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.
Suppose I came home after a long drive,
suppose I see a car in our overstuffed garage
- it's not mine.
Suppose when I enter our apartment
I discover myself in bed with you doing adulterous things.
What would I do?
Imagine if we went away.
then when we arrived home
- while we were unpacking,
all evidence of our trip evaporated,
Imagine we both remained jet-lagged for days
yet dared not speak of it.
What then?
Suppose I died last night
suppose the battery of my life failed
leaving only the shape of my ass
in the easy chair;
though to your sleepy eyes this morning
the indent of my shape
has created an illusion of me
and that's what you think you see?
As I sit here fretting about all this you hand me a cup of tea
- say over your shoulder:
“Write it out kid, write it out.”
The ocean is home to a curation of shells,
The type you admire, the kind you call into,
The ones that whisper stories the sea never tells.
The peach and the pink, the pastels and the white —
All of them bring such a sense of delight.
I trace my finger over each and every grove and indent,
Each fracture and dent,
Wondering what they have seen, and what places they went.
I wonder if they are signs — heaven-sent.
This poet wonders — does she know the truth that is grand?
The shell that is pretty mesmerizes those little eyes
While the sea calls out her name for help.
Sand between her toes and wind through her hairs,
She felt every emotion one feels at a shore.
The next scene was haunting — it took away her innocence.
Fishes started to wash up on the shore,
The water began to form bubbles.
As she looked at her mother, who
Whispered with her eyes-
“Sorry, my precious little baby,
Forgive the humankind,
For the future we will leave behind.”
Listless images swirl up from tangled seaweed.
Instead of going home to study
a youth stayed on at a topless bar.
This reoccurring nightmare is a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting, pants down moment.
Unschooled for future-shock, ill-equipped
for long forgotten questions;
scruffy owls hoot in an empty lecture hall
as a mind reacts with a jittery dread.
A lost post-graduate thesis rides on a city bus,
passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the manuscript is deeply buckled
with butt cheeks.
No time to revise the unprepared.
Dimples of anxiety indent a head trip.
Despondency envelopes.
At any moment,
eyes will open above a pool of sweat,
then blink stupidly
as they have done - often and repeatedly
for the last 45 years.
With sweet incline her ear is on dawn's arrival
even if night reigns by day, she has no rival
only the morning contains her birthing vine
Her ear is on dawn's arrival with sweet incline'
Dolce Amor upon the curve of her pillow rest
is the indent of the dreams that loved her best
only the dawn holds the whispers of her core
The curve of her pillow rest upon Dolce Amor
She is the scented violet of his early fantasies
more deep then the indigo of deep blue seas
a muslin touch of running silk with eyelets
Of his early fantasies she is the scented violets'
Dolce Amor a rose and a bouquet of baby breath
he knows that she will love him even until death
she is pepper on his heart and scented tuberose
A bouquet of baby breath and Dolce Amor his rose
June 25, 2020
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Flowers; a painless, healing, prescription of treatment
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
Happiness; gives sharp antithesis of lifes oblivion
Tectonic; the plate layer produces a fiery quill of lament
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Waving; a molten brush of colors, results cascadian
A surgeons gift; to be given, a unique scalpel of torment
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
Emotional eruptions; give way to a physical custodian
Islands of hope; from a mind, of seas with dubious intent
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Feelings so igneous; venting becomes it's guardian
A healing phase; melting purposely cooled stone indent
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
A cinder cone; written to perform acts so tragedian
Dormant, till; the next event of this calderas' fulfillment
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
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.
Frozen in my memory like the last frost of winter
I find out sadly how a red rose can give a splinter
When the chapped lips of love lose their honey,
there is no one there to make December sunny
Dozens of red roses appearing in loom, hindsight
from the one who has grown them without lament
From a woman ignited by passion, claiming right
To an existent gasp of daylight, his love's indent
Woven in golden threads, it was a life well spent
my heart blooms every day with sweet roses red
life was good as a garden grew beneath our tent
until winter arrived, then everything went dead
Thawing in my memory is a rose that didn't die
it harbors still the kiss, of a virgin's piercing cry
Blistering winds arrive, when a gardener desists,
A once pure red rose without Him, cannot exist .
Dec 12, 2021
God I wanna touch you
I wanna feel your skin
Meld our bodies to the point
Don't know where mine begins
Wanna put my hands all over you
Trace the indent of your spine
Dig my fingers in your flesh
I wanna make you mine
I really wanna kiss you
Probe inside your mouth
Taste the slickness of your tongue
Nibble on your pout
What I really wanna know
Is do you wanna too?
Does your body ache for me
The way mine aches for you?
Do you lie awake at night
Burning with desire
Do I make you sweat, soak your sheets
Say that you're on fire
I can't take this pain much longer
You gotta let me know
I need to hear you want me
I just wanna know
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...
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.