Long Lettering Poems
Long Lettering Poems. Below are the most popular long Lettering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lettering poems by poem length and keyword.
I watched it emerge
from out of the fog, monumental
in size, a sheer cliff face of steel
moving pass me, almost
quieter than my breath
but for a whispered wake
running from its bow.
Something this big
should have made
more noise.
A black hull bore scars
of scrapings and rust bleeding out
of fissures along its length.
The fog seemed to oil its way,
its shape looming large
then slowly growing smaller
as it slid down river until
it dimmed and disappeared.
In that moment its passage
was a mystery, a brief apparition
of something beyond the dimension
of ordinary things. The quiet
of its passing, the dark bulk
and beauty of its presence
was magnificent
and overpowering.
It was like a shadow cast
by a mythical beast
coalescing out of history,
infiltrating the mind then
dissolving once more
into a place somewhere
hidden in its magical past,
suddenly brought back
to this world
with its registered port
written in rusty lettering
on its stern - MONROVIA
Captivated as I’m immersed
in your writing
Shocking my senses like it
were lightening
Spending hours reading is like
its a fairy book
your organizing of syllabus
is all that it took
Linguistic vocabulary dialect
phrasing style
Expressive uttered content
language while
your deliverance of wording
lettering is observed
Your narratives wittiness
in your work is reserved
Interpretive collection only
reflects in your ink
Far from conservative the
themes make me think
Weaving a powerful thread
through your lines
Impactful experience for
each reader by design
Artistically creative with
your energy and flow
Reading so realistic with a
faint dream like glow
In your simple structure you
open us up to much more
Awakening one’s emotions
from your honest candor
10/1/22
After Apple Picking one late fall day
as the gold sun hung low neath autumn's sky,
I took a turn, became ‘The Runaway’
onto The Road Not Taken, there nearby.
Lined thick with Birches planted on a knoll
along with Maples dressed in red-gold glows,
I now was drawn to take A Late Walk stroll-
bask in the luxury of nature’s shows.
Reminded to Choose Something Like a Star,
I made a wish as I went on my way.
As Venus blinked her answer from afar,
I turned to leave since Nothing Gold Can Stay.
February 4, 2017
~4th Place~
Premiere Contest: The Poet’s Pluck (poet of your choice)
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
Judged: 02/22/2017
Rules: Choose five or more TITLES from a past historical
poet of your choice and use the TITLES to build your poem.
Show TITLEs in bold lettering.
Rules of a former contest:
Choose five or more TITLES from a past historical
poet of your choice and use the TITLES to build
your poem. Show TITLEs in bold lettering.
Poet Chosen: Robert Frost
Sorrow drowns on dry land
Standing at a distance,
staring at staggered lines
on a rock face outcropping
buried deep beneath
an ancient rose garden
Corroded iron bars
chained and bolted,
left for dead as brittle petals
find a funnel cloud forming
and dance in a whirlwind mosaic
Disguised bold lettering
of forgotten fonts curl and peel
as bark from a crying birch tree
waits for spring
so it can start anew
Sunlight smears blue sky dreams
in finger paint colors
designing the moment
in portraits of a heart – this heart
basking in your glow
And as your smile approaches
the earth rejoices, pine tree party hats,
hibiscus streamers wave
as a happy ending reigns
at the conclusion of this poem –
with the deceptive title
Flamboyant swashes; flaming crimson,
could be my face, as the flyswatter-hand
could impress such lettering upon my cheek.
so I
severed the crescent-angel of my imagination,
dashed my dreamy cursive, expunged the end;
held my breath as I curtailed the honey-alphabet.
Nun in black,
giving me grief, exacting ruler teeth, measuring
the letter of the law; curtains to poetic strength.
Who was I to think
outside the parochial box. Couldn’t she,
who dangled rosary beads,
have at least
decisively
have added,
“My! My! Isn’t that pretty! You will make a great poet
one day, but today, dear one, you must play by the rules.”
Snap! Crack! My knuckles are raw.
They meet my mom’s gaze. We laugh.
In my time, the penguins
wouldn’t dare,
but dare
one did
to
bang the elementary school kid,
his head, against the classroom door
frame. famed…defamed…sorry for him.
He probably didn’t tell
his mom and dad.
We didn’t
back then.
This was only one educator…
the rest were fairly nice. Unfair
to dice my letter, mold it, conform it.
Perhaps that is why
I
interchange cursive and printing
as I take note
of the world at large
and
the small people that live on a ledge
eyeing letters and ledgers
with eagle-eyed veracity.
Verifiably insane,
the pinch
of my pen,
in the grip of Sister Pain-in-the-Neck.
Feverish,
with fanciful letters,
alpha-betcha-soup, heterodox-ical, complexities
with outlier formatting. I
will pull out from the alphabetical wolf pack,
hungry for a feast
of flippant snippets. Do my teachers
toss in their graves? I
think not. They just lie
in a box, just so.
Burma-Shave
*******************
* *
* Driving Back *
* *
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(
)
*******************
* *
* In Time *
* *
********************
)
(
********************
* *
* Dad Recalls *
* *
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(
)
************************
* With *
* Weathered *
* Grin *
************************
)
(
***********************
* Signs *
* Of The *
* Time *
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(
)
***********************
* *
* Burma Shave ® *
* *
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I asked my Dad what he did, on his long drive to California,
as a kid. He tells me he read Burma-Shave Signs. Listening
to his recollection, leaning in - I had never heard this before.
He tells me they read like poetry. Six in a row, 100 feet apart,
at 35 miles per hour, the kids and adults, too, had 3 seconds
to read each one. The signs were red with white lettering.
Each poem would end with a punch line, like a limerick.
In 1925, journey for travelers was lightened up on Hwy 65
from Minneapolis to Albert Lee, whilst shaving cream was sold.
I can just see those eyes attentive, the smiles as they looked
and read out loud. From across time, I see my grandparents
in front, the homemade trailer, behind, and three preteens,
a toddler and baby, lumbering along in laid back days.
In my childhood, we read the signs that lead to the border,
between the Carolinas; we’d arrive at South of the Border.
are we there yet;
no need
for a screen
when a sign will do.
From within the perspex booth, he flirtily inquired
if my day so far had been fulfilling
Duty of filling two reusable bags with thirty items
Didn't stop my silly line from spilling
"Certainly, yes - it's fulfilling me now"
His stare seemed unphased by my lame admission
Scanned groceries somewhere invisible
Face much closer than distance restrictions allow
French throat honey diverted from usual
Behind glasses, bulged eyes listening
Attempt at saving my remark from ruin, I extended
Adept words of general philosophy
on work life balance, my hope his shift soon ended
Frenchy said, "So soon I'm finishing"
Paid, sashayed away, loaded my car
Out of hours nerd backlit by afternoon's fading filter
Sauntered, long limbs fish fine flowed
to his boxy hatchback, began to fold himself into her
Glimsed me, his drive to leave slowed
Look longer than checkout intended
Don't play movies, - be the movie! I frantically chant
My devious quickly runs reels of torrid takes
Grinning, " Thought you'd be put off by my little rant"
Croissant crumbs flew frenzied as he makes
Front seat space clean to enable our chat
Knocked my head on circular pink hand grip swung
His French consoling rubbed clumsily
upon my hair, explained rubber grip used by his Mum
Tried to tuck it away, cute care fumbling
My impatient imagination carried us far
Decal sticker on window, white lettering ' Luck Left'
I inquire puzzled as to its meaning
"Today Luck came," he says, " It's going to be perfect"
Honestly, hormones by then teeming
Carpark departed in five seconds flat
(smutty Sundee)
23rd August 2020
I felt strange staring at this family cemetery
was I supposed to be here?
I tried to call my sister back, but she is eight.
She was skipping and singing.
What do you think? She asked, proudly.
We had gone further than ever before.
I was not sure we were still on grandpa’s farm.
“Come see!” she insisted.
It was an old headstone
The lettering was almost washed away by time
I could barely see the year,
I gasped when I saw the name
This had been the name of my invisible friend.
She had played with me for years
before my mother told me she was make-believe
Now I knew that she was not.
I stared at the faded lettering
Was she an ancestor? Who would know?
I heard her voice whisper in my ear.
“It has been a long time!”
I ran screaming from the place
Faved PoetrySoup poems, I've many a favorite
Are such a treasure trove of Joy
Each one so exquisite
I've many, but imagine, I'll have many, many more
I wish they could be bound in books
Purchased through a PS store!
Leaves of golden artistry of poets that I love
A little bit of heaven on earth
Like sunshine from above
I thought to name these poets, that have written
On my heart, but that would take
Me quite some time,
I don't know where to start!
Suffice to say, I'm blessed, I love this precious group
What treasure troves of blessings
These poems on PoetrySoup
Keep shining, keep on writing, your voices like a song
The aroma of sweet fragrance
Gently stirring all day long
For each new poem that's written, a gem within the sea
A gift of golden treasure is your
Precious poetry
My image shared is just a 'dream' book of sorts, an
idea of how it may be easy for PS to create a personalized
book of our favorite file poems from our dear PS poets.
My mother had an old empty scrapbook I inherited,
I applied the gold lettering just for an example.
Maybe Team Poetry could brainstorm an idea of this
sort, I think it would be wonderful. Anyway, just a thought.
<3
I have words I did not speak
For they serve to make me weak
Yet I see them lettering for me
Spelling a dream to never be
Have I yet what not?
What was sold were bought
Though nearer I move yet further I am
The distant time I came to befriend
Every foothold to see myself depart
Every light fading to be stepping into the dark
Yet a comfort I am to find
Some peace where the light fail to remind
Surrounding me, consuming my presence
Flattering to consider the world at absence
And they be who I’ll aspire
A lonesome self for loneliness to desire
Nonetheless, the more I dwell the more I’m afraid
I fear to have my eyes reawaken to what await
An impending doom perhaps... unavoidable
A countdown for death’s toll... applicable
Yet of humanity be my most feared
For they be ones as selfless as selfishly deared
As simple as a wish as a wish to be simple
Reality be the realm no longer I shall follow
Though they have words spelling for me
They do not letter out for my dreams to be