Long Lines Poems
Long Lines Poems. Below are the most popular long Lines by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lines poems by poem length and keyword.
Life shows its frills if ye dwell on fair side,
Perceive it with a poet’s perspective—
Life’s negatives seen with eyes positive,
Let not life’s dangling duals take a free ride.
If sin there be, it is not to endure,
In despair to look forward to next life,
For, this very life’s greatest of grandeur
That we miss out imagining false strife.
O worry not on life's pointless meaning,
Life be to live for there is one, there’s no myth!
Philosophy has no firm a footing,
Life can be lived well O without than with.
All the courage, all bravery's loud cry,
All poetic lines penned to glorify,
Never for once needed O just to die,
But to live life fit for braves— manfully.
So, let me steal a day off life— to live,
And live as if there's no another day,
To live, live well is in life to believe,
I wonder if there's any other way.
And to live, even one percentage less,
Be to scorn justice to this heaven’s gift,
No life has ever been made meaningless,
And to live well is God’s gift to uplift.
If one exception to life can there be—
It is when life outlives body's old cage,
So O Flesh be thou healthy, feel happy,
I know if unhappy faster ye age.
Destiny’s sent life here knowing well why,
So worry not if dark clouds of grief rain,
Nor worry if your efforts go in vain,
Everyone's well on way to reach his sky.
God greeds no grades, nor for Earth-made medals,
What He does care for: how honest you man strived,
If where he ought to be he has arrived,
Let life steer clear of lofty pedestals.
Life’s journey nor is straight, nor yet so short,
The life lived well tends to go well ahead,
It belongs to one all alive, not dead,
No two feet walk the same, but seek their port.
_________________________________________
Musings | 03.07.16 | Ode
Poet’s note: This is the second part of the Ode, ten quatrains long.
It continues with the journey of life. Part III follows.
Dice throw thrice.
Cards shuffle nice.
Tarot lay around.
Flip two coins.
Magically abound I am.
Toss the dice.
Lay out the cards.
Read fortune.
Ask questions.
Write out lines.
Advice, future, vision.
Dice cast twice.
Cards slice deck.
Tarot reveals what's bound.
Coin one side or the other.
Occult readings I've found.
Roll the die,
Lay out few cards.
See glimpse of future.
Get some answers.
Record information.
Interpretation of revelation.
Dice throw unlimited.
Cards eternally scattered.
Tarot reflected in the mirror.
Coins flipped, fortune told.
Fortune-telling is my obsession.
qu'ry this:
a chivalrous charlatan, I
dareth feign to pen thy prop'r aspect?
aye, f'r thy legitimate contours art
yet ov'rwhelmingly stagg'ring to the gazeth
and if beheld by the ingraft
m'rtal, thus, wouldst rend'r those
folk stunn'd to reticence …
such provocative p'rfection f'r a
prop'r prose pedestal doth now standeth
thy outlines …
if 't only the ink of mine own quill
flow'd with the langu'rous liquidity of
thy libidinous limbs -
w'rds danceth off the wit
at but a glance of thy exquisite epid'rmal embodiment
w'rds liketh touch, tickleth, tease, tempteth …
coequal the wisest of w'rdsmiths
wouldst strain to holdeth nigh and effectual,
the phrasing of the
diaphanous d'rmal dialogue that elucidates the
sultry "esses" yond thy shadow paints on
the walls and flo'rs …
only those bless'd as i, without pure
sight of the eye, art accomplish'd enough to
appropriate a competency of fair and
f'rm'd appreciation and charact'rization of
the voluptuous p'rtions that
composeth thy physique …
those such as i w're b'rn to the burden of
the darkness, but also bless'd to
the bearing of the tactile and touchable -
mine own pen is the palm,
the fing'rtip, the soft application of skin-to-skin contact,
the int'rpretation of v'ry tiny ‘lectrical impulses
from ev'rything integumentary
and the und'rstanding of all that
keen inf'rmation being convey'd to the brain …
o beg, my love -
alloweth me readeth thee anon,
alloweth me putteth tactile "pen" to the pages
of mine own soul and psyche,
alloweth me writeth a st'ry th're upon thee,
alloweth me knoweth with mine own fing'rs and carpus
the wond'rful w'rds that describeth thee
in all thy immaculate, sublime consummation,
alloweth me abs'rb the text of thy
curv'd and faultless f'rm,
and lighteth the darkness of mine
own blind w'rld …
transf'rm this beshrew into mine own blessing,
alloweth me beholdeth thee
as nay oth'r ev'r shall -
as a st'ry,
as a biography, book, tale,
aye, as an adventure …
without end.
I am the "Poemdog" that writes in verse
At times I write songs, all original works
Because sometimes it seems
My memories and dreams
Convert themselves to rhymes
The words flow freely, as if they really
Coincide with my unbalanced mind
I write them down when they come around
And try to put them in lines
Eventually, the evidence you see
Are verses in three quarter time
Often it's vexing, it can be perplexing
To gather words flying by
If you don't pay attention
The words that you mention
Won't fit and the words will subside
I get a euphoric sensation
With my aberration
When the new verse is contrived
I sit back and smile, for a short while
Suddenly the words say goodbye.
-Poemdog- Daniel Turner
A ghost jumps out, assembling
itself word by word as it begins
to take on what seems familiar.
You can almost feel it crawling
into your skin, infiltrating
your brain as if it knows the way
around even your secrets.
It's a past you, locked behind
the lines of a poem written years ago
that your eyes have just let out.
You make room, greet him
as a friend coming home
after being away for so long.
He seems unsure, unwilling
to let go of something fragile
hidden under the shadow of a line
laid down half a lifetime ago.
You tell him that you still
have a place for it, somewhere
safe, setting it free each evening
to take wing and fly
the circuit between
here and there
before coming back.
It was wrong to fall for her,
tall girl with curls cascading free,
bright as a calm and peaceful dawn,
soft curves — a poem without lines to see.
It was wrong to fall for her,
girl with a smile that soothes all pain,
sweet lips of a kiss that keeps its watch,
tender mystery that love explains.
It was wrong to fall for her…
It was wrong — and still it echoes in me,
from two thousand and seventeen to eternity,
a decade of love held in silence deep,
where I wept profoundly… too spent to breathe.
To love alone — what bitter sentence to bear,
a heart that insists, yet cannot let go,
a sweet mistake that turned into a wound,
for giving everything… to one who didn't want me so.
It was wrong to fall for her,
who touched my soul without permission given,
made of feeling a beautiful flame,
yet denied an answer to the heart I'd driven.
It was wrong… it was ruin dressed as light,
a sin that hope itself would dare to seduce,
it stole my peace and brought the dark of night,
made of my nights an endless prison of no use.
I soaked my bed with silent, unshed tears,
conversed with pains that no one ever heard,
and in my solitude I made my home,
inside a story poorly closed, deferred.
But today…
today I open the chambers of my chest,
I let the pain go, I undo the knot,
I sweep away the illusion that held me bound,
and I free the love that was never mine to have got.
I paid the price of my liberation,
with tears, with silence, and resignation,
I served the sentence of loving with no return,
and even so… I carry no abandonment to mourn.
Because even in pain there is a lesson learned:
I loved with truth, with full devotion's art,
and even without being loved in return, I found —
that loving also means knowing to depart.
And with a lighter heart, at last,
among the scars that speak on my behalf,
I raise my voice without denial's claim:
It was wrong to fall for her…
but it was human —
and it made me who I am today.
Finally my blood began to coagulate,
and stopped to seep out of the slashed heart,
lacerated in the tempest of turmoil
by the sharp shards of your refutation.
In the memory meadow I found a crack split open
in the longing ledge of my hypnotized heart,
where the sole sapling of love bloomed in brilliance,
freed from the compelled confinement of isolation.
In your embrace my senses gracefully turned
into rhapsodic rhythm of heart enchanted within,
set the course of the lingering love so long latent
to sail in the sensuous stream of my yearning.
In the tormenting torrent of zooming zephyr,
as you drifted away unconcerned past me,
and blew a devastating storm of apathy,
my fragmented fervent feeling became rapture ruins.
Your flouting indifferent footsteps trampled
my emotive flower as you departed uncaring,
its crumbled petals made a wreath
for the bleeding bits of my broken heart.
In the flow of time I saw the essence of my soul,
its healing measures created the concerto of clotting,
as liquid lines turned into coalesced connection,
the splendorous suture made my heart whole again.
A few lines about forks upon the table
Fondue's pronged fork for fingers habile
A taste of life's flavored torgues
Babes brought by the stork
Tough, old meat
Forks
Fork for cake
Tines just for wine corks
Roads that fork and life uncorks
In the end only two tines are stable
A few lines about forks upon the table
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Contest: An Invented Form_Help Me Name It!
The Butterfly
Hourglass
Think about Robert Frost's Poem "The Road Not Taken"..
Think about playing on words a fork in a road..
Think about putting all your cards on the table..
“On Walt and Langston”
“On Leaves of Grass”
1,000 Lines
1,000 Lives
1,000 Views
1,000 Scenes
1,000 Thoughts
1,000 Dreams
1,000 Themes
A man of many themes and dreams,
Now I understand.
“On Walt”
I took a journey today.
I took a walk with Walt.
He showed me his many scenes.
He painted me a million songs.
I bathed in his simplicity;
Burned his thoughts in my soul
I took a walk today,
To untie his many knots.
“On Dreams”
I had a dream.
It came in a midnight jolt,
Forgotten, when I woke.
I’m reaching out,
Am I, but a barren field?
“On Langston”
I met up with Mr. Hughes today;
Sat beside him for awhile
We spoke of trials and errors,
Of places, things and lives.
As I toured the pages of his life
I understood that he had seen
Much more than I.
A man of many sights and sorrows,
Now I understand.
If I were to speak, would my words pierce the dense silence that surrounds me like a shroud,
Or would they be lost within it like a dream adrift in the morning mist, forgotten and unknown?
Not every sound penetrates this stasis, heavy and filled with mysteries hidden in shadow,
I watch the crowds pass by me, as if my pulse were a thread of smoke, invisible.
My whisper is a gentle murmur, always on the edge, never loud enough to matter,
What silent pains do you carry, my love, like stones hidden in your soul?
Does guilt overwhelm you when you ignore the fragile things that dwell in shadow, unknown,
Or do they lose their power in your heart, like memories that slip away like sand through fingers?
In the dust I breathe beneath the wooden floor, I trace lines through cracks, a hidden sanctuary,
A secret refuge of cobwebs and shadows, where everything that disappears seeks to find its place.
Here, all that is unseen searches for meaning, to weave its story into the eternal silence,
Like an echo vibrating through time, in search of purpose, of a calling beyond the horizon.