Long Indent Poems
Long Indent Poems. Below are the most popular long Indent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indent poems by poem length and keyword.
He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like Vellum, blank and pale. Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence. He scans the room as he would a poem, looking for an Indent that leads to a quiet corner. A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, (ink stained)! He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head in hand scribbling while listening for a new word. A muse sings, emanating an un-heard Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead... frustration at the loss of an adjective, the Half-Rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain...
Frustration runs high as Enjambment slips off the stage and gathers in reflective pools. The Lady Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life, ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lantern for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.
At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Womans Quarterly. The Epulaeryu's compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest 'form' something to do with A.E.I.O.U...Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank Verse remains silent. They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted look a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense, Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired Senryu, the Haiku has little to say on the matter...
A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku's ( no ice ) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sits the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, (Metaphorically speaking). On stage the hottest group in town, Chant Royal and the Syllables...singing their latest Sestina, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor, congealing into a Poet-tree fountain, they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his Ballad, the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap, the club is Epic...
Not for the contest
No more do I despair
writing for contests with an off the wall theme
Those that want me to create a nightmare
from what was once a beautiful dream.
No more do I care
about Marvel characters who fight and kill
I'd rather spend my time writing silly limericks
for fun and honing a particular poetry skill
than worrying about meter and syllable tricks.
No more do I write
for contests where a sponsor forbids me to choose
how many spaces I indent each middle line
by someone who thinks they're a bard. No, I refuse
to write for a yobo whose rules constrict and confine.
No more contests
do I enter for judges who hold grudges and spite
or who offer friendship placements with a wink.
It's not fair to good poets who get N/A'd as a backbite
I've no more interest in participation with pen and ink
No longer care
to write for judges who give novel length instruction
Yes, rules should be followed, but not to such extreme.
It negates poetic license, serving as a poetic obstruction
making that contest sponsor, head of his or her regime.
No more writing
for those who prohibit adjectives and adverbs be used
or if the sponsor has never written in the specified form.
The power that some feel as a judge can be abused
while preaching about dos and don'ts from a platform.
Oh, spare me
from those who don't know the use of literary devices,
metaphors, proper grammar, and over doing alliteration.
To anyone who wants to enter contests, my advice is...
"Don't take a crown seriously. It will lead to abdication."
No more issues
to deal with sponsors who change their minds midway
through contests because no entries for the theme... bizarre,
and decide, without warning they have the right to say,
"I can do what I want." Who made them the contest czar?"
No blight is this
on judges who sincerely host, giving up their leisure time
to make PS a place where everyone can take an active part.
Those who appreciate good fun in free verse or with rhyme.
I applaud the fair-minded sponsors who have a good heart.
A few weeks ago, I decided to not enter PS contests any longer.
No Sweat Revisions (Booze Helps)
Poet speaks:
“To write a poem you can easily revise
it’s best to use free verse,
for it requires so little thinking and
besides with thought could come content
revisions just might lose.
Why take any chances?”
Reader speaks:
"Whatever does he mean?
My God this guy is deep!
Most modern stuff is so opaque,
but here the words are clear. Though
purpose perhaps is over my head,
I feel like I’m really hearing it!”
Poet speaks:
"Why write at all," I hear you say,
"If folks can't understand? Well,
because it makes revision work
a snap for any poetry class
where content can be subordinate
to breaking writer’s block.
Why sweat the big stuff?
Free verse must be free!”
The Muse breaks in:
"Why you could spend your life on one poem
and ignore your experience completely,
just writing stuff in stanza form,
an indent here, enjambment there,
here an indent, there enjambment,
everywhere a piggy, piggy, piggy piggy!
Old MacDonald wrote a poem
E-I-E-I-O”
Poet Speaks:
“I’m confused! Without content
what makes the poem mine?
Is my writing it enough?
Though I’ll confess that scanning
published literature seems unlikely
to reveal any plagiarism.
Can writing without content
ever be copyrighted I wonder?”
The Muse muses, ponders philosophical possibilities:
“Well if you have revised the poem
and the new version is clearly no worse
than the original, who cares
if it is no better?
You really tried after all.
You followed instructions.
What’s in a grade?
And no new title needed.”
Brian Johnston
May 26, 2015
We know not who we are and yet we spar,
frittering away thus, the gift of life
and looking back see we’ve drifted afar,
with nothing to show save struggle and strife.
Let us then contemplate on our true aim,
that we may stand erect, freed from erst shame,
aligning with truth, in our life’s end game.
Clear light dawns when we cease to weigh and size,
embracing with joy, each offered surprise,
whereupon our false identity dies.
Make beauteous each wabi-sabi scar,
that vibrant heart be aglow and bliss rife,
otherwise we will have ourselves to blame,
for blocking God’s light within us to rise.
02-February-2023
______________
Rhymezone
PS Grammar
HMS @10 syllables per line
Fragmented Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Notes:
Fragmented Rhyme, invented by Constance La France;
it has 14 lines with lots of indentation and a rhyme pattern to follow.
No stanzas.
Rhyme scheme, ABABCCCDDDABCD
Line 1- Indent 24 spaces- A
Line 2- Indent 12 spaces- B
Line 3- Left margin A
Line 4- Left margin B
Line 5- Indent 24 spaces- C
Line 6- Left margin C
Line 7- Left margin C
Line 8- Indent 6 spaces- D
Line 9- Indent 12 spaces- D
Line 10- Indent 24 spaces- D
Line 11- Left margin A
Line 12- Indent 12 spaces- B
Line 13- Indent 6 spaces- C
Line 14- Indent 12 D
Darkness creeps in through the creveces
Soaking the edges of my bright life with an unruly stain
I thought I had left it far behind me
But i found the stain too strong to remove completely
A slow moving storm trying to engulf my once happy world
Now which has become a dark nightmare I plead to wake from
A word can be erased but the indent from its pressure will always be there
And how can one remove such a mark
Forgetting is impossible
Running Unbearable
Giving in Unexceptable
I will forever be in it's ever darkening shadow
Such grim claws crushing me in their grasp
How could my body betray me so
Letting illness breach their sturdy walls
Once i was cancer ridden and sickly pale
My wishes are strong but
I cannot find myself a Wishing well
Don't let it happen again
PLEASE
Let it all be a bad dream
Let me still be healthy
Give me a light that will forever blind this darkness knocking at my doors
But if it is true
And I have come to repat history for a third time
Give me piece of mind
Let me live at least a life will fullness
And not one ruled by hospital beds
My fights have been fought conquered and won
Twice I was so lucky
If I should go to battle a third time
Pray that luck has been bestowed upon me a third
My light will never be snuffed
I shall shine as brightly as a thousand stars in a pitch black world
My darkness will always be here
But So will I
At least I know I will Try
Until The very day I die
The Girl with the Brand New Toothbrush
[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fF6X4jwBnOc"]YouTube[/ame]
For the girl with the brand new toothbrush
Waiting on a one night stand
We didn’t have to tell the Truth much
Didn’t make many plans
Got right down to the good stuff
Fulfilled exchanged demands
Till the next day at constant play of bouncing batter ram
For the girl with the Colgate toothbrush
The one I’ll never use again
No one had to introduce us
I never had to meet your friends
Never got ugly and ruthless
Never threw you out again
One time one day wonderful lay
So glad I’ve been your man
#in away at her newness
Working a wiggle in
Willy was well made to do this
willing do it again
Wasn’t constrained by rudeness
wasn’t ever worried bout them
But like a werewolf Willy went wild with the moon just whaling at a womb till ten
This song goes out to the toothbrush
A hard body put in her bin
Only an angel’d do thus
serendipity sin
Rampant replicant, Rembrant
Pant participant now
Insignificant remnant
of magnificent meow
(Well spent sycophant content
“What a wonderful! WOW”
Wham went impotent, wham went
Whamin through that some how)
Dawn sent immigrant intent
Brushing our teeth and chow
Last philanderant indent
On MAGNIFICENT MEeeeeOW
You appeared out of nowhere
God must have kept you hidden as my surprise
waiting for the last possible moment
to save my love from demise
Your soul shined it's white light
and forced it's way through
passing by all my terrors and fears
and replacing them with feelings so new
you broke through my walls
with a graceful ease I have never seen
taking down brick by brick
examining each one for what it means.
you opened the locked door
pieced together my broken down soul
mended my distrusting heart
took my life in hand, and made it whole.
I want to know everything about you
each everlasting detail
like a long emotional love letter
sent to me through the mail
you make my heart flutter
like no one else ever could
and i freeze in position
in the exact spot where i last stood.
your sweet tenderness
melts my heart to it's core
wanting you - craving you
always needing more and more
your electrifying kisses
shocking each and every nerve
your passion filled hugs
warming each indent and curve.
as each day passes and the old clock ticks
my love for you continues to grow strong
while deep inside my heart
I know truly this is where i belong
I felt like i had waited an eternity
holding in what my heart knew was true
freeing my mind and thoughts
finally releasing those words - "I Love You"
Form:
Yes I want to be creative, I really want to make my mark,
I need to leave my indent like the bite of a great white shark.
I'm sick not being noticed, fed up with going unseen,
just one more of all of those who never, ever have been.
There must be more to my being here, the reason I breathe and think,
it can't all be down to waiting for the next time we have a drink.
No this life should not be wasted, you only get one shot,
and you should use oh so carefully, the ammunition that you've got.
I know that when I was young I had a natural bent,
for creating things artistically, but that would not pay the rent.
So I did what I did not want to do and joined the rats at play,
and jumped on to their treadmill for eight hours every day.
And now so many years have passed, and my treading carries on,
but I've never found my Shangri La and soon I will be gone.
Without having felt the joy of making the life for which I yearned,
too late to take advantage of a lesson cruelly learned.
So be brave and strong you youngsters if you're nurturing a skill,
don't let the pressure to pay the rent drive you on to that mill,
open up your mind, and open wide your eyes,
develop those talents, and reach for the skies,
soar like an eagle, and find your own way,
and don't eat the crumbs from the trap they call pay.
Hello his Excellency Mr. President,
I pen this piece to revise an indent
There is this one popular question
I have always kept in position
That the very day I’d have the chance,
I’d play it and dance it for a balance
What is the state of health of our economy?
And how far are we from a weak economy?
How fresh is the meat on the bone?
Can your ministers confirm it on phone?
What happened to the hopes we built?
Do you think these can ever be rebuilt?
I have no doubt our nation is great
But am only worried how long we’d wait
Are you ready to strike with this mantle?
You must be bold to strike to the mantle
Well, we are still counting the promises
The electoral promises before elections
Can you please welcome me into your premises?
Or it’s still the game of favorite selections
Mr. President, what about the budgets?
Are we running stamping in hollow deficits?
Do we already have the proposed gadgets?
And what about the negatively effective elicits?
Who is there to be blamed for our failures?
His Excellency, where do we go from here?
Who takes charge of the sensitive areas?
And what are your plans for the next year?
Your nation love you; you are a hero
Keep your dreams real and alive
So you can lead like a real hero
Mr. President, keep your spirit high and alive
It is always there,
never quite within range
where the mind can snare
some shadowy form, or shape
an outline and hold it long enough
to name.
It waits for the sun to go down
and the evening to draw in
like a taken breath when it comes
closer and nestles into what warmth
lingers there under the folds
of a gathered dark.
Sometimes when I am off
elsewhere and far away in thought,
I am sure it slips inside my head
and enters where memories are,
trying on a face, posing
in some familiar scene,
rummaging through what a child
left there long ago as if
it was searching for itself.
And there are mornings
when waking I sense its presence
in the dissolving residue of a dream,
a small footprint left on that
shore between awareness and sleep,
an indent, a scooped out hole
where something broken
took refuge and sought comfort
in being near.
There are dark times
when it almost becomes
a plumbed in part of me,
each bunkered in our own
adjoining rooms, held apart
by a wall neither of us
want to breach. We have spent
a good part of our lives here,
holding onto what should be set free,
fearing that if we did, one of us
would cease to be.