Long Irregularly Poems
Long Irregularly Poems. Below are the most popular long Irregularly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Irregularly poems by poem length and keyword.
There‘ll be black humour today,
Gentle ribbing, banter and jokes,
Stripping away of egos, repartee
Among our mixed group of folks.
Bruising conversations maybe,
But in a non malicious way.
No place for the thin skinned
That’s just not how we play.
It’s the way it’s done from
First moment of greeting
It’s our irregularly held
Veteran’s Breakfast meeting.
Just a couple of hours
Of banter forces style
Carrying each back
For just a little while
To much younger times
From a very different past
When each passing day
Could have been the last
Some of us are damaged
But none of us are broken
Some carry hurt in their eyes
From experience unspoken.
Some have seen combat
Still carry mental scars
From frontline service in
The country’s various wars
Some fought with a rifle
One fought with a pen
Each gave part of their life
As an active serviceman
The Padre’s not a Veteran
But we’ve known him years
He’s earned out respect as he’s
listened to our hopes and fears
A range of ages gathered
For a morale boosting talk,
We’ve all worn the uniform
We’ve all walked the walk
There are common experiences
That each of us have had,
We’ve been there for each other
In the good times and the bad.
It’s a meeting of brothers
And we all know what to expect,
Ruthless character assassination
But with affection and respect.
We’ll all be looking forward to,
Though not knowing when,
We’ll receive our invitation
To meet up and yarn again.
We’ll shake hands goodbye
Making the occasion complete
Feeling emotional benefit from
Our irregular breakfast meet.
.
Sore, sadden alone and down trodden. Smitten
Stuck on the facts we’re not truly physical
I use to visualize I saw, I touched not anymore
The scent of you not anymore
Even in mine dreams the sight of you dazed a blur
Oh’ how I loved you, the touch of you
The sight of you
The physicality of you
Now eternalized in another guise different point place you reside
In my heart, and mind, soul refreshing a blessing
You left yourblessed mark allure--
Maya Angelou Quotes
"And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed."
7/17/2024
E Form - Elegy Poetry Contest
Elegy poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Many believe that a troubled soul
is the true muse of the true artist.
That misery and anger brings out
the words, brush strokes, of creation.
I don't know if that's right or not,
e'en though it affects me deep -
but I find it strange that most
don't ask why such may be.
The only answer I can conjure
is actually yet another question.
What do the happy have to create?
What need have they to make, to escape?
In part, I have trouble agreeing,
for I have written wonders
in times of relative ease;
or so I've been told.
I have walked gaily through spring,
and spoke of dewy fields of clover;
arbitrary, aimless, desultory subjects,
irregularly chosen by my mercurial muse.
And yet I can also see it, in part,
for my thieves of one's breath
were in times of onerous strife;
or so I've been told.
I have trudged below naught but clouds,
and spoke of grey days and black thoughts;
distressed, disheartened, dejected prose,
regularly presented to my downcast sight.
I believe emotion, good and ill,
can be victuals for the right muse.
But I concede the point that comparatively,
what have the joyous to escape, through art?
A prose poem based on Copotronic love (Scifie)
by Tamanna Ferdous
One day, I was all prepared to test him about his IQ.
After testing him with different questions in general knowledge,
I read him from an antique Bengali poet, Jibanananda Das.
"The resting place placed the restful here
Never certain if the restful is resting here, though.”
Then I asked his opinion about these two lines.
He informed me," A humane quotation with an outlier in deeper introspection."
When he was showed an art piece of Paul Gaugin,
of a polynatian girl,
he tried to perceive the art from different angles and then said,
“A deformed body had a strange reason to occupy the usage of all the colors
used otherwise irregularly.”
The valuation of paul gauguin and the remark,
it was too difficult to control a wild laughter.
After a while I stopped my loud amusement and asked him.
What was I doing?”
“You were laughing.”
“What is laughing?”
“A physical procedure devoid of meaningfulness.”
“Please try to laugh!”
He followed up with a mechanical noisy aptitude, sensible.
Prometheus, he was a machine!
9/24/12
have you forgotten it all within a moment?
does the feeling ever return to you?
or are you blank without passion or virtue?
does all i say simply run through you?
or does it sink in and get lost inside?
for you i cried
every ounce of pain was because i can’t
seem to understand you and what i truly want
one little moment is all it took for me to know
how long did it take for you?
and this depression just will not subside
for you i cried
i ache and scorn as if it makes a difference
resting, roosting in your absence of existence
my heart beats irregularly with the rhythm
of an imaginary you—me
i never truly said goodbye, did i?
for you i cry
and never truly see. . .
“No Words Spoken: Eyes of a Soul to Eyes of a Soul”
No words. Eyes of a Soul speak to Eyes of a Soul.
No words
can interpret the loss of such beauty, such innocence, such promise.
No words
will ever express the internal evaluation of such another,
young, graceful, innocent soul turning inwards irregularly,
to be pushed so far over the edge to consider and then execute
that premature freedom of choice.
No words
to capture the depth of despair
of yet another invisible falling child -
prayers unheard
speaking to the reflection in an invisible chair.
No words
When the heart is gutted.
Eyes of a Soul speak to Eyes of a Soul.
What is wrong with this damned world?
It has too many words, and no one really listens close enough.
No words.
Tears do no justice at all.
While the world watches on, nothing changes,
its bigots, bullies and trolls carry on.
We see the warning signs,
In this instance, 20 times,
we turn our eyes away from it all,
the windows closing, slowly,
be brave, it will get better,
tomorrow’s another day,
we hear it said,
again and again
We see the warning signs.
We turn our eyes away from it all,
Not my problem, not my world.
The windows closing,
No words.
Eyes of a Soul.
No words spoken at all.
Eyes of a Soul to Eyes of a Soul.
Candide Diderot. ‘24
(Sammy Teusch, 10yrs, Ft Wayne, Indiana)
No romance today.
The cemetery was deserted,
at the far edge of the tiny village,
shrouded in a fine sultry fog.
Large black trees threw darkened shadows
over the deserted gruesome sepulchers.
Few cared to visit, few cared to tend the tombs.
A large hawthorn hedge, irregularly grown,
surrounded its oblique perimeters.
Cursed, the villagers said
for it never flowered red blooms
during any time of the year.
An old hunchback lived there,
he lived all alone, with no one to care
No one fed him, no one was his friend.
No one knew where he came from,
no one knew his name,
but he loved the lonely forsaken place:
he weeded out the desultory paths,
and cleaned the old dreary tombs,
he planted evergreens and white flowers,
to welcome the damned and the doomed.
Only one woman came to visit,
constantly, rain or shine, every blessed day.
The hunchback would give her a white flower.
And she returned the gesture with a dime.
No word was spoken, nor looks exchanged.
She’d go to a small tomb, presided by a tearful angel.
The grave was covered with a cold white marble slab.
There she’d leave the white flower,
stand for a while in silence till she left,
No tears fell down her wrinkled old face.
The cemetery prevailed in gloom.
No luminous field of stars tonight and no rain as yet, just booming thunder and the play of light on darkness.
I lay in a grass clearing, watching the sky. Swirling clouds and flashes of light - bright streaks - as far as the eyes can see.
Wind whips the trees, the sky, my hair. Leaves irregularly blow by as if in a hurry or perhaps debris from some strange slow-motion explosion.
I feel at home in this chaos. This angry sky mirrors my mood, my life at this moment. The next few days, next few hours will change everything, for me, or nothing. My future looms suddenly dark, frightening and empty.
Am I really caught in this plan, this parental gravity, this storm, that can upset my entire life, where years of furious work are meaningless??
There is no compass for dreams, they know only passionate directions. I’ve defended them as best I could, like a lioness, a lover, but there’s no stopping a storm.. I guess.
As the rain begins I know one thing.
I will not move.
.
.
A song for this:
Tek It by Cafuné
.
.
note
A summer before 10th grade poem, 2018, my parents wanted to move us back to Shenzhen, China (from Athens, Ga) - for a year. We had more than a few fights and in the end, they went without me. (Yay!)
There will be a test, three questions, my spirit guide told me. I heard the first one upon entering the astral plane. “Who did you love?”
A fuzzy gate was less than ten feet away, gleaming like the brightest white sun ever made, I had to shade my eyes. I could barely see.
Everyone, I thought. I loved everyone. My traitorous heart laughed. It began showing me a series of photos, of everyone I had stopped loving, or given up on, or cast aside. I gasped. Would this mean they would not let me in?
A second question immediately flew into my head. “Who did you help?” My mind went completely blank. My heart began beating loudly and irregularly. I pictured myself in the bowls of hell, and expected to be there in two seconds.
An angel who looked more like Mother Theresa than Mother Theresa walked toward me. She placed her hands on my shoulders and said “Rest”. I felt an immediate almost overwhelming love, an indescribable, absolute all-knowing God-love, and I fell onto a cloud, my eyes shut, safe.
When I awoke I heard the final question, and I knew it was the real one. “How precious is life?” As precious as love, my spirit-soul answered. The only reason we agree to live another earth life, the ONLY REASON we agree to live another human life is so that we can experience the most precious things with our most precious and revered soul-people, who are our “real” precious things.
The gates flew open.
Colors I had forgotten and souls I remembered only in my dreams were standing to greet me and hug me and love me and sooth me.
I was the prodigal daughter, and I was home!
Written 10-08-2018 Contest: How Precious is Life?
Sponsor: Line Gauthier