree.
Michael Miguel Hyphen Ex
Knew the alphabet to letter p
The which he’d scan learned
Over a bowl of fragrant tea
On his journey to the earth
Which he’d spotted from afar
Whilst herding sentient blossoms
Around a not too distant star.
He found the United Nations
Before extending the hand
Of universal friendship
From it’s fraternal band.
He listened to the talking
For three months and a day
Then Michael Miguel Hyphen Ex
Very sadly slipped away.
In a few eons he thought
This will be a worthy place
After the self destruction
Of the ruling human race.
He left a little sentinel
With a message to send
Twenty seven nano seconds
After mankind’s final end.
On all pan galactic charts
The earth was coloured grey
The mandatory coding for
Pollution – Keep Away
A semi-colon connects two thoughts together
An exclamation mark screams out its cause
You don’t have to wait until the end to breathe
a comma can give you a pause
A question mark begs for an answer
Quotations usually mean this is not mine
A colon tells me there is a list
or the second and first parts are combined
Then there is the hyphen, En dash, and Em dash
It’s really hard to tell them apart
The hyphen is the shortest and Em is longer
to explain them I would not know where to start
Don’t forget about parentheses and apostrophes
Slashes, brackets, ellipses, and…other stuff
But my favorite punctuation is the period
it tells me when enough is enough.
Poets are a funny lot
they come for what is sizzling hot
Compassionate? Most times they're not!
they give your rhymes a decent shot
curious to see what you have got
compare and contrast on the spot
criticize the missing dot
or hyphen, but they miss the plot!
Poets are a greedy group
they want to know the latest scoop
what's hidden in the PS soup
their crypitc words an endless loop
they are the lyric writing troop
to help the fallen, most won't stoop
won't stick around till you recoup
Poets are a selfish kind
they only want what feeds the mind
your friendship's based on what they find
within your words that heal or bind
to check on you, they're not inclined
to care for you, they're not designed
"Read me, read me," they remind
"Who cares you've fallen far behind
in life, just write...or please resign
we're here for that which is refined!"
Poets just like you and me
like to feel that we are free
we lack the basic empathy
to reach into reality
and ask, "What else but poetry
is in your life? Please let me see
your heart to intimate degree."
There's more to life, don't you agree?
So show true love's sincerity,
and check on every absentee
Let's strive to keep community
Eieen Manssian
PS This poem is a little tongue in cheek. I've been away from here for quite some time, ocassionally posting to try to fit in again. Very few have asked about me. I've been going through very difficult times and have been struggling on many fronts. Very few will understand the meaning of one's silence. However, I know I can't expect care when I haven't extended it to others. I've been absent and haven't visited, so this poem is for all of us....me included as I'm a poet as well. Let's remember: there are people behind the lines. There are stories behind the names as pseudonyms.
- Dying Mother-
Perched on her stool but getting there
Angry at paper that just does not care
Onion unlayered in the last of her skin
Paper be angry, paper be thin
Blotched and embattled, unwashed and pajamaed, the bladder goes dry on the floor Not telling her why, two teeth left in a mushy jaw
I am still alive but who knows what for
Walking swollen ,chapped and scaled , stuck like Mother goose
Hearing goes harder than misunderstood
Drinks from the vine the everyday bottles ghost from the past
Wherever i am going I am getting there fast
Will they buy my a casket, or burn me with gas
There's comma 'tween now and forever and a hyphen just before hell
The nothing hereafter gets as good as it gets
if tears of the sun were the metaphorical keys
to unlock twisted trinkets of the searing sky
would you feel the festering forest~
homing arctic orchids within these veins?
or am I to remain detached and numb;
caged in a cursed collision
like an evanescent epiphany
of a misled marionette ~
screaming for a cathartic elixir….
tonight my intuition is a passive-aggressive gaslighter
manipulating the inner voice ~ like a pathological liar
freezing the floral clairvoyance…
while curiosity keeps crawling
amidst crestfallen opium
I ponder: do frost and flame, as I breathe in bleakness~
transcribe how the echo
within the fog filters reality
curated in the midst of melted angst
fluctuating like stone-blind blackness~
a drop-dead delirium kissed by the darkness
of a silent sepulcher?
I’m a prisoner of splitting supernovae
caught in polarized pyretic disruptions
for everything feels like exaggerated deceit
when truth seems like a mere dot above~
a hyphen of irrational ratios
carved from calculated confusions,
betrayed by the violent strings
of my violin heart…
if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their semen
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone