Long Match Poems
Long Match Poems. Below are the most popular long Match by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Match poems by poem length and keyword.
The image of the letters of Déjà Vu
Tells it true.
The eyebrows of the 'e' and 'a'
cast a frown, with the 'j' the snotty nose in between.
Its the face of a frown, not a smile.
For Déjà Vu stirs the heart with wishful view.
With a canvas painted by a hopeful mind,
waiting for 'match-up' to gel and bind
links to the past, on a dead-pan bridge to the future.
Providing supposed certainty, sense and purpose,
rather than what chaos disgorges
as fate and destiny re-written,
by flaps of butterfly wings.
For Déjà Vu
is a tricky, deceptive, perpetual lier,
that begs to lead you astray
with its endless declension to past tense
tainting the present with has-been conspiracy theories,
collated in albums of recollections
dusty, vague and worn-out.....
Behind the polished brass and red cedar
She lifts the florescent bottles and glasses
At her own classy pace
She’s earned that right by now
I understand well
Her beauty a galaxy
Bundled in dark space of the Miami hotel bar
She’ll not be rushed
To chop blend mix slice our Moscow Mules
Folds her arms
Reads the mantle of faces like unfinished portraits
Propped to her easel of cleavage
Makes me read her mind
I like the game
I think she does too
She’s heard a dirty poet’s lonely old thoughts
A thousand times over
At least lust pays attention
Tips well
Passes the night time game of shells
My eyes sit on elbows
Following her Brazilian-French silhouette
Like wind atop the Eifel Tower
Mardi Gras in Sau Paulo
I’d like her to take my hand
For a long autumn walk
To find Jim Morrison’s grave in Pere Lachaise
Ask her name
Strike it like a match
Steal the bourbon
Left on the Lizard King’s sad defiled headstone
Ask her what she really thinks.
There're rolling pins in heaven
oh, there must surely be
For Grandma was a baker
she often baked for me
Double Chocolate layer cake
Orange and Buttercream
Meringue atop a Lemon pie
to decorate a dream
Her Fruitcake for a holiday
would summon family taste
Especially Aunt Ethel’s
who worried for her waist
And speaking of Aunt Ethel
who’s also up above
Her Cherry Pies and Cup Cakes
left nothing not to love
It was a competition
a “Cake off”, “Bake off” match
If one came out lop-sided
must not have been from “scratch”
There’re rolling pins in heaven
they’re baking up a storm
I think, when I hear thunder
“Just keep my Muffins warm”
Iambic Pentameter, a long name for a poetic form
that's popular. It does resemble basic normal speech
with cadences that flow with ups and downs.
This cadence marches to the count of feet; just five
per line makes up the rhythmic flow. But, fore and
aft those special beats of five, an unstressed count
falls in between each one that's stressed.
Ten syllables, five stressed and five unstressed, makes
up each line. But still another rule, line one and three
must match their ending sound; lines two and four,
with different words, must rhyme together too.
Here's how Iambic Pentameter flows with ups and down:
da DA da DA da DA da DA da DA
The cadence's pleasant to the human ear; just need to
chose your syllables real well.
Iambic forms are special tools for me;
their rhythmic patterns mold words into shape.
Like guarded gates, they hold the imagery
and keep it tight so it does not escape.
The strict iambic forms do challenge me;
strong rhyme and meter shape my poetry.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Reads Like Music - Haibun Look
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Judged: 08/05/2018
“Forevermore- a little white lie-
but its intention will make you sigh!”
__ by Poet
Forevermore- a view of commitment
to be given or expected to earn;
a goal that is weighted with endless time-
as irrevocably, once and for all.
Decisively, for always, and for keeps,
henceforth, eternally, ever after,
until hell freezes over, and beyond-
totally, unfading, without an end.
This means never say never, at random,
occasionally, or from time to time,
not ever, sometimes, provisionally,
once in a while, for a moment, pro tem.
Forevermore- a term that is weighted
as a commitment which will never cease!
Though it cannot match the lengthy promise-
soothes the hearts of both giver and taker.
Our expectations rarely match
Reality, it seems,
For it’s not possible to snatch
The dazzle of our dreams.
The same applies to dreaded fears
Which cloud a coming date.
The truth, when it at last appears,
Proves we can’t speculate
About what hasn’t yet occurred;
Such attitudes waste time.
