Long Must(a) Poems
Long Must(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Must(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Must(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
I wouldn't claim you weary me
For Muse, it's me, apparently
Here in the room, a faint perfume
Of dust, or must, a tinge of gloom
Thank you for the lovely talk
That we encountered on our walk
In the backyard to garden small
And viewed the sky above the wall
And truly, truly, oh my word!
Sweet serenades, that little bird!
It's so good to have you near
And share a bit of lovely cheer
You beside these past few days
I've sorrowed, mourned, delighted
Praised
It's so good you're here again
The gentle lifter of my pen
Man a yard help mi fi understand what a gwan in yuh ministry
A set them set yuh up ar' a lie yuh a tell bout yuh phone bill run up
Data... A wah that?
Over 8 million dollars, mi can't even tell yuh how mi disappointed inna yuh
Mi a live hand to mouth and yuh a give FLOW 8 million dollaz
Shake Mi head
Mi just eat piece a bread no money fi buy butter
No money fi pay fi the little one bedroom, over Portmore
Mi drink a glass a wata to wash dung the bread... Thank yuh Lord
Shake mi head
Life rough... Hand to mouth is how I live
8million could pay off fi mi little house and help Paul fi finish law school and yes, help Miss Brown with her cancer treatment
At 74 mi coulda stop sell newspaper.. 8 million dollarz... Them news people must a read wrong... 8 million dollaz?
Mi disappointed in yuh man a yard, mi need fi hear what a gwan in a yuh ministry ar' a lie yuh tell
Mi nuh understand this data ting
Mi just know 8 million would help mi condition
Life rough... Hand to mouth is how I live
BONJOUR, MA CHÉRIE!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Val was a young French squirrel, a model quite chic
Who shopped at only high-end, fashion boutiques.
Clerks greeted her, “Bonjour, ma Chérie!
Vous avez l'air belle et aérée!”
“C'est vrai, mes peeps. Wearing Dior gives me a mystique.”
Val struck a pose, paparazzi's camera's flashed,
For being in the limelight she was unabashed.
With a slow turn and flick of her tail,
“You’ll find me trending 24/7, where ‘likes’ prevail!
Look how many followers on Insta I’ve amassed!”
But then the unthinkable happened~
A vile act, a digital fate that had Val saddened.
Poof! In an ‘instant,’ her ‘gram’ account vanished,
For which her digital famish could’nt be vanquished
“Oh woe is me! My heart can no longer be gladdened."
“Lord a mercy, you’ve been hacked!” her publicist did exclaim.
“Tell me, tell me! Who’s responsible for this digital pain?”
“Must ‘a been a hacktivist, a cyber punk perhaps.
Or….did you let your cyber protection app lapse?”
“Oh, no! Hastag #Bonjour,mypeeps, my digital claim to fame.”
*Note: "Instagram is an American photo and short-form video sharing social networking service owned by Meta Platforms. It allows users to upload media that can be edited with filters, be organized by hashtags, and be associated with a location via geographical tagging." (Source, Wikipedia)
Do Men Cry?
(A Paul Callus & Eileen Manassian collaboration)
Are men supposed to show their strength
denying doubts and fears?
Should they pretend to play it cool
concealing all their tears?
When things build up would weakness urge
temptation to give in;
should one betray signs of defeat
because of hurt within?
There is a line where macho ends,
it’s there for all to see.
The mask is ripped and make-up melts;
emotions are set free.
For men are at their strongest point
when they are free to cry.
Why must a man lose confidence
when tears spill from the eye?
For men in touch with feelings are
a treasure trove to find.
Each woman’s dream and deep desire’s
to find one of the kind!
A man who’s strong enough to show
he has a caring side...
well, such a man is sure to be
a woman’s joy and pride.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Are men supposed to show their strength
denying doubts and fears?
Should they pretend to play it cool
concealing all their tears?
When things build up would weakness urge
temptation to give in;
should one betray signs of defeat
because of hurt within?
There is a line where macho ends,
it’s there for all to see.
The mask is ripped and make-up melts;
emotions are set free.
For men are at their strongest point
when they are free to cry.
Why must a man lose confidence
when tears spill from the eye?
For men in touch with feelings are
a treasure trove to find.
Each woman’s dream and deep desire’s
to find one of the kind!
A man who’s strong enough to show
he has a caring side...
well, such a man is sure to be
a woman’s joy and pride.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Collaboration between Paul Callus and Eileen Manassian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The tricky question of how many animal farms we have
May be more complicated than most of us think;
There are at least some fifty-five animal farms in the world
Where wild mammals play and eat and drink.
And although there lightning is feared more than law,
These farms all seem to have the selfsame collective code.
Since different from the mainstream law, we may call it lore:
The silent cipher that governs the primitive farms.
There everyone is entitled to their share of breath
As long as they breathe within their native home,
Breathing within the territories of other beasts
Wins you mob lynching according to the animal tome.
No animal may acquire such vast knowledge
As to threaten the rule of the Elephant and the Lion.
The acquisition of illegal learning only leads
To the doom Artemis wreaked on the restless Orion.
There you must not shout of forbidden things
Such as animal rights and equality of beasts oppressed;
For it is clearly stated by the immutable silent code
That some mandrills are more equal than the rest.
A beast of worth begets offspring of the same worth;
If a beast be an outcast born, the same must a pariah remain.
No animal may rise from the bottom to the aristocratic realm:
No beast must such thoughts of improvement entertain.
The lore of the mandrills is not lean,
As said, these codes make a huge-volume tome
Which you can’t leaf through in a day,
Though you may get a copy and read at home.
Yet the problem is that censorship there is tough
And as such the lore has never been put in print;
The few Cheetahs who championed for a free press
Were one by one snuffed without a hint.
Why stone the sparrow as she sings
To silence her with broken wings
The gentle creature knows no hate
So cast no stones, it’s not too late
Though feathered of a different score
Her song desires just to soar
To live and let love bears no cost
And nothing to avail is lost
Why stone the sparrow as she flies
So sad whenever something dies
Created by a love divine
As life is meant to thrive and shine
There must a place be, to remain
Where all can sing in sweet refrain
So sing, oh sparrow, never cease
To sing your hopeful song of peace
Though fate appears a riddle yet unsolved,
Its edges blurred, its pieces hid from view,
By Nature’s grace my worldly needs resolved,
Her gifts like morning rain, both rich and true.
Yet in my heart love’s branches twist and break,
A garden bright but strangely bare of bloom;
Misread affections, words we can’t remake,
Bring shadows creeping through my inner room.
Some pattern weaves itself, unseen, unkind,
A cycle spun of silence, doubt, and fear;
And though my cup is full, it leaves behind
An echo where love’s music should appear.
If heaven grants me every other part,
Why must a puzzle still divide my heart?
Why must a leader, I wonder, in the whisper of thoughts flowing like a river,
make you follow them, crawling through the dust of doubts,
in a silent revolt on the body of generous dreams,
for the captain has left the soul sinking in deep waters.
Every word carries a story, an image of a double-edged sword,
that splits truth from lie, cutting illusions with precision,
if you can cut, cut and believe, even in what is wrong,
for sometimes mistakes hide lessons in their deep shadows.
The clowns have turned yellow under the tiring lights of the circus,
led by the words of strange allies of convenience,
and the deep meaning is nothing more than a shallow depth,
a paradox in which we lose ourselves, seeking the truth.
I ask if time will ever tell the truth so we can move on,
for eternity lies just beyond the shadow,
where hearts find peace and echo,
where time becomes a journey towards light.
Touch the source, the heart where it all begins, drowned in an ocean of words,
where silence speaks first, revealing the hidden essence,
they never truly say what it means to thirst,
to ardently seek the root hidden in the depths.
But I will reach the truth, emerging from the jungle of illusions,
to prove that I am the captain of my own joy,
to find trust in the hearts I touch,
for there lies the root of our true power.
For love, there is much left to say, true love leads us,
follow your heart to the pure light that embraces us,
it is divine to define our trust,
hands clasp in a peace only we create, a sanctuary of souls.
I was born to be a writer-
It just came to me quite young,
and even sometimes, I am a songwriter.
Since the beginning words have sprung,
I never realized words would shatter my heart;
that my own words would make me fall apart,
and that I would in time consider my writing art.
And that rejection would be a dagger to my soul.
I never knew how hard it was to reach my goal;
I shoulda read the fine print for the sinkhole.
Why must a writer suffer so much?
I pour out my soul with weeping tears.
Oh, why to a pen at night do I clutch?
And send my poems on wings with fears.
And each new poem I press to my chest,
I must admit at times my words make me depressed;
and for this poetry writer there is no rest.
I must, must write the chatter in my head,
I must follow the theme and the thread;
the terms and conditions of a writer I shoulda read.
______________________
January 18, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/Born To Be A Writer
Copyright Protected, ID 9835-30-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, shoulda read the fine print 2
sponsor, John Lawless
Eighth Place