Long Jots Poems
Long Jots Poems. Below are the most popular long Jots by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jots poems by poem length and keyword.
He hits the snooze alarm twice
before getting up. He’s already
been up three times during the night.
Two cats are waiting for him downstairs
but for now they leave him alone.
He wistfully looks out the window
as gray skies cast a soft glow.
He says he had a good dream
but can’t recall.
He calls out a woman’s name
but I’ve never met her.
His right shoulder aches.
He mentions something
about the years he bears.
A ravine lies at the end of the street
and bare trees reach for clouds
as they wait for spring.
He says that life on a dead end
is more than it seems.
He jots down a line or two
on a blank page. He plays
a song or two on You tube
and lets inspiration stir
for a moment.
His fingers stroke keys
and bring a poem to life
then holds up the creation
to light.
He showers in haste
pets the cats
and they watch him
as he runs out the door
and goes for a drive.
I am running around breathlessly, trying to do it all.
There are followers, admirers, helpers but this is my fantasy.
An orphanage, a dog shelter, and a home for unwed mothers.
It is the sixties, when they were tormented and abused for being so.
Add a movie theater, a skating rink and a dance studio I call to an assistant.
She jots some notes and hurries away, toward the children’s clown college.
“What can I do?” Dirk, one of my most persistent fawners asks.
Can you feed the sheep? Goats? Missouri mules?
He nods and runs off happy.
I am still walking at a brisk clip,
checking things out, making sure they are right.
My assistant’s assistant runs over to ask “popcorn in the theaters?
And Junior Mints, I tell him.
“And I want that theater built by tomorrow night.”
All possible when you are a nine-year-old child
But how in the hell did I know about unwed mothers?
This was 1961, and my parents told me nothing.
I still ponder this recurring dream I had every night for a year.
Brother. O Brother.
O when when we were callow
In days young Shakers of the movement before
gray & silver turned our locks we held in idol
Spree even damned were we
Lessen a very score ’til callous became un-sore
away had you myth into the far-off seeking a northern star
Thus did dim of you re-turn filled
privileged besiege ferrying scripted jots of the novel are
deluged in assure
Brother. O Brother.
Dont forthwith tell to me nor else what I do not
forth I have continued a militant pace
Dont mid uncommon lot tell to me nor else
demur girding resistance rebellious plot
If you must speak a hair tell
of owned stead mid factional fight In the absence
tell of owned gallant march for quality rights
If adapt if no longer a sworn knight
tell of owned rationalism of moralism the plagiarism of
Quisling plight ill-gots Are you not at will zealot
Brother. O Brother.
Here in the brawling depth the course bowl clear
onward the struggle un-stop
You we in pledge had warrant to our brethren aged
to carry the pillars in lift
O out furthest yon you hither re-turn elope dystopia sum utmost grift
—whitewashed literacy alien pensive — these snares gate
earnest mental width so readily turncoat gift
in errand of handmade suits and seasoned goose
be too un-loathed the dandy one who tend the noose
Steady are the angered us of sternly force
undue toil seizing liberty under conquer
Brother. O Brother.
If for reasons untold at sun’s godly will alms’ shine
shalt fetch flicker of brotherly chime
O the left-behind aggrandizing autocrat-kneeler sprawl
as liken wayward owl
cant find luminous in eyes of kinship kind — formed
across absolutist allured far-off whereat darken desert loom
Muse this Steely-dusk rise leap desert’s sandy sweep
to the heavens it seeps to hand the moon its imposing greet
if for reasons untold
I see wonders wherever I look,
be it in the sea or babbling brook.
Decoding Mother Nature's handbook,
Time jots down secrets in its scrapbook;
cataloging every niche and nook.
I need but gaze at a starry sky
or hear the honks of geese flying by,
to appreciate Earth, and oft sigh,
picturing sunsets in my mind's eye.
All colors of the rainbow adorn
Gaia's landscapes, time-tested and worn,
enriching our world from rose to thorn.
And as a sea of stars starts to pool,
Luna's moon glimmers like a jewel.
Our planet's a blue marble in space.
Earth's gifts are easy to overlook:
I hope to see them before I die.
For in Nature, I oft feel reborn;
realizing that only a fool,
would not be wonderstruck by this place.
The glossy lamp-posts,
like the tremulous stars and awakening stars,
light up one by one with a click;
and with incredible manifestation
they announce a spectacular sunset
to impatient and eager lovers...
lost in profound contemplation,
feeling the urge of improvisation!
Serenity descends on the white crushing waves...
to conceal the ablaze horizon with indignation;
will this splendor incite the writer's inspiration,
whose simple words, with elaborate insight,
can console the painters' hearts
when they lack inner inspiration?
Already the conspiring fire-flies seem frantic,
they cautiously search the grass by the tall pine-tree:
to plan a night of mystery,
and to adorn the fragrant air with magic!
There are no lush hills or
snow-capped mountains
to ward off the unpredictable ocean,
or the unguarded sky so prone to invasion;
a sky that harbored the cowards' madness!
They came forward, with full force,
to bring down the impressive Twin Towers;
symble of wealth, of power...
of brother-hood and unity!
They came to kill with hideous minds...
to destroy thousands of innocent lives:
but our selfless,fallen heroes
have made us stronger,
and we are still free!
Even when the weather is unkind
and helpless flowers are swept away by a gelid wind,
snow and rain still embellish, with fine decor,
Manhattan's magnificent sky-line;
and Lady Liberty,weeping,
still welcomes to her thriving shore:
the freedom-seeker and the dream-maker...
so immensely grateful and widly smiling!
The spectacular sky-crapers
can hardly breathe
among those limited spaces;
ask the laborious builders
with sun-tanned faces!
They were the ones fighting off sweat and heat'
waiting to behold,with pride
and rewarding hard-ship,
their ingenious work before the applauding
and cheerful elite!
With beauty and gloominess around,
to spark the writer's inspiration,
this unsteady hand jots down
vague words swerving on the straight lines,
to conceive his defination,
which one day will be repudiated with disguise
by literati's own interpretation!
SHORT VERSION
Deep, in the voids of scattered bones,
in the dare
of the miasmic zone- lies a
mischief- bright,
in the depths of darkness,
where shadows bloom
their blight and stone.
There,
a little messenger
dares to rise,
defying the gloom and enchanting the realm.
~With fragile petals,
kissed by rays of inner light,
she brings a glimmer-dance of hope like a
Saintly paradite.
Her peridot heart jots a tiny plot to hit the spot on,
where sorrows dwell.
Sways incandescently humbles essenely.
mumbling a fluouric prayer.
The little flower stands fertile,
casting an audacity spell
of good nature
and unity.
It is there! Just look at it well,
well it is sitting there like a living gold!
Crystal on burning aspire,
molting fluora feather wing
has become in her maturity like
a desert rose.
With paragonic scent of petracore,
like whispers of forgotten dreams,
of innocence,
imbue of love's alien soil.
Seeds innuendo, in a dojo of love.
A transplant of the great
transparent sea, of hope-
beneath a starlit sky above,
where dreams seed in,
where the universe whispers,
she reminds us to "Believe."
In wishes beyond the stars.
Your arms gripping the iron walls
This chamber consumes your neurons
Feeding on your eye's wells of salt and iron
Your name has been painted in platelets
The serpent whispers of leaders grow dark
A young man with a heart of darkening dusk
Spared from a squad of his peers with rifles
Yet his heart still played a diminuendo
Skies painted redder than roses and regalness
Neck gripping to its faith in structure
They say he sold his life to El Diablo
Over nights of rendezvous with rebellion
But you grip the pen which jots your path
Oceans of stench won't confirm your hypoxia
For you are the nominee of Father Democracy
Holding the sword of our voices sky high
One last feast for your closest comrades
Lovers and mothers and brothers alike
They wonder if the sunrise will grow dark
With each crackle of your vertebrae
Gunpowder and dust, fumes of chlorine
They made sure you were dead, modern Rasputin
Not a savior or saint to those in the capital
But a teen with demands above these shaky lands
Slip from your corpse, never our ideas
For men shall die, but ideas never do
Young sir, the workers hold you dear
You are their compass, the sea of our morals
More than a boy with a yearn for reform
Dead at seventeen from a radical's gun
The martyr buried in our land's rich soil
Heart of blinging sapphire, brain of fortified steel
As the wind gushes through the pane,
she jots down crystal-clear memoirs
from a flawless hand, still radiant;
while tendrils of a past causes
flushed eyes to melt in the glass of evening.
Then pausing between emblazoned lines,
a web of sagas transports her musings
in a village where life details the ache
and glory of unwanted farewell;
the summer air turning blooms into molds
as new autumn's lungs exhale without crisp sounds.
Quietly, Aunt Jenny folds the sepia-book
to gaze at the beauty of twilight,
where cloudburst fades like distant remains...
then, washing the pale mist of yester-years,
she breathes in solace: a woman freed
by putting a name to her own unfurled dream,
ready for rain’s music of tamed sleep
when a nightingale drifts from a branch,
quiet, quiet as feathered reverie.
(c)
Must Be Read Contest
For Silent One
Though I yearn for eternal rest
and free from his violation
I unravel in his charismatic force
compelled by wild dark eyes
I am but a frail heirloom
composed, submissive, spellbound tied
In the arms of uncertainty
a daughter of Athena
enduring loves legacies, courted by gods
desired by many suitors
cursed by others jealousy and ruling reigns
Two immortal flames
mortal eternals, there is no conforming
We drink from the aguarossa
blood-red rose redeemer
in our underworld’s Leviticus larva
naught rituals regress
our binds cannot be broken
Forever rooted in our rapturous rhythm
plucked from poetic plight
I am but sparkling stardust, silica dense
spoiled by his fire, enwrapped in his core,
whilst I dance upon his soul
On a pedestal, where he has taken me,
a gypsum statue on his Tristan thrown,
he jots his visceral venom vignette
entrapping me in bane sonnets
It’s a god forbidden grapnel gameboard,
where dark words rise like blades of passion
in roulette’s rivalry, his cabaret
Goddesses being the hecatomb
in chivalries of chaotic romanticism
I long to be set free, released
from the portrait I am fated to portray
from lovesickness, unbereft of love's vow
from the bound wrists in gyves
free from his violation
I yearn for eternal rest
The frightful winter solstice approaches
with an opaque snow globe life intertwine.
Stars sprinkle early, romance encroaches
upon one headstrong to dread wintertime.
Power poles are overthrown by wind gusts
but the fireplace roars in competition.
Soon the living room temperature adjusts
to our own Norman Rockwell rendition.
Candles flicker like a lover's whisper,
tickling walls with whimsical illusions,
becoming purer, becoming crisper
with cinnamon swirled laughter fusions.
Board games played on the dining room table
welcome nostalgic, restorative thoughts
which begin to inspire and enable
closeness revived, warm poetic jots.
12-18-19