Long Novella Poems
Long Novella Poems. Below are the most popular long Novella by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Novella poems by poem length and keyword.
She was certainly the most beautiful woman I would ever see.
Not appearing to age at all, the young lady's name was Nefertiti.
As my guide, Nef gently took me by the hand.
I saw a beautiful town where anyone else would see just sand.
There were no children in the town, but the adults did not age.
This was a place where the book of time turned no page.
The redolence of orange groves permeated the desert air.
Residents went about their daily business without a care.
I have to return to this place where nobody has to die.
This is a huge task, but it is something I have to try.
based on the novella "Now and Forever, Somewhere a Band is Playing" by the late Ray Bradbury.
Underneath the red umbrella,
my Johnny stole a kiss from me,
so I felt like Cinderella,
for like a handsome prince was he.
Despite the cold, I melted when
underneath the red umbrella,
Johnny gazed into my eyes; then
whispered softly, “You’re my bella.”
Oh, the kiss from that sweet fellah!
Although the rain kept falling down,
underneath the red umbrella,
deep love is what would make me drown.
Romance cut short – though filled with bliss -
just didn't fill a novella.
Yet I cannot forget that kiss
underneath the red umbrella.
Nov. 7, 2018 for Eve Roper's Red Umbrella Poetry Contest
In the whisper of twilight, where shadows meet the edge of dreams,
Lies the truth of our times, a somber murmur carried by the wind of mediocrity.
Once, the soul soared with the ambition of stars; now, the commonplace mind,
Knowing itself to be mediocre, proclaims its right to mediocrity,
And imposes its dullness wherever it can.
Life, in its raw essence, is insipid—a mere act of "being there. "
Thus, for man, existence transforms into a poetic endeavor,
A task akin to that of the playwright or novelist:
To invent a narrative thread for his existence, to give it character,
Making it both suggestive and beguiling.
In the stillness of midnight, under the quilt of countless stars,
The mediocre soul may contemplate its right to mediocrity,
Spreading its mundane essence across the tapestry of time.
And yet, in this silent rebellion, a melancholic magic awakens, weaving truths into metaphors.
Man, that being wrapped in thoughts and desires,
Finds the fabric of mere existence distasteful,
Turning to diversions as an essential art, a salvation from the void of simply being.
Thus, in the corridors of the mind, he creates unseen worlds,
Where every heartbeat whispers a symphony of purpose.
The commonplace mind may seek to impose its dull hue upon the vibrant canvas of life,
But the heart, in its secret chambers, remains an alchemist,
Turning leaden moments into golden narratives,
Inventing threads that shine with unseen light, characters that dance in the shadow of the mundane.
Serious examination reveals the existential melancholy,
The distaste for the unembellished universe, the thirst for something more.
Here, in the crucible of thoughts, we distill our dreams,
Creating a life both poetic and profound, beyond the mere act of "being there. "
For man, existence must transcend the assertion of the mediocre,
Must rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the ordinary,
Towards a realm where every breath is a verse, each moment a chapter,
In the endless novella of a soul's journey.
Thus, in the flux of consciousness, thoughts flow like rivers,
Carving new paths through the wilderness of the mind,
Where even the mediocre soul, in its quiet rebellion,
Might find a spark of the extraordinary,
Transforming existence from insipid to inspired,
From mere being to profound becoming.
To Dis a Ray
Tim felt prismatic and took off his polychrome Ray Bans
He had to revisit his novella and needed undistorted vision
To sort out gems from false gold and writer’s confusion
Had he really been so blinded with bands full of colour
Why were so few synonyms for variegations of rainbows
Was he too cheerful or flippant as an unredeemable scribe
The paper oozed with pots of gold and layers of colour
Chakras went up and down spines of meditation and joy
Jesters wore crowns and purple attire to rise from below
Clouds were made for the twilight of tranquil surrender
As he had to write all Peace in pastels on the fabric of hope
Was he really a utopian fantasist who shines through my pages
Repetitive maybe but the mist mixed with sunshine above
Droplets of kindness painted a picture of perfection’s illusion
He had to tweak it because even climbing roses had thorns
So many words in the canon and chorus of dreams and delight
Revising a story amounts will not hinder narration and license
Maybe he will just dis one ray from his tale and see how it goes
17th November 2019
(To be sang to the tune of "Cruella DeVil"
from Disney's 101 Dalmatians)
Novella DeVil. Novella DeVil.
She writes to humour,
To move and to thrill.
She stirs her readers feelings
With her Quill.
Novella. Novella.
She stirs her readers feelings
With her Quill.
Novella. Novella DeVil.
On the surface
She is quite a shy one.
Yet, through her works
She reaches out to you.
You'll look into her eyes
And you will wonder why
She's worn a cloak called "Fear"
Her whole life through!
The time will arrive
When she'll realise
The cloak doesn't shield her
But it cramps her style.
She'll throw away her fear
And she will shine.
Novella. Novella Devine.
Novella DeVil. Novella DeVil.
She writes to humour,
To move and to thrill.
She stirs her readers feelings
With her Quill.
Novella. Novella DeVil.
~Once upon a rhyme, many years ago~
a charm of wordsmiths gathered on an emerald mountain
took dreamy strolls on piney paths along its golden crown
dipped their wits and winsome in a pastel-painted lake
while sun and shadow played a game of enchanted charades.
The moon unchained a spray of applauding stars
from the muses' hearts, the gemstones gently flowed
like a rush of songs from a bevy of meadowlark
Shakespeare's ghost stirring just beyond the glow.
All the while the old poetess listened quietly
her novella etched in the eyes and beech bark hands
seeing things the green sprigs would never see
her cane tapping stardust into an empty hourglass...
The coals slipