Long Main Poems
Long Main Poems. Below are the most popular long Main by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Main poems by poem length and keyword.
SHINE ON DARLING MORNING LIGHT
Shine on darling, right;
Morning you're light;
Burgundy beautiful woman
Passionate are you my flower;
Purposely I shall plant in my heart forever;
Your crimson surpasses my desires;
I am enthralled by your fires;
Burning effortlessly ever bright;
now it's ten hours later....
I walk onto the porch at dusk;
Holding your hand together we must;
Sit out doors under the street lights;
Shine on ever so bright, this is so right;
Me being here tonight;
To watch your brillants, see you shine;
Oh, my darling you are ever so mine;
Shine on darling, shine alas the sun's setting, it's getting dark;
it's dusk...
Shine on darling dusk;
Holding yur hand together we must;
(FRENCH VERSE)
BRILLER SUR LA LUMIÈRE DE DARLING MATIN
Brille sur ma chérie, à droite;
Matin tu es léger;
Bourgogne belle femme
Passionné es-tu ma fleur?
Je planterai volontairement dans mon coeur pour toujours;
Votre pourpre dépasse mes désirs;
Je suis captivé par vos feux;
Brûlant sans effort jamais brillant;
maintenant c'est dix heures plus tard ....
Je marche sur le porche au crépuscule;
En tenant votre main ensemble nous devons;
Asseyez-vous les portes sous les réverbères;
Brille toujours si brillant, c'est si juste;
Moi étant ici ce soir;
Pour regarder vos brillants, voyez-vous briller;
Oh, ma chérie, tu es toujours si mienne;
Brille sur ma chérie, brille hélas le coucher du soleil, il commence à faire sombre;
c'est le crépuscule ...
Brille sur le crépuscule chéri;
Tenant votre main ensemble nous devons;
4/3/18
by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
THE SHOOTING BEGAN ON CLANCY STREET
BY DIXIE'S BAR
WHERE THE SWELLS ALL MEET
THE PLAN WAS TO GET THE CASH
GET OUT CLEAN AND MAKE THE DASH
BUT THINGS DIDN’T GO ACCORDING TO PLAN
SOME RAT TALKED AND TOLD THE MAN
TALKED TO MUCH AND THEN GOT DRUNK
AND NOW THE DEAL WAS SURELY SUNK
BENNY THE BLADE WAS DRIVING THE CAR
AND HE PUT THE HAMMER DOWN
THE ENGINE REVVED UP BUT DIDN’T GET FAR
CAUSE THE COPS WERE SOON AROUND
THE COPS YELLED OUT FOR ALL TO FREEZE
AN ORDER THEY ALL WOULD IGNORE
THE GUNS STARTED BLAZING
THE HELL THEY WERE RAISING
LOADING UP AND SHOOTING SOME MORE
LOUIE THE LIP WAS IN THE CAR
WHEN THE SHOOT-OUT WAS GOING DOWN
HIS BODY WAS TAKING ROUND AFTER ROUND
SO YOU KNOW HE DIDN’T GET FAR
LOUIE’S MAIN SQUEEZE WAS ON HER KNEES
WITH HER HEAD GLUED TO THE FLOOR
SCREAMING OUT AGAIN AND AGAIN
NO MORE, NO MORE, NO MORE
OFFICER TIM WAS HIT IN THE LIMB
CAUSE BENNY WAS BLASTING AWAY
BUT THE WOUND WASN’T BAD
WHICH MADE THE MAN GLAD
THAT HE’D LIVE TO THE END OF THE DAY
IGGIE THE DEALER WAS IN THE TRUNK
WHEN THE BULLETS WENT PLUNK, PLUNK, PLUNK
HE ENDED UP DEAD WITH A HEAD FULL OF LEAD
THE COST FOR SELLING HIS JUNK
OFFICER BROWN FELL DOWN TO THE GROUND
AND HIS SHOTS ALL WENT ASTRAY
BUT AS IT TURNED OUT
THE BULLETS RAN OUT
AND THE GANG HAD TO GIVE UP THE DAY
WELL THE GUN BATTLE ENDED
WITH THE GANG APPREHENDED
WHAT WAS LEFT TO LIVE THROUGH THAT DAY
IT WAS OFF TO THE CAN AS JUDGED BY THE MAN
TO PROVE THAT CRIME DOESN’T PAY
Some pretty brown birds nesting on a tree
Prank frequently at my other room balcony
Apparently, they were once the main culprits
Of messing it up, bringing a variety of leaves and twigs
They also build thin nests behind my air conditioner
When an egg drops, they may reckon I’m aborting their daughter
One day, I wondered what had sprouted on the floor
At a grimy nook, not quite far from my door
When I looked closely, I was so skeptical
It was a great masterpiece of these clever winged pals
I was so certain that it was not a moss or a grass
But a vine bearing flowers with pretty purple petals
After a week, it revealed exuberantly itself
A lush vine of string beans, I didn’t sow by myself
Was it dropped by those birds or sowed by an invisible elf?
Oh, if it has grown taller than my room, I must have cried for help!
As it crawled and climbed up to the balcony wall
In fascination, I deigned not to ask questions anymore
It climbed up freely to a wall’s faucet as its sturdy trellis
And feasts proudly, spreading its huge and verdant leaves
In tandem was the bearing of its long string bean fruits
Heavily laden, their numbers had no hints – that was a bird’s hoot
I harvested thrice while my smiles were all in glints
And had a delicious vegie salad twice from my lovely magic bean
My last harvest was meant for the next crops
I took all beans from the fruits just for drying up
The brilliant brown birds will no longer need to drop
New seedlings from their magic beans are now growing in pots
I thanked those kind creatures for the magic beans they’ve given
Growing them in my concrete room balcony was like a dream
It wasn’t a fairytale at all, I’ve already given myself a pinch
And my balcony even magically turned into a mini vegie garden
Jan. 31,2015 11.15pm
By: LG
-This is a true story: an experience last July, 2014
First Place
Contest: Magic Beans
Judged: 2/14/2015
Sponsor: My all time favourite and loving poet sis, PD
(The Appian Way was the main highway leading south
from ancient Rome. It still exists today, and is a beautiful
stretch of peaceful, traffic-free road, surrounded by Roman
tombs and umbrella pines. The following is my English
version of a sonnet by the Italian poet, Alfonso Gatto.)
Night everlasting scurries to the trees
in silence. Cold, the roadway mourns its dead,
who lie in these green verges. Sounds have fled
through air which is harmonious, at ease.
As dawn comes up, the far blue Alban Hills
swim into view through slender cypresses,
and water gurgles in its sad recesses.
Sweet place to sleep, despite the morning chills.
Here, breathe in the sweep of history.
Just ponder who has passed along these stones!
The white wind thrumming from the Tyrrhenian Sea
blows dry from Africa, exposing bones
of senators and slaves. This sacred ground
feels special, with so many dead around.
WHERE WERE YOU IN THE SEVENTIES
i was between a tween and adult, in the house of the hudson valley,
and music was my main man,
i would hear whispered in my ear
me and mrs. jones...we got a thing goin’ on
and i would rock to sleep
don’t rock the boat...don’t knock the boat over
dress in a low cut purple dress, and look for mr. goodbar
or what i meant to say mr. travolta
in the dizzying display of disco, having a ball.
really i was just a shy nerd in a dress
you say i was a dancing queen...only seventeen...oh yeah
and i did have saturday night fever
and with the death of several classmates, not in shootings, but illness
and the usual car accidents...radio groans all we are is dust in the wind
after heartbreak of loss via death and puppy love
i did not sign the loan to return to college, went on to,
as i used to say “swab the seven corners of the room”
as the village people and my dad directed me to
in the navy...you will sail the seven seas...in the navy…
you will put your life at ease...bootcamp saw the end of 1979
2/27/2018
Line Gauthier’s Poetry Contest
*Lyrics may be slightly changed
Me and Mrs. Jones by Billy Paul
Rock The Boat by The Hues Corporation
Movie: Looking For Mr. Goodbar
Dancing Queen by Abba
Movie: Saturday Night Fever
Dust in the Wind by Kansas
Puppy Love by Donny Osmond (still swooning over
this song from the sixties)
In The Navy by Village People
The vessel had travelled through space for so long
Two armageddons had come and had gone
Nuclear warfare had first come to pass
The asteroid followed and kicked the Earth’s ass
Each was foreseen and the ruling machine
Built a craft for an escape quick and clean
Leaders and medics and scholars selected
Plain simple folk, if they tried, were ejected
Each man and woman aboard had a bed
And tubes in their torso and probes in their head
They slept like the dead with their vitals held steady
On a circular trip until Earth was deemed ready
One thousand years passed and they started to wake
The ship’s console lit and engaged the main brake
The President of the U.S. watched the screen
The leader of Russia seemed equally keen
So now it was time to rebuild a new Earth
A chance to give this ravaged world a new birth
The leaders of nations that once were enraged
Chose men to converse and be fully engaged
*
At this point I ask if I may interject
It would be quite easy to be circumspect
In all of man’s history there’s been no chance
To get warring leaders to dance the same dance
*
So man has the power to build Earth again
It’s there to be grasped by significant men
One said It’s great, really great, but, fake news
One had a syringe… he was ready to use
After checking the Sears and Roebuck and Montgomery Wards catalogs until their pages were torn and faded, we took one last look at the sales ads in the local newspaper, donned our socks and sandal, and jumped into the station wagon to head out to that brand new shopping place called ‘The Mall’. Wheee doggies it was something. That joint was a jumpin’. It was cool and hip and out of sight. I mean it was really far out man. The mall had everything you could imagine, all in one building. There was store after store jam-packed with VCRs, rotary dial phones, cassette tapes, console TVs, One-Hour Photo, Blockbuster, and Toy’s-R-Us. It seemed like they had everything under the sun ready for a layaway plan.
After paying for the purchases with paper checks written in cursive, we’d head on down to the food court or the all-you-can-eat buffet for lunch. We’d sit on the red plastic-covered chairs and light up a couple of Kents, Chesterfields, Viceroys, Virginia Slims, or maybe some Lucky Strikes. We’d take a couple of pictures with our trusty Polaroid to commemorate the day by adding them to the family photo album. At the end of the day, the kids would jump into the back of the station wagon for a nap while we drove the two-hour-long trip back home. It was a good thing we only had to stop for gas once because, after all that shopping and eating, I only had two dollars left from the fifty we started out with. Seems like the high cost of just living is one thing that will never die.
On Main street’s sidewalks,
the store sign say they are closed,
is Christmas canceled.
Traditional poetry has rhyme and metre
Which determines the way it is composed
These features make it a simple matter
In distinguishing such poetry from prose
A lot of writing now is in free verse
Where the main focus is on the content
The thing that now really matters the most
Is true capture of the poet's intent
Some free verse strive for a sense of metre
By carefully managing line layout
Some focus on painting a word picture
For that's what their poetry is all about
Prose rich in sentiment and imagery
Can also be rewritten as free verse
Would it then be described as prose poetry
Or should it be labelled poetic prose
What new poetry forms will the future grow
It's time alone that will give the answer
For poets may come and poets may go
But poetry shall continue forever
As a child, growing up, most of the poems I learned at school were of the traditional type. Memorizing and reciting them, which I enjoyed, were part of the learning exercise. Free verse, a modern form of poetry, was a new experience for me. Over the years, I jotted down some of my thoughts on things, especially, on Nature topics. I always considered such writings to be prose.
It was only after I learned of free verse, that I saw that they could also be viewed as poetry with a slight variation in the line layout to create a sense of metre. I referred to such writing as poetic prose and labelled some of my earlier poems as such.
In life’s fierce storms, I stand, my heart’s own mission,
No wound can pierce me without my permission.
The world may rage, its arrows sharp and swift,
Yet I decide if pain gains my admission.
Words like daggers, thrown with cruel intent,
Fall harmless when denied my heart’s submission.
For I am sovereign of my soul’s domain,
No trespasser can breach without volition.
The scars I bear are marks of battles fought,
But none can claim they won without condition.
In love and loss, in joy and bitter strife,
I hold the key—no hurt without decision.
So let them come, with all their might and main,
I am the gate; I grant or bar admission.
For in this truth, my spirit finds its peace:
No one can hurt me without my permission.
It was morning when my cat Fluffy
meowed a warning . . .
for on our porch was a stray cat
his tabby fur a tattered mess
eyes so sad ~ that they spoke to me . . .
and they broke my heart
oh, how he growled and hissed
too late-
for my very soul had been kissed
and each day "Grumpy Cat"
was on my porch waiting
yet, I could not catch him
and that was very frustrating_
I started writing short stories
'cause he was such a character
(I finally caught him)
my nephew was young and loved them
the titles were things like~
Grumpy Finds A Home
Grumpy Gets A Bath
Grumpy Goes to the Vet
Grumpy Follows Me To The Bus Stop
and many more . . .
they were written in the moment about
the antics of Grumpy Old Cat
the stories were funny and delightful
but something horrible happened . . . .
Grumpy suddenly died
I had grown to love him so much
I cried for a long time (still do)
and in a moment of deep sorrow
I could no longer keep the stories
so, I destroyed them, even the last
unfinished one
I realize now that it was a big mistake
I have tried to re-create them
but without the main goofy character
it is impossible to go back in time
so, in the end
Grumpy's stories have no ending
for . . . the last page is missing -