Long Long poem Poems
Long Long poem Poems. Below are the most popular long Long poem by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Long poem poems by poem length and keyword.
Dreams and Reality
I met her in the Book-Fair, three days the fair lasted
And she was spotted on all days, browsing and buying my books
Eyeing me without talking; I could read her mind in her looks
As the tip of her lip touched my book cover image. The posted
Message on the wall of my heart conveyed her dreams and fixed
Them across my mind. So, I took the first step and blasted her diffidence
With a gentle smile, getting a charming smile with a girlish confidence.
That’s it; with ignited throbs we spent days; she then asked, ”What next?”
“A Long Poem in the pipeline and a pulp fiction in printing,”
She seemed bewildered. And we finished the day without talking more.
The next day, she was more silent, and then asked in haste, “What more?”
“A Mock Epic for my taste and a Romantic fiction to make it trending.”
I talked about books and more books as she talked with her looks; mere looks!
And we parted there, like crooks; realizing- life is more than books and looks!
Forever so long
As warmth shows on rosy cheeks
and heart beats in rhyme,
Springs bloom in autumn
the nature teaches mime,
Red running in veins deepens
as fierce longings burn,
Etched abysmal in souls
memories treasured in time return.
Written March 16th, 2016
For contest "Famous last line" by Laura loo
Last line chosen from poem below...
Entwined
In pure love entwined
the knittings of a mother,
Through icy cold winds
embrace child's subtle being,
As warmth shows on rosy cheeks.
Tanka- 5/7/5/7/7
Written Feb 12th, 2016
For contest "Entwined" by Broken wings
6th place win
Forever so long poem written on March 16th, 2016
Now entered for "Old or new- 8 lines max" poetry contest by Rick Parise
This brief, urgent letter goes to that soldier with a heavy, lonely heart
whose eyes know no daily or nightly rest,
and his loyal soul cannot scream or protest;
he needs sleep, put his fear away and lay that helmet down for a night.
On the Fourth of July, together with his wife and children
he celebrated the heroes that made America great;
tonight, looking back he sees a sad and defeated Glen...
and without Liz and kids, his evening sky has no sunset.
Read my letter, Glen and hold back those tears:
everybody is doing fine, but terribly are missing their tall, handsome hero;
Carol wrote a long poem about jelly beans...
the ones you ate together on the stoop with sun-tanned faces so mellow.
Wednesday will be a very sad day looking at the summer's stars,
the same you saw shine in your native Portland...
imagining that they are fireworks evoking smiles of loved ones;
how can a righteous man not cry on bloody sand?
Then, cry Glen and cleanse the horrible guilt off your terrified soul
for having killed the enemy who had posed a dubious threat;
comforting you with a letter is my token of appreciation for being alert,
never letting deserting thoughts overwhelm you and make you fall.
This is an excerpt from my long poem "White Scars" to my dear one, Daedalus (iykyk)
...
But in my solitary life
Your touches felt like golden to my skin
Your kisses remedy of my past
Your hands with your white scars
A ressurective pleasure
And you came to me that night
"Just a word of your and I'll be gone"
His eyes an ocean full of stars
His hands with his white scars
They don't believe me
So please don't leave me
And I yearn for you
I want your skin on mine
I want your thoughts to orbit mine
Your stars to touch my sky
I want to sense your flaming heart beating upon mine
To kiss all of you for maybe the last time
In the dark just you and I
...
Go direct to your astral being;
you may need a ruler or a compass.
Don’t drift off, center yourself,
this is not going to be a long poem.
Breathe as necessary.
Know that your hands will probably
always be available for high fives
and fist bumps.
You are not a minnow inside a whale
though some days it feels like it.
Your intestines are not gummy-worms
though some days it feels like it.
Some body parts
have long Latin names,
just name them all, ‘my soft bits.’
Doctors may occasionally ask you
‘where it hurts’
always point vaguely to your Zen Body,
after all you’re not a Doctor.
Travel serenely out into the world
secure in the knowledge
that you will not fall apart
for several hours.
Circus Life
Inside, it smells like death and pain.
And two beasts guard
the heart of my brain.
Puzzles and pieces
scatter from the hilt.
My spine breaks under
this mountain of guilt.
Colors and feelings
are nothing compared to
believing
The awful stench
inside my head.
Bleeding with ink
and clouded with dread.
Beast number one rears its ugly head
and says my dear, what do you most dread?
Well, that's metaphorical
and certainly quite volatile.
But let me sit and think.
I suppose, she replies, that what causes that stink
is my brain one day
running out of ink.
Beast number one
guards feelings and reelings
Beast number one roars
Day after day, guards cycles
and riffles.
But beast number one, to me
he just says
'These thoughts, they are
just all in your head.'
Beast number two,
well, she is rather blue.
About all this pain,
you see, she has it too,
and above all she is
most difficult to tame.
But each day from her head
Reels the stuff that she dreads,
And lands in my heart, each day, it can't start.
But each day, it's the same.
But past all the beasts
And tricks and applause;
Sneak under this tent,
and do mind the claws.
All mirrors obstruct her
from the crowd.
So she sees all her flaws
and her thoughts are so loud.
Too loud for the number one
circus attraction.
Step up, step two, gents,
she loves the attention.
Watch her preen and
watch her prance.
My dears, lead her
in this next dance.
Her mind is far gone
so she is your pawn
to do with whatever you please.
But inside, she roars
And she fights and she pleads
For her mind to stop spinning
so loud at the beginning
And she tries too hard to fly
Away from this mess,
away from distress.
The funeral beds
are laced with her dread
and she wonders just when
she might die.
So she creeps from the tent
and she blinks in the sun.
And she sees people round her
preying off her for fun.
But free, she can never be.
For her mind is where
she seems to be
Till her very last dying breath.
Only she will be the master
of her own death.
The Life Is …
The Life Is …
When I was young, there was no pain,
The only pain was to complain.
When I was young, I did not care,
Just as long as my love was there.
When I was young, my life was great.
But I was there a bit too late.
A bit too late to know life was,
being young and having no flaws.
A bit too late to celebrate,
What I had then was called my fate.
Now it’s different, weather is cold,
I turned into a man that’s old.
The spring has passed, summer is gone,
Autumn at rest, winter is on.
I am too old and know it’s gone.
It is too dark to hope for dawn.
Now I know that a part of life,
It is old age and lives with strife.
Now I know that my life is not,
The perfect plan when I had thought.
The life is not the silken dress,
Unmarked from flaws, full of success.
My life is just a song I sing,
It is winter chasing the spring.
It is sorrow, it is laughter,
It is hope for morning after.
My life is just a long poem,
Had a young star; none would know him.
The life is just a shooting star,
It is so bright but can’t go far.
Blink your eyes; it’s all be gone,
I played this game like a faceless pawn.
I played so well; somehow, I lost.
You don’t want me to count my cost.
My life is like a field of dream,
Or maybe like a moonlit stream.
My life is like a drop of dew,
Waiting the Sun to say adieu.
My life is like the dew at dawn,
The sun will kiss; it will be gone.
My life is not to be just young,
It is okay to be unsung.
My life is like the morning breeze,
It can bring storms or bring you ease.
You are hoping for one more dream,
That wakes you up in golden gleam.
The life is like a candle’s flame,
It lights up love or burns to blame.
The games are on, and the moves are fast.
I do not know how long they last.
For some, it’s short; for some, it’s long.
Go have more fun; it is not wrong.
Remember now, it might get late,
Go play your move before checkmate.
10/2/2019
Haloo
Note: The painting is called “A reminder”; it’s acrylic on wood.
Note: This style of poetry is called "Masnavi"; it is the spiritual couplets. This particular masnavi consists of eight syllables in each line. Poetrysoup has a great explanation and example of this form of poetry.
(Oscar Wilde wrote that long poem "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" in 1897, quoted here. In it, a man met his death; for some decades the UK has not had the death penalty.)
-----------
Our man’s still here, spent twenty years behind these bars.
and may be here for quite some time to come.
Death is not allowed in jail, even for death,
and yet it was a death he brought about.
She was “The poor dead woman whom he loved
And murdered in her bed”.
Yes, he thinks of Oscar’s words, the words
that talk of “three leathern thongs” that hold a murderer.
He thinks of the rope that would throttle;
he wishes Mr Wilde’s “Ballad” would apply to him.
He wishes for death, wanting to share that of the one he loved.
But he’s been here for twenty years.
He may remain a long, long time. Punishment!
Decades more seem to hold out their arms. Punishment!
He'll be gripped by each decade’s year. Punishment!
Each “year whose days are long”. Punishment!
Oscar’s “Ballad” has long been with him,
a long, long poem he cherishes, takes to his bed,
wishes for that condemned man’s throat,
the rope and thongs the man felt as “he gave that bitter cry”.
That man was given death.
Execution was perhaps reward.
Each had, of course, killed the one he loved.
What is a punishment? Death now, quickly, or life in jail?
(17 Jul 2023)
Poe the master of the macabre &creator of the first fictional detective, C. Auguste Dupin with much to say in his essay 'The Philosophy of Composition' It is said Poe viewed poetry as his true calling and highest art form, seeing it as the rhythmic creation of beauty.This long poem reputed as his poetic masteriece is full of dramatic dialogue thus reads more as a prose poem .I prefer his shorter 'eap' style list cinquain where L1 is a statement followed by rhymed L2-5 that amplify the statement with words introduced by 'in the' by the ' of' inspired by sililoqy in this form in the conclusion of his essay Poetic Principle.
I saw him before I saw her…(I believe she was holding the door.)
There was a far away look in his eyes as he shuffled his feet on the floor.
I felt a twinge of sorrow for him as he slowly labored past
Each step seemed so difficult…more challenging than the last.
I saw her next when she caught up to him and I thought how nothing could compare
with the smile on her face as she helped him to his chair.
She fixed his hair, she straightened his clothes with an ease, a tenderness…a grace
and as she tended to his every need that smile never left her face.
I did not know this couple whom I assumed were man and wife
but as I watched them endure the ravages of age I imagined younger moments in their life.
The moment hey first met, when they fell in love…when they lived in younger skin
I imagined them with friends and family…imagined all the places they had been…
A lifetime spent in love together was not difficult to surmise
I saw it in the gentleness of her touch…and in the sparkle of her eyes.
When our eyes met for a moment I saw how her smile was masking her pain
and I thought how the more her husband slips away…the more her love remains.
I believe when we happen upon one another…even momentarily in a day
from every brief encounter…we take something away.
It may be a look…a smile…a glance…a gesture from afar
that finds it’s way into our heart and reshapes who we are.
As I left my brief encounter and walked to my car in a misty rain
I thought about that moment…about how she smiled through her pain…
and though there was a hint of sadness as I drove home by the sea
it wasn’t her sadness…it was her love…I took away with me.
A love so beautiful…so everlasting…so quietly proclaimed
It made me smile when I thought of it…
knowing I’d never be the same.