Long Magazine Poems
Long Magazine Poems. Below are the most popular long Magazine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Magazine poems by poem length and keyword.
I was looking over my stuff here, and itseems I've lost the talents I once knew here.
I write ancedotes for my column. I do journalism- always some deadline or project that I work well under the pressure of it all.
Writing is what I truly love!
There is just so many varied types I do, my poetry is suffering.
I enjoy reading the great writers here.
Sometimes I do not comment or remark because it is art and I'm at a loss of words.
It's just been enlightening to live such a full life, and to be right here, right now amazes me. I'm searching for some old therapeutic writes. I was on alot of medications at one time.
A victim of spousal abuse.
I came back up North severly medicated, drolling and my family would whisper, she'll never be right again.
Post Tramatic Stress Disorder aint no joke.
To be me, knowing what I do, and how very long it took me to recover...
When some never do.
Many men were nice to me along the way, poetrysoup has the best men in the world, they will embrace your differences, and encourage you to keep your chin up, and keep your pen flowing.
Vince I love you! Frank, you are the best friend that a girl to ever have! You've sent me so many books of stamps to write you back and also send you the latest edition of the magazine I am featured in monthly. Everyone has those times in their life, when nothing goes right. How you knew without me saying a thing.
Are you alright? a concerned letter in the mail when I was having it rough- and the presents that made me cry. It may have been a framed poem, but it meant the world to me, and still does.
And lastly John,
Why oh why did I pick the most just man to give the hardest time to?
He has put up with so much from me over the years. I love him with everything in me. If not for being a true servant of God where would I be without him.
I remember 5 or six years ago, and his lady, whats your problem?!
Well John, you are the very sweetest man I've ever known in my life... without you I would still be cold to the Lord. So many years and mile stones along the way. I can leave here, but just like the sands of Florida, you'll always see me back.
Thank You All, for reading me, but more - to support the struggling writers that fall between the cracks in society.
I love you Frank. I love you John. Don't ask which one more, because John is single and Frank is not hehehehe
Form:
Not-So-Heroic Couplets
by Donald Trump
care of Michael R. Burch
To outfox the pox:
kill yourself first, with Clorox!
And since death is the goal,
mainline Lysol!
No vaccine?
Just chug Mr. Clean!
Is a cure out of reach?
Fumigate your lungs, with bleach!
To immunize your thorax,
destroy it with Borax!
To immunize your bride,
drown her in Opti-cide!
To end all future gridlocks,
gargle with Vaprox!
Now, quick, down the Drain-o
with old Insane-o NoBrain-o!
Trump’s real goals are obvious
and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.
—Michael R. Burch
Less Heroic Couplets: Just Desserts
by Michael R. Burch
“The West Antarctic ice sheet
might not need a huge nudge
to budge.”
And if it does budge,
denialist fudge
may force us to trudge
neck-deep in sludge!
NOTE: The first stanza is a quote by paleoclimatologist Jeremy Shakun in Science magazine.
Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss
by Michael R. Burch
Domestic “bliss”?
Best to swing and miss!
Less Heroic Couplets: Then and Now
by Michael R. Burch
BEFORE: Thanks to Brexit, our lives will be plush! ...
AFTER: Crap, we’re going broke! What the hell is the rush?
Less Heroic Couplets: Dear Pleader
by Michael R. Burch
Is our Dear Pleader, as he claims, heroic?
I prefer my presidents a bit more stoic.
Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed
by Michael R. Burch
for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air
Their volume’s impressive, it’s true ...
but somehow it all seems “much ado.”
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry I
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the heart’s caged rhythm,
the soul’s frantic tappings at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry II
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the trapped soul’s frantic tappings
at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Seesaw
by Michael R. Burch
A poem is the mind teetering between fact and fiction,
momentarily elevated.
Less Heroic Couplets: Passions
by Michael R. Burch
Passions are the heart’s qualms,
the soul’s squalls, the brain’s storms.
Keywords/Tags: Donald Trump, coronavirus, president, poet, poems, poetry, heroic couplets, couplet, humor, humorous, Clorox, Lysol, disinfectants, light verse, parody, satire, America, USA, giggle, political, natural disasters
"The Spite Syllabub"
The daughter
is not
The mother
Sylvia’s bees were
left milk, bread and butter
Plath by name
but not
the daughter’s path
in evolving nature
not the mother
nor the father
Love for art’s sake
Art not for Love’s sake
Amy G. Dala
a spoonful of honey
taken with the medicine
This is Love
The tincture labelled:
The Spite Syllabub
three measures
the mother, the father, the son
take
swallow slowly
survive
daughter is the legacy
daughter learns to run
a lesson in love
Love for art’s sake
Art not for Love’s sake
Done.
(Ladylabyrinth / 2020)
"Moonlight" / FOALS
https://youtu.be/s9DMDulMIz4
1.
"The Grief Equation" /Frieda Hughes, Plath's daughter
https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-27377434?SThisFB&fbclid=IwAR0-rAuEMLovUMiMndUcme2Sic3A-OoDiJkHd857ulBwxlk4KXY3cAxHb9Q
2. "Poetry and Co-dependency" / Plath & Hughes
https://youtu.be/hmArLszft3w
3. "Sylvia Plath" (1 of 6)
https://youtu.be/V1QA985lhSQ
(2 of 6)
https://youtu.be/k1ecb6bRfk0
(3 of 6)
https://youtu.be/uDq0trKqyj8
(4 of 6) Bees
https://youtu.be/7lJPFA2JXnk
(5 of 6)
https://youtu.be/Ef5Zypngx6o
(6 of 6)
https://youtu.be/iK6b39hoeGM
4. Hughes & Assia Wevill (Mistress)
https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/1999/apr/23/features11.g21
5. Frieda Hughes (daughter)
https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/may/28/frieda-hughes-i-felt-my-parents-were-stolen
"Frieda Hughes, daughter of poets Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, is the author of Stonepicker and the Book of Mirrors (Harper Collins, 2009), Forty-Five (Harper Collins, 2006), Waxworks (Harper Collins, 2002), and Wooroloo (Harper Flamingo, 1998). She lives in Wales."
Poetry, books / Frieda Hughes
https://www.friedahughes.com/books.html
"45" / Frieda Hughes
https://www.popmatters.com/forty-five-poems-by-frieda-hughes-2496154001.html
"Moonlight" / FOALS, Lyrics:
https://genius.com/Foals-moonlight-lyrics
Suicide Prevention / Global Hotlines
http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines
They all sit there lined up in a row
Not knowing when exactly when to go
Decisions are made on the image they are looking for
As the applicants mumble at the door.
Mommas got cash
Let those pass
The Agent said
Wondering if they knew how to play dead underneath the bed.
Here comes another one
Participating in the audition after getting some sun
Shez a factor the agent said and could be a fine actor
Take a picture with her in blood
And bet you bottom dollar she is not going to be a dud.
Two more come in
Being a sweet photogenic twin
And having what it takes to win
A prize which is the opportunity to hear some more lies
Maybe this is just something
Like a guy giving them a ring.
Pick up the phone
“I am alone,” she could say
About this selection process for a scene to roll in the hay
During this time when they know she is out of money
And reality states they are only there to be called honey
Having the only worry being ‘if tomorrow is going to be sunny’.
When asked to defend
Its for the men
They do state
Hoping a date will turn into a lifelong mate.
In this game where no one knows their name
One may ask about money
When the success is being a bunny
This is nothing new
In a profession that ends with “I Do”
Yes, no she is waiting for an answer
On whether she is the corpse of the principal dancer.
When she gets the green light to be in the dying fight
She gets pumped up with all the might
“How much should I show?”
She asks with a glow.
Just enough
the guys want to see your inside stuff.
Finally, they get cast as the damsel getting the gas
Ready to meet a monster with a dangerous tool
And not expecting to end up just body parts in a bloody pool.
It only takes a day and hopefully there will be pay
But if not, the picture taken could be considered hot.
Everything is fine if it looks good
Especially if the B movie talent has it all together underneath their hood.
Do not be worried since it’s just the character that is going to be buried
Then after weeks in the theater what will be sweeter
A shot on a magazine cover that begs for men to love her.
Soon the check will come
And it will be done
Once the payment goes through and she tells the one man in her life “I do”
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: White Boys
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: August/1995
I want to do
just like
the white boys
do -
Wear
six hundred
dollar
shoes,
and
dress
in
the finest
of
suits -
I want
a
six figure
income,
to splurge
at
Fred Segal's,
on
Melrose
avenue -
I want to
jog
with
my dog,
while
pushing
my child
in a
stroller -
I want to
send
my children,
to
only
the best
of
schools -
I want a
pristine
neighbourhood
in a
gated
community -
And
style
in a
Bentley,
through
Hollywood -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want to
live
in
Beverly Hills,
and
hob nob
with
my
constituents-
I want to
have
A-1
credit,
to
charge
on
Rodeo Drive -
I want a
foyer
filled
with
roses -
and
a
Butler
passing
out
horsd'oeuvres,
champaign,
and
caviar -
And
I want to
travel,
in a
Lincoln
Town car -
What
I really want
is
equal rights,
regardless
of
colour -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
Who
wouldn't
want to
ride
a horse
under
the
golden
sun,
on
the
beach
in
Malibu -
Just like
the
white boys
do
I want to
explore
life
under
the sea
in a
submarine -
I want stocks,
bonds, CD's
and
Ira account's
too -
a
Yacht,
Lear Jet,
and
a
home
in
Peru -
Just like
the white boys
do -
I want to be
in
every
television
commercial,
every
movie,
and
smile for
the
camera,
when they
call
my name -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want it
all -
even a
star
on the
walk of fame -
I want to
expose
the
myth,
shown
around
the
world,
that
only
white boys
are
doing
everything -
I want to
Sky Dive,
Hang Glide,
and
fly
in a
Hot Air
balloon -
I want to
fall
from
the sky
in
a
parachute -
I want to
golf;
play
board games,
and
speed race
in
a boat -
I want to
drive
a
jacked-up
truck -
and
lasso
a horse
with
a
rope -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
I want to
Snowboard,
parasail,
ski,
and
wind surf -
And
I want to
dine with
Royalty,
like
Kings
and
Queens -
I want to
be
on the
cover
of every
magazine -
I want it
all -
Just like
the
white boys
do -
Just by chance once I got acquainted
with a Bengali Writer and Novelist in a festival.
I had special admiration about his writings
which I had gone through beforehand .
He was a very handsome guy running in mid forty.
On interaction I was simply charmed with his orating power.
I developed a feeling like Hero Worship ,
though I was in late thirty then.
As a witty talker he drew my attraction,
but on throw of every third sentence
he was boasting of his writings.
It was irritating, making me feel inferior to him.
Actually his approach pricked my ego.
I am a Mathematician acting as Lecturer
and is satisfied on that identity.
I had never tried to write,
but I was successful in my chosen career.
He took initiative to make my ten- year old daughter,
subscriber of a leading monthly children’s magazine.
Later I started thinking ‘Is writing a big deal?’
Let me try.
My common sense predicted,
fields of stories and poems are too crowded to compete.
So I composed two scientific topics
and sent one to a leading Bengali newspaper
and other to the children magazine which was coming
in my daughter’s name.
Astonishingly , News Paper published my feature on fifteenth day.
Second topic came up on next issue of renowned Children Magazine.
That was the start.
Spectrum went wider broader.
Features on social aspects, scientific articles, fictions, poems
came up in series.
My story and drama got opportunity to get telecast.
All India Radio welcomed me as Talker.
Channel of writing Text Books is opened.
Acted as Editor of a Bengali Science Magazine.
I turned a professional writer.
Later formed team to stage drama on own script.
Life changed : New career started.
Activities in multiple channels flourished .
Winds of change
are fanning the flames
are fanned by the deranged.
The flames of misdirection,
the winds giving chase
(orchestrated by instruments to enrage.
Horned cheering section.)
Drones of the BlackRock, riders in holdings
park their game pieces in place,
holding and withholding payment Ace.
Get out of jail free blowhards,
influencerned by the currency,
jeering and cheering till blue in the face,
screaming Climate
Emergent Divergent Hunger Games Emergency.
Media trumpet producing endearings,
(lipstick on a Pig) for their Rat King,
(as on a White Horse)
as we grow too Sheepish to speak out, too pale
and timid to spell out their obvious course,
to vomit our rejection as diseased
as we are enslaved
under cells and convections and
tales intertwined, sanctioned throughout,
Stormgate's, leak, its Codex toothed, overreaching security breach.
Never again will we be as we were,
neVer to take flight,
or steer our own course again in our own
atmosphere.
The Mandate is clear, the Score
is reported by message board monitors
of the process, onboard,
onboarding for the Beast System processors,
riding People, herding, coral carolling
to Lucifer, sacrificial Sheeple in a transitional
Rat Race, vermen looking through peepholes.
The Piper's progress is polaroided in twain,
kodachrome rolls back the esteem, smiles of the insane, back of the head, peace sign.
Shut wide eyes rolling white for dead retina scan mouth foamed enrapture
Signature erasure brain panned for fools gold,
sold out, captured souls,(devout).
Recorders in tow, changing how the wikiwind blows,
how counts voted by Moderator,
gestapo teams, Bon Appetit, Virtual Travel, Vogue, Akinator, Mad Magazine.
(Needle in the Aperture bobbin tattoo
BuckarooBonzai glass saddles and shoes.)
Laser id suture chip sewn in diodes
of TripleBeam Barley, Wheat, Triplesec, meat...
Meta threads to breadcrumb gumshoe private dick heads, treads of
sleuth your every thought and intent, move.
Passenger monitoring, the acceptable temperature, moderate beautiful soup lukewarm chum
to taste an ode to the pasts vernacular
naked lunch humble pie shoots
in the face gruel,
heckler
of riding the storm out without Jesus, fools-Spectacular.
A mind inquisitive will find
while looking out upon the world
that myriads of whys unwind
from raveled webs in queries whirled
by skies above and realms below.
There’s always more than we can know.
If contemplating mysteries
of life’s existence here in space
along with astro-histories
within our cosmical embrace,
the awe one feels will surely show.
There’s always more than we can know.
In famous drama by the Bard,
where Ghost is spotted ‘wondrous strange‘
by castle sentries standing guard,
mid ‘sworn to secrecy’ exchange,
says Hamlet to Horatio,
‘There’s more than you can dream to know
‘on earth in heaven, countless things
in your philosophy not taught.’
(And so begin misfortune’s slings.)
To summarize his gist of thought
in passage ever apropos:
There’s always more than we can know.
Some think that memorizing facts,
despite their changing through the years
as seen in how mankind reacts
when ruled by prejudice and fears,
amounts to understanding, though
there’s always more than we can know.
The gladiola in delight
will bloom as forces lure her on.
Bright stars o’er-sprinkle dark of night
but fade from sight with breaking dawn.
Thus Nature’s cycles come and go.
Yet there’s much more that we can know.
Vast marvels may await our gaze
beyond imagination’s ken
by polishing away the haze
to clear enlightened vision, then
shall fountains of deep wisdom flow…
There’s always more than we can know!
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
“The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day.”
~ Albert Einstein ~ ”Old Man’s Advice to Youth: ‘Never Lose a Holy Curiosity’” LIFE Magazine (2 May 1955) p. 64…
The poem is written in verse, having stanzas with refrain…
Inspiration was derived from various passages from The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, by William Shakespeare, in particular the following…
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
~ William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, 159–167
Because Her Heart Is Tender, for Beth
by Michael R. Burch
She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget”
dove-white on her car’s window (though the wren,
because its heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her). As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget!”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET!”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
(The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when nestlings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
love's reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.)
She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET!”
because her heart is tender with regret.
Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, Nietzsche Twilight, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International
Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.
Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.
Because her heart is tender
Jacob’s Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.
Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!
Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch
The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.
It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.
It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.
Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble,
just like getting sloshed in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.
Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.
Helen's brick house
was built by her grandpa James
with a specific design in mind:
the front black cross-windows
riminded one of Christ's sorrows;
when the off-white roll shades opened
the neighboors saw Helen wearing a rosette
on her blouse she herself had created
on a foot paddle sewing machine...
copying it off a Cosmopolitan magazine.
The porch's wood was cracked and faded
not a perfect dispay for begonias,
amaryllis, hydrangeas and roses
that Helen watered on drought days
to perserve them, never to be whitered
by a lack of rain when the grass yellowed.
A staircase led to her bedroom kind of mystique,
the queen bed was covered with macabre art linen sheets
and had a wrought-iron bedframe almost an antique;
often Helen heard whipers of folks who had lived
there, and she wondered if it was her imagination or dread:
" Dead people are harmelss, only living people harm others! "
No garden in that neighbohood was prittier than hers,
sweet Alyssum, purple Ageratum, white Alemone growing
under Japanese maples and strawberry trees so tempting
made it so harmonious and so lively that amazed others;
would it been complete without the merry warblings
of the canaries,of the mockingbirds and of the wrens?
The roof shingles needed replacement, they often fell down on piled logs,
and Helen stocked them up neately in a corner to save money later on;
her income was kind of low and expensive utility bills kept on coming in,
the pension her husband left her was spent on food, not on luxury goods.
When rain fell the front lawn and garden became fens able to transform
their loveliness, hundreds of leaves were left by the last tropical storm;
and Helen was saddened staring at the devastation of the lovely grass,
only the day before she got rid of those ugly weeds hiding the wild violets
and the crimson clove along the fence where birds built their nests...
I can imagine how helpless she felt seeing such devastation in minutes!
The faded timber door fought severe winters and they lasted night-long,
spring brought pleasant days, it stood open to greet their fragrance;
no thief invaded a house protected by good spirits and benevolence,
God was there and that made Helen feel at home where she belonged.