Long Lowercase Poems
Long Lowercase Poems. Below are the most popular long Lowercase by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lowercase poems by poem length and keyword.
a source
of
inspiration
the
visible
artistic
voice
natural
sensitivities
of
familiar
landscapes
representations
evoking
the
ambiguous
in
elegant
imagery
with
dramatic
visions
enhanced
in realism
serene
&
constrained
OPEN FORM in lowercase without grammatical symbols ,uses spaces&breaks relying upon 'the one breath limitation' & as a 'happening' requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood & thus is inherently variable.
This time,
Janice is wearing a priest collar
and I’m the altar.
She hisses when I open my Notes app
during communion,
calls me a heretic
for spellchecking my trauma.
I tell her my whole personality
is based on being misquoted.
She says no, babe. It’s based on needing
a witness and a warning sign.
Then she bites the rim off my coffee cup
and whispers the true name of God
into the ear of a raccoon I once dated.
She reads tarot using expired CVS receipts.
All the cards say return to sender.
I ask if that means my father.
She just shrugs
and duct-tapes a feather to my forehead
like it’s penance or war paint or both.
We co-author a manifesto
on a napkin stolen from a dive bar bathroom.
She titles it
Why We Don’t Cry During Apocalypse Drills Anymore.
Later, I catch her sobbing
to a podcast about deep-sea fish
that flash their own bodies
just to be noticed.
I ask if she’s okay.
She croaks,
do you even know what it’s like
to be evolution’s punchline.
Yes, Janice.
I call it middle school.
I call it dating men with lowercase ambitions.
I call it standing too long in the same place
and becoming part of the furniture.
By the time the sun decides
to ghost us for good,
Janice is already skywriting
with the last of my mascara:
don’t wait for closure—
just close the damn door.
I laugh like I mean it.
She screams like she doesn’t.
We steal a shopping cart,
fill it with unsent letters and beef jerky,
and ride it downhill into the end of everything.
I am finally the bird.
She is finally the girl.
And God
God is just someone we unfollowed
after a bad take on grief.
That one time in the middle of nowhere,
When we walked in on a man taking a poo.
We looked at each other, then him,
and we didn’t know what to do.
It was a dingy gas station bathroom, surely the locks could work?
How could his mistake turn us into the Jerk?
When we rushed the door open, his pants were at his shoes,
He had a wad of toilet paper in hand like he was reading the news.
He was hunched over doing what needed to be done,
Probably not expecting to make eye contact with anyone.
I held onto the door in disbelief at what I had just seen,
Shocked when he yelled, “Maaaa’aaam” in lowercase, It came off kinda mean.
Spooked and shook I didn’t know what to do,
Never in my life had I seen a guy taking a poo!
With eyes as big as saucers, I sprinted for the van,
I needed to get far far away from that man!
My husband laughed for minutes straight as our tires squealed,
Now I always knock on bathroom doors and keep my eyes peeled!
Written: September 10, 2026, for a contest by Brian Strand
OPEN FORM created by Brian Strand in lowercase without grammatical symbols, uses spaces&breaks relying upon 'the one breath limitation' & as a 'happening' requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood & thus is inherently variable.
**************
a bird I cannot name
hunches on a weathered fence
watching last light
withdraw across field
where earth has healed
evening tarnished amber glow
except when trapped in wheat
where one crimson bloom stays dyed—
small enough to miss
stubborn enough to stay
perhaps we are not meant
to become whole again—
only luminous
where we broke
each fracture
a narrow window—
through which
something unutterable
makes its entrance
I gather no answers
only scattered weather
of who I was
a feather of silence
a little ash of longing
an afterglow of voices
I can no longer hold
yet beyond obvious
a sympathetic spirit sways
in a mood of morning—
not hope exactly
but ancient instinct
of a seed
that has outlived its flower
and yet
keeps reaching
through darkness
I woke
with dust of old selves
still silvering my lungs—
cobwebs
where my heart had once
hung its small lantern
I opened my eyes
nothing miraculous
only pale machinery
of morning
turning
& inside me
a record scratching
against that same sentence—
in a former place and time
i may have known you
but now you blow yourself away
you have become a lowercase 'l' so unrecognizable
i almost cry when you become incomprehensible and hallucinatory
watching you now is like watching a repeat of some old television shows' later episodes
you have become stale and dated and have forgotten what defined you as authentic and beautiful
when it gets to the point where nobody knows what to do with you,
when it gets to the point when nobody wants you anywhere near,
when it gets to the point when things have to be hidden and locked away,
do you think, perhaps, that it is an obvious indication of an invitation to take an honest, unedited inventory of yourself
Written: April 30, 2025, for a contest by Brian Strand
*******************
blow out
a
candle
amorist
caring
adoring
passionate
a
paramour
circumstances
involve
considerations
bearing —
strangers
two
slices
of
d a r k n e s s
what's
light
nighttime
eyelid . . .
illusions
glowing,
some flicker
call us . . .
but I call —
it
boredom
being
as
light
s t r a n g e r s
mirror
fractured
by gaze
of
sight
closest
bond
lingering
snaging
emerging
from
forecasting
watching
scattering
ice melting
yet vivid—
heart
sobbing
from
caught
h a n d
looked,
& turned
to
begin
fragments
an
attempt
to
halt
red
dripping. . .
b l o o d
of
l o v e —
OPEN FORM created by Brian Strand in lowercase without grammatical symbols, uses spaces&breaks relying upon 'the one breath limitation' & as a 'happening' requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood & thus is inherently variable.
(a quick tap-tap-tapping on an imaginary typewriter, lowercase and scattered across the page)
dear e.e.
(i)
(a small(fan))
(me)
your words(they)
(dance)
(like)
(little)
(birds)
(broken)
(free)
from (cages)
of (grammar)
(i) (love) (the way) (you) (make) (words) (do)
(things)(they) (never) (did) (before) (like)
(jumping)
(jumping) (jumping)
(off) (cliffs)
(of)
(sentences)
(and)
(flying)
(without)
(wings)
(i) (use) (your) (way)
(sometimes)
(in)
(my)
(own)
(little) (poems)
(but)
((it) (feels) (like) (stealing) (a) (song) (without) (knowing) (its) (name))
(so)
(e.e.)
(please)
(keep)
(on)
(doing)
(what)
(you)
(do)
(and)
(give) (your) (way)
(a) (name)
(so) (i) (can) (say)
(i)
(write)
(in)
(the)
(style)
(of) (e.e.) (something)
(instead) (of)
(feeling like) (a)
(thief of beauty)
(sincerely),,,
(a small(fan))
(me)
This is not my body.
Not the one that used to tell everything
to anyone—
I mean everything,
like I thought it might get me somewhere
closer to known.
I sat in a circle today,
some kind of writing thing—
you know the type.
Lots of deep breathing
and soft lighting.
Someone cried reading what they wrote
in the first eight minutes
and I—
well, I flinched.
Not because it wasn’t honest,
but because it was.
Too honest, maybe.
Or just familiar.
I used to be like that—
all exposure and no shape.
Just bleeding out
in lowercase.
And I caught myself thinking,
don’t do it—
as if I could save her
from what happens
when the adrenaline wears off
and all you’re left with
is the echo of your revelation.
But maybe she won’t feel that.
Maybe she’ll never know
what I mean.
And maybe I’m not better now—
just quieter.
Anyway.
This is not my body.
Not anymore.
But I still feel it sometimes,
rattling the old pipes.
-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet-
Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause
The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance,
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest,
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein
You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal,
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."
I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter,
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer
Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light,
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes,
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.
If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause
by;PD
I do it for fun
quatrain
Clearly put - the star was up to no good.
Musicians have an innate sense of time.
The guests, notwithstanding, all understood
their host - a conductor well-past his prime.
Novice performers, the host chose just three
for the opening event of the night.
His niece, as it happened, was one invitee;
he could still orchestrate who’s in the limelight.
While each one of the fledgling young trio
aced their solo in the gateway prelude,
the simply grand - violin virtuoso
excelled in his mellifluous etude.
Not wanting to move on his host and niece,
the star asked for an encore from her flute.
Would she segue into his final piece?
(in the vernacular of music’s astute).
The auspiciousness of the occasion
would exalt any young lady to conceit.
With tempo way fast for the transition;
it was clear she had been swept off her feet.
Artist: Lowercase Noises - Title: The Things Your Eyes Have Seen
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GnU0aOA788U&list=RDGnU0aOA788U
written 5 Feb. 2016.