Long Novelists Poems
Long Novelists Poems. Below are the most popular long Novelists by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Novelists poems by poem length and keyword.
Mike Bayles
Get Well Card from a Writers’ Group to a Friend in a Physical Rehab Unit
What is important is what we lay on the table.
Poems and stories we write find new life
on the third floor of the library in Muscatine.
We read our works, listen and make suggestions.
We argue and laugh, but we’re just trying to help
every writer make their work better.
each night
We are working or retired, poets and novelists
sharing our lives and points of view. We have
driven highways and city streets to be there.
Every third Tuesday of the month we sit at the table.
in quiet skies
You are the eldest, many books written
and every meeting we look to you.
We look for revelations and for how
the pieces speak to us. Works shared
bring us together.
a shining star
*Braided Haibun Form
They are raging with excitement; one is twerking. I ignore it.
Their voices are increasing in volume now, it is the weekend.
Enthusiasm keeps their spirits high; they are thrilled it is Friday.
Higher and higher their voices sing the joyful Friday afternoon song.
So many sounds from twenty-four excited fifth-graders.
Borderline shrieking; it is amazing to hear. I watch, thinking.
Future novelists are silent, organizing books in their heads.
Future screenwriters and poets are creating scenes in their minds.
The busiest ones are not the loudest and proudest.
They are not the ones twerking and shrieking.
They are the ones listening silently,
Studying and learning what human nature looks like.
Favourite Novelists
Of all the American writers I knew of
some favourites remain, like Theodore Dreiser.
John Dos Passos, John Steinbeck and
Ernest Hemingway. I mentioning him the last,
although I admired his writing, still does
immensely, he was a master, like Dos Passos,
in short sentences, but I disliked his theme
often about hunting and shooting, personally
I think he was a big softy never killed
A thing in his life. These days if I read a novel
I rarely do – lack of patience- I prefer
the way John Steinbeck wrote.
I`m thinking of writers using the English
language, I find some English writer like
Martin Amis practically unreadable as he
appears to need to impress
readers with his erudition; in all should know I sit
down and read I would prefer an American
novelist
Vivid scrolls,
in tantalising yarns,
fantastic that reveal,
exotic envelopes of vista,
that have me transfixed,
and transported,
my brown hazel eyed,
gladsone gaze,
oe’r lush depiction,
bold brushstroke of,
myriad science fiction,
vibrant character snapshots,
that dispel monotony,
douse mundane patterns,
gap-filler of trite,
vacuous daily plod,
as I clasp otherworld,
enchantment in a dash,
novelists who exude,
endowed flourish with,
pockets of fly plots,
misleading labyrinth,
convoluted and intricate,
shady, cagy, fly-by-night,
side routes veering off,
adding riddles shadowy,
step by echoe’d step,
in hair-raising soundscape,
rushes of exhilaration,
stoke and fire,
iridescent wonderland,
escape into mythic mists,
entwined flames of romance,
laced with sumptuous,
dream moon flotillas,
a swooning heart march past,
yet I bystander engrossed,
by segue after segue.
At this moment in time
There are moms giving birth,
While gravediggers shovel
A plot in the earth.
At this moment a plane
Is preparing to soar,
While a soldier’s blown up
In a far-away war.
At this moment some people
Confess all their sins,
While the gamblers assess
All their losses and wins.
There are folks who are sleeping
Or cooking or reading;
Shoplifters stealing
And knife victims bleeding.
Actors rehearsing and
Bar patrons drinking.
Cars crashing crazily;
Novelists thinking.
Knitters are knitting
And lovers embracing;
Criminals learn of
The sentence they’re facing.
Capture one moment
And measure the arc.
Everything happens –
The light and the dark.
Here in this moment
Some journey from home,
While I sit and ponder
And jot down this poem.
You must create, it's not for another,
your specious needs to delineate.
After decades, I, walking life's treacherous
highway with no God,
Thinking I was sufficient unto myself and
needed no spiritual prod!
My life had an empty, dark echo.
At times I felt dead, lying under rainy
sod.
Oh, how sorry I felt for myself!
This poet-clod!
The Bible, not for me!
I had poets, philosophers and novelists
aplenty.
To think I almost ended my days at
twenty?
Gives me more than shivers!
With my stomach pumped, an experience
you do not want.
So, find God as soon as you can!
The world is a dance macabre without
Him.
In a most colorful costume to draw you
away from Him and His Teachings.
Only He can bear your sorrows.
Not one of us knows what lies in
our tomorrows.
There is a place called Heaven!
And getting in, well, it's not
automatic.
Get off your knees and stop
worshipping the only the earth.
That may send you to a place,
of great misery and dearth.
"Do ask for His mercy and grace,
to find Him in a time of need!"
Hebrews 4:16
Stop being afraid of using His
name.
You may write fantastic poetry!
Ignoring His sacrifice, His Holy
Name, may bring you much
popularity.
And the price you pay?
Eternal pain and ignominy!
September 10, 2019
(A bit of fun for Thomas W. Case - I think he lives in Iowa)
Hawkeye pride burns bright in Iowa City,
the place where Tennessee Williams learned to curse.
Iowa City hosts the 4th of July, Iowa speedway race, unique perhaps
because the cars have to stay behind a tractor for the first 199 laps.
How polite are the people in Iowa City? I saw a news report where a man was mugged,
traumatic? Sure, but the man still remembered to say “Thank you” before the perp bugged.
There are over twenty-six churches here, people can be a bit pious and obnoxiously reflective.
There’s a Hawkeye infestation in Iowa City because of the university, classified as ‘moderately selective.’
Geographically, Iowa’s where the rolling plains meet a limestone rise.*
Did I mention that the bars close at 2am? A travesty in any serious drinker’s eyes.
Some noted authors came from Iowa City, the locals are proud of that and own it.
Most were playwrights and novelists, luckily, few of them turned out to be poets.
* whatever that is
note...
We’re in Paris (Peter and I) at the Régis oyster bar. We just polished off a dozen oysters (each) and we ordered "Plateau de fruits de mer" (a seafood platter) and they’re taking forEVER to bring it. Peter’s reading a book. “Mind if I.. ?” he’d asked. I looked at the cover, which read, "Heavy Quark Physics." ick.
So I pulled out my iPad and Thomas W. Case - a poet far above my station had, once again, lavished my latest piece “Brilliant and Wonderful,” (which I seriously doubted). But it inspired me to pen this (while we waited) - his poet page says he’s from Iowa. (5 minutes research on Iowa and 5 minutes to write.)
Ooo! Here comes our platter - bye!
The appearance of gentleness
shows many gracious ways
and this image of godly meekness
is being totally true to oneself;
it can't be stirred by rage,
or even irrational revenge:
indignation is an unthinkable bluff!
Do nobles often embrace folly?
Be it envy, betrail or debauchery,
they all fall into the pit of misery;
someone belonging to their bloodline got clever
and invented the trick of alchemy...
he imagined one sleeping when he was dead:
the transformation was grandly achieved,
the Veiled Christ was a showcase of grandeur!
Sculptors with chisels and hammers
create faces that are realistically divine;
they embody their own spirit on those faces
with expressions that exceed human beauty:
more than paintings they exude emotions.
Novelists write stories, poets write poems;
who hasn't memorized a specific line
written with cleverness and simplicity?
Are we engaged more in remote interaction
than in human emotions that spread affection?
Do we forget to give a hug in our rush for success
heading to a destination where dialogue is about affairs,
not realizing that we are trading our happiness,
for wealth, our temptation for holiness;
and all the permissive actions that transgress?
Do we see an end to obsessive and unyielding greediness?
Can we ignore the voice of irreversible trust,
and allow deafness to define our worthiness
turned into mindlessness not connected to emotions?
Never expect to be compensated by lust:
it's not a guaranteed way to feel good without resentment:
can we achieve glory without the virtue of our passions?
By the end of August or early September,
I'll be handed a pink slip, to keep my sanity:
I must be a quick thinker to help me see clearer;
many plans scribbled on my lineless pad:
good fortune and willingness are needed on my path,
and wouldn't this be the harshest test?
Here's my chance to try something new,
to grab the first thing which comes into view;
and stubborn and headstrong as I am, with this unchangeable vanity,
where the thoughts of uncertainty would lead me?
Expanding my horizons into the furthest blue,
sticking to impossible tasks and repeating the mistakes I can't undo;
sharing my concept with someone with a great insight,
should ease my worries and accomplish much!
Suggestions and hints, to advance into my endeavors,
I'll take from the literary greats and their struggles will entwin mine;
and reading successful stories of published poets and novelists,
will entice my excitement and show me that positivel sign!
Gather friends and let's discuss this matter further with sincere esteem,
your advice will bring a breath of fresh air to a stale room,
come and rescue me from the pit I have fallen into;
lay out your ideas and draw the map from which I will depart,
the longest jeourney I am willing and able to take,
despite the unseen perils, wonders and probable heartbreaks!
Who wouldn't follow his vocation and turn it into a most unbelievable dream?
Besides, being unrealistic and skeptical: I am expanding my horizons!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci