Long Notepad Poems
Long Notepad Poems. Below are the most popular long Notepad by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Notepad poems by poem length and keyword.
Popular Mozart melodies are playing on a low loop.
Five people tense as a clinic nurse
calls us in or leaves us hanging.
I know the drill,
she’ll lead me reluctantly to the scales,
the usual sighs of ritual humiliation;
“Are you 6 foot” she inquires
looking at the chart skeptically.
I don’t tell her that for the last 10 years
I have been shrinking while my bull neck
sinks lower, torpedoed by a laptop navy.
In the Doctors examination room
I slump worry and hum.
I know I will be there for a while,
long enough for me to scribble this poem down
in a dollar store notepad.
Back home I will spell-check every other word -
my mind was on a lump in my gullet.
After much examination
the doctor declared that I have a bone in my throat
one unknown to medical science;
at first she thought it might be a chicken bone
but it waggles only when I talk
and spins when I write.
Apparently there are strings attached to it,
something is pulling at that little bone.
When x-rayed it dances a jig
as if to entertain.
I’m still waiting for a second opinion
though I must admit I am enjoying
being the unidentified voice
of my muses little pinky bone.
Why do some poets write so good?
I, for one, only wish I could.
You know - be all clever and stuff,
My words? Well, they’re not clever enough.
I read their poems, shaking my head,
It’s time I did something else instead.
They just have a way, seemingly written with ease,
Whilst I stare at my notepad, only to freeze.
There’s the romantic crowd, nah that’s not me,
The clever poets who write only in ‘free’,
Those who write ballade, haiku or shape!
I write only in rhyme from which I cannot escape.
The more poems I read, the more desperate I get,
My poems? Well, let us best forget,
For I’ll not be a Wordsworth, a Kipling or Burns,
No matter the depth of my own concerns.
In the quagmire ooze of daily trudge,
where the mire of monotony
clings cold, congealed in sorrow,
it takes only a spark of inspiration,
to transform an ordinary morsel
into a shimmering taste of sheer joy.
Echoes that entices, suffices.
I carry my sample bag handy,
stocked with my pet peeves in reverse.
Tiny things that you take time
to notice, and create space for,
that bring gemstones of joy shining:
The smell of rain, with storm's first drops.
The wispy waft of coffee, freshly brewed.
A rare bird sighted or heard, out of season.
A few chords of a beloved song.
Warm socks from the dryer.
A wink, glace, a tiny half-backed smile.
First touch of warm hands.
Fresh bread from the oven.
Noticing my things I placed in extraordinary ways.
A doodle scribbled on my notepad
Inspiring word or phrases recorded.
Doing things at half-speed, to spool like honey.
In all these little ways on long days
these echoes entice, suffice.
It’s drawn on the back of a stained notepad ,
On a brown worn, torn paper leaf,
It’s drawn in pencil, that’d broken in half,
Showing the pain, the trouble and grief,
Showing years of tired hurt wounds,
Pushing out from the fear,
This drawing of what she owns inside her mind,
Smudged to vague, makes it clear,
That her smile is a vending machine,
A fabricated forgery, a fake,
Sent to conceal her pain away from the robots,
It hides her dazed blind ache,
And still, she paints her lips to a smile,
She paints to hide the sad,
The sad that can only be seen when it’s drawn,
All over the back of a pad.
the first time that we saw him
we were worried for his health
he was sat upon a seat nearby
and talking to himself
his fingernails were broken
like his unconnected speech
and he spoke of really nothing
as he stared towards the beach
the next time that we saw him
he was stroking a stray cat
whose paws were hid beneath its fur
right where the stressed man sat
my wife first smiled then spoke to him
and asked him how things were
he was worried that his wife was ill
and sad he didn't care
the last time that we saw him
his whole head was in his hands
we were sitting on those seats again
across from Margate sands
beside him was a notepad
dated 1921
he stood up from his seat and then
half smiled and then was gone
we read what he had written
on that pad he left behind:
these words of hope then hoplessness
reflect my state of mind.
~ ~ ~
"On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing."
(T.S. Eliot / "The Waste Land")
My poems can be written straight from my heart
So I ensure my notepad and pen are never far apart
I’ll write humourous lines on a fun situation
Or on disastrous events, which affect a whole nation
I get inspiration from everything that’s around me
I’ll try and describe it as best I can in my poetry
A stunning sunrise painted as if by Monet’s brush
Hearing the tuneful twitter of the morning song thrush
The patchwork quilt of colour on the autumn hills
Seeing motorbike races with its thrills and spills
Watching a tiny baby sleeping so peacefully
Or moonlight dancing on a silvery sea
Listening to beautiful love song on the radio
This can evoke memories from so long ago
The death of those who were once in my life
Of good times and bad, life issues and strife
Some poems are fact, although many are fiction
But I’ve found poetry has become my addiction
What inspires me to write poetry
Sponsored by Julie Rodeheaver
09-04-17
I look at you, you're like the sun
You warm my face, see you're the one
Who makes me smile like no one can
And to this day I recall when
The first time was I saw you sing
'Twas then my winter turned to spring
Such beauty up there on the stage
Since then I've read you page by page
To get an understanding of
What makes you you, and then came love
That blossomed from the dreams I've had
Of you and I, my mind's notepad
Is filled with poems tried and true
And most I post, a way for you
To read about my deepest thoughts,
To know for sure it's you I've sought
I keep this tucked away inside
My love for you is far and wide
It covers every street I cross
I tell you uno, you tell me dos
You know I know, I know you know
But I still like to tell you so...ILU
I pick up my notepad and find a sharp pencil
(Hope any comments won’t be too detrimental)
I scan the contest themes and hope I’m inspired
I’ll enter an old poem if I’m just too darn tired
I post my ‘best effort’ and hope that I win …
Yet ANOTHER N/A so I start hitting the gin!
With tears in my eyes I soup mail all my friends
There’ll be a ‘screwed contest’, will that pay dividends?
I finish the bottle, then scan the 'best new poems list'
My poem’s ‘pisadeered’, how my eyes start to mist
My masterpiece isn’t there - where has it gone?
It’s been cast into the realms of total oblivion
My eyes are now closing, I’m too sozzled to write
It’s well after midnight so I’ll bid you goodnight ....
I wake in the morning, dash to check all the lists ...
but with all the moaning on blogs… they no longer exist!
Inspired by Jerry T Curtis's POTD
07~25~16
I wonder what goes on
In her life
Could she ever understand
What I'm going through
Not just understand
But feel what
I feel
She's so calm
When I'm dying
Right in front of her
She keeps the best
Poker face
When all I want
Is to see some emotion
Something so I won't
Feel so alone
While I try to explain to her
Something I'm still
Trying to explain to
Myself
I'm a widow to
happiness
And I'm just
Trying to conceive
A little bit
Of joy
But I'm suffocating
In my depression
And I just wished
She understood
Me more
I bet if I died
Right now she'd still
Ask if I were okay
And as she sat there
Writing meaningless
Notes in her notepad
I wondered
What goes on
In her life
Sadly my days go
On to whomever has the next low?
Where have my days gone?
Perhaps in a fools eyes
I was once here forever
Will you comfort me?
Be with me, as your thoughts hug this letter
Cold water wishing, lonesome shrugs
I’ll never miss this weather
Black buttons
The kisses that hiss from your sweater
Across from reality
Fallen to my stubborn acts pf bliss
Upon my cupboard
My notepad lacks the common flaws we miss
Off in a smitten fortress
Our summer means, beam hidden
The colder it gets as we lead May
Lost and in-depth, I need say
I wonder if my days go home
On to whomever has the next low?
Where have my days gone?
Here lately, sadly my days go
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