Our future’s either dark or blurred
And changes on a dime.
So whether outcomes fall quite short
Or drastically exceed
Whatever we’d envisioned
What is always guaranteed
Is that no one ever knows for sure,
Including every sage,
If our hopes or fears are premature,
Until we turn the page.
I'm stuck.
I have this urge,
this really deep urge in my bones,
to write.
Something poetic.
But nothing sounds good.
Not even the free verse,
and I know what I want this piece to sound like,
But the words won't bend to match the noise.
And I have all this inspiration that's just stuck,
Like some bird in a cage in my chest.
And I don't know how to unlock that cage.
And when I manage,
I just,
I don't know where to start and I get lost.
It's like all this world building,
and inspiration and,
creativity just dies.
And the pen won't move.
And I'm stuck with a blank page.
It's...
Majestic.
I suppose,
It's like poetry if it was a sound,
It's slow and marching
But it picks up
And it's like..
When the clouds part in this circle
And light filters through,
Like in movies.
And it's this nostalgic feeling
That makes you want to follow along.
Like you're watching something progress,
from a crawl to a run.
And I try to let go of it,
But it drags me deeper.
And I know I'm trying too hard,
but it doesn't seem like it it'll come out if I stop anyways,
And i know i want it so badly.
I want it to decorate my blank page
And give meaning to my pen.
He promises to care to the extreme,
If I'd drink from His never-drying stream—
That I need no coin to purchase or strive,
For He said I was made to glow and thrive.
As time slithers, wants litter front and rear,
And hope keeps fading with each passing year.
He says I need not labour hard for bread,
Yet my field yields little—my soul starved, unfed.
But how can my feet reach that stream to drink,
When they are feeble, my soul on the brink?
Who feeds my lack when I've no means to pay?
Who'll ease my toil as my faith drifts astray?
Even the mountains have no mouth to sing—
From whence, then, comes the comfort their songs bring?
The hands of the trees are withered and still;
Their claps haven’t silenced the whispering hill.
How can I purge this doubt from my belief,
When I've sought the Lord in bloom and in grief?
I've called His name, but silence greets my cry—
His mercy seems to flee the more I try.
Are His thoughts too divine to match with mine,
And His ways beyond what I can define?
Or must I take long waiting as my fate,
Though even my bones have no strength to wait?
Yet nothing He pledges fails to come true—
On this firm ground, my hope is born anew.
Though frailty lingers and my strength is slight,
Grace rushes in—my dawn replaces night.
I found him slumped over his Remington No.5, no more "Elite Typing" for this poor fellow. His Fedora was on the floor beside him, flat as a pancake with a stilleto heel print in the centre of it. Other than a pair of McCalls boxers, he wasn't wearing anything. The "Besame Red Velvet Lipstick stain on his crotch, matched the color on the cigarette butts in the black ashtray on his desk. I noticed the ashtray was embosed with a logo from the stork club.
I had been to the Stork club a few times, it's over on 53rd street. Not the kinda place for an ordinary gumshoe like myself. This guy musta been a regular, there were match books all over the apartment. In a place like that you never know who you might bump into. I seen Frank there one time, he didn't give me a second look. I tried to get into the Snub room once but couldn't get past St. Peter, maybe he didn't like that I was wearing a single gold earing.
I did some calling around, it seems the poor chump was Vincent Scott, a rich banker from Hollywood. He had been about town with a Dorthy Lamour Wanabee. She had the attitude but was a bit lacking in the looks department. Mind you for a balding middle aged banker, she was probably the Cat's Ass. Rumor was that he was planning on leaving his wife and two kiddies. Judging by the two, one way tickets to Cuba in his desk drawer, plans were well under way. I guess that bullet hole in the center of Vincent's forehead kinda spoiled his plans.
Gender catch
MOM in short stands for Man of the Match,
POM a prize, female players may fetch.
Ye better careful be,
World's touchy, fidgety,
Be safe and concede no easy catch.
____________________________________
In today’s times one need be politically, gender correct, and correct in so many ways. A lady chairman is a chairperson. Never say actress; actor will do for both. Similarly in cricket, the counterpart of Man of the Match (MOM) is Player of the Match (POM). In today’s times, package matters more than contents. It is style, not substance; not just right, you must be seen to be right.
Happenings | 09.02.2017 |