Long Indite Poems
Long Indite Poems. Below are the most popular long Indite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indite poems by poem length and keyword.
Methinks all antediluvian Love was
Whiter than snows atop higher tors;
And with more troth dudes did kiss
Purer maidens for pleasanter bliss.
I deem Art shortly after Noah’s Ark
To have been of better-spun spark;
And bards of far more sublime quill
Did indite with stouter metered skill.
Niftier lines which Columbus hymned,
On virgin voyages to terrains deemed
By soil-tilling mortals uninhabited yet;
Such ditties do dim both fear and fret.
Tighter Calvary Faith as Bunyans
Prisoners fell in Hades' vile plans,
Wet-toweling martyrs' spirits bold,
Felt saltier with truer saints of old.
Daintier Oratory and Polemics alike
Did with indeed finer Lincolns spike;
Notches less finessed minions today,
Such steadily sorrier contrasts betray.
Fog thick as thieves reduces sight
Its white-gray silhouettes pine trees
Floating in moisture feels at ease
Slow misty drops drip dark as night
Coating all trees, shrubs, animals
This eerie scene quite tangible
Quiet in nature a delight
Animals hunkered down; wait time
In den or nest, life seems sublime
Time seems to be in life's slow flight
Cold and hunger engross their life
Soon birds will come to feed no strife
Days numbered 'pon the wall indite
Animals accept each second
Not knowing time their great present
Fog thick as thieves reduces sight
Slow misty drops, drip dark as night
Quiet in nature a delight
Time seems to be in life's slow flight
Days numbered 'pon the wall indite
Written January 02, 2014
Inspired by Craig Cornish
Had this weak pen those sly Phoenix's powers,
I wouldn't pester Time's much-envied eternities
With blank queries that deaf ages well eschew,
With any other of fate's multi-jigsawed parities.
I would some five hundred ugly monsters kiss,
And with each lip-touch life's bored cares miss.
I would with most fatally feared cannibals play,
And thus remiss spend longevity's primest day.
But that legendary fowl's exaggerated breath
I lack in luck's slow-fading inkwells and quills;
Her survival ruse against death's sinking ploys,
I feign no better than antique anecdoting skills.
Bereft of mystic health plus its fabled might,
I sing and act like one with a rationed height.
Why tire the chained serf's tongue and sinew,
To be outlived by tiniest wings that ever flew?
So let the hour-caged minion to Maidens Nine,
Indite his poesies while life still winks her sign.
Writing An Acrostic
Warm Warm spell imply spells written represent secrets on paper, tablet, and or stone.
Royal Royal favours recommend favours lead beacons wavered under cover.
International International interests institutions increase institutions indite ledgers’ cloned.
Traditional Traditions of scripts ignore scripts gazette top-secret matters splatters ink slops unrecognizable.
Identical Identical wordings follow word formulate DNA transcripts yet still top-secret.
National International institutions write institutions write encoded notes scramble up.
Greatest favours facilitate greatest flavors encourage transgress thoughts.
Writings on the wall or not?
...
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08/19/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Where does one begin to write,
away from the streets' nioses and children's screams,
forgetting those bouts of loneliness
that evade the inner peacefulness?
One starts with a pad, jotting down appealing ideas...
never having to fear they'll be lost.
I have a private place where I compose
a new poem, then read it aloud to myself;
such a place has a window that opens
to the brilliance of a blessed day,
and sunlight impinging, highlights its words
to amaze me of a would-be greatness.
After midnight I refuge to this quite corner,
when most people sleep and the luminiscent moon
projects her beams to enlighten my dreamy face,
I stare back at her and wave as I do with friends;
moon as eternal as unseen planets more colorful,
do you have the faintest idea why I indite?
Some write for fame, others to empty their souls of painful reasons,
or to glorify Heaven and love for their continous existence,
but invoking death instead of life is so detestable and inexcusable;
and from their voices I reckon the useslessness and torment...
may I never become like them, to burn hope in blazes of smoke,
watching its incineration until it turns into hot ashes!
I write out of an urge, which swells inside and needs to burst out,
leaving my psyche, to let it land on prude hands that welcome my gift,
until I pulsate with satisfaction, and purging those who show dissidence...
might raise questions for them who are easily aroused to anger;
I create more in quietitude....not being disturbed by airplanes' roars,
or trains speeding on tracks making all windows vibrate.
From the ancient to the modern poets, their intellect is stimulated
by urban or rustic sourroundings, and I have choosen them both in my writings,
and they manifest themselves glowingly, enticing this reason for existing;
open my pages and read all the passionate verses exciting the eye and pleasing the soul:
these are from the mind to the heart, a testimony of an enthustiastic life...
streaching out to every boundery and race, making everyone savor my delights.
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
Metaphors and similes flow freely from my pen
when I am scripting and scribing in poetic verse.
Across the width of pale parchment pages
the nib of my feathered pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses fathoms deep within me like life blood,
rushing through the eddied channels of my veins.
I struggle to ignore the cramping in my fingers.
There's no hesitation when writing echoing refrains
when I imprison myself in poetry.
Each stanza I carefully arrange in proper sequence
as if it's a bairn born for the creation of my story.
Sometimes my gypsy muse joins me in the dance
when I write with abandonment in wild allegory.
I never try to rein her in when we're both focused
and driven to complete a poem, oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, romantic sonnets are birthed
as I sit penning line after line in consummate rhyme,
incarcerated at my desk until I've written the last line.
My thoughts tumble like flurries of pristine snowflakes.
With a single spark of romance my passion ignites
as each completed verse falls perfectly into place, it lifts
my need to write compositions of love to greater heights.
Day and night, I find myself a wanderer, lost in reveries
where I journey in a private kingdom of verbose amplitude.
Around each curve in the road is a new challenge to be met,
and yet, none thwart me when trysting in romantic interlude.
Rude would be the one who would disturb me
when I'm handcuffed to a work in progress.
I try to indite with some semblance, dare I call it skill or talent?
By no means am I an accomplished laureate by my admission.
As a mere poet, I do not strive to compose a magnum opus,
but a meaningful collection of verses as a worthy composition.
If by chance, my poetry is interpreted and appreciated by some
who view my emotional imagery with soulful eyes of admiration,
I will credit my gypsy muse with her conspiratorial whispers
and amorous experiences as the impetus for my inspiration.
I hold the key to unlock my self-inflicted prison door,
and used when at last my pen has been laid to rest.
Seeing the Almighty Lord* with faith's vision
my illumined eye is awed along gratefulness' bliss...
Looking unto Jesus Christ midst the regal blue sky,
my spirit's pen is inspired to indite...
Rejuvenating my spirit against zaffre angst
God in His royal grandeur
of admiral sovereignty reveals to me
through my tiffany-covered ultra-chic Bible:
His precious love –
beyond sapphire’s worth and turquoise price
His cyan peace surpassing Pacific
or Arctic Ocean’s serenity
His cornflower grace reflected
by cerulean firmament above azure sky
His lapis lazuli light against midnight turmoil
pacifying cobalt trials’ crucible
His comfort cuddling me as a baby
within Aegean enclosure
His berry-filled blessings with peacock beauty
along aquamarine trust-prayer.
*Revelation 11:17 ...We give thee thanks, O Lord God Almighty, which art, and wast, and art to come.
July 13, 2018
1st place, "Poetically Me THIS PICTURE WHAT CHA' SEE" Poetry Contest Sponsored by James Edward Lee Sr.; judged on 7/16/2019.
Edited on November 2, 2021
Nearing departure* toward eternity, I now indite
my testament reverberating truths divinely aright
inspired by Apostle Paul whom the Scriptures cite
exemplifying the beatitudes I earnestly invite.
Once tortured by doubts tormenting me for escape flight
I have kept the faith through God’s compassionate might
against frustration-failure sight
for triumphant stewardship-height.
Downtrodden whenever carnality pursued selfish delight
my soul strove, never to retreat from battle for what is right
vanquishing fruitlessness’ blight
to build lives against evil’s fight.
Enveloped by unbelief midst skepticism bite
I trusted God’s grace and love that excite
overcoming slothfulness' mocking slight
with empowered service of prayer-plight.
Forgiven from confessed guilt-fright
my spirit ascends following heaven’s light
beholding forever --- devoid of night
now, my legacy I leave triumphantly tight.
*2Timothy 4:6 For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.
July 9, 2021
1st place, "A Brian Strand Rhyme" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 8/9/2021.
.
And there sat Edgar Allan
his pen dabbing on
poe’s mane converged
his profile
Not an eye
not a wink
save
refill please
as he leans to his paper
to indite with wit
All chatter with intelligent
consideration
but pause at moments
to watch Poe
though the souse
inscribe with
perpetual ink
A nobler theme needs more sublime art
In order to its honorable nuances impart;
And thus may famous muses of niftier writ
More tastefully craft this little lyrical script.
And if generous gods of superior rhyme there be,
Who with pure ease mellifluous tunes compose,
Then may such these tottering lines indite with me
And delve deep where rarest musical gems repose.
Where do love’s purest pearls lie
Beneath this bland ancient sky;
Where hug and kiss their warmest
Elusive touch pulsate at its best?
Truth is maimed and denied its form
And falsehood has become the norm;
Who knows any place she still thrives
Wholly unsevered by knavish knives?
And hope no longer blossoms
As it did in sweeter days of yore,
Now she’s worn out to the bottoms
And angst and doubt rule to the core.
And peace completely extinct is:
Chaos and strife now carry the day
And gallivant about in their hubris,
As mourning sufferers tearfully pray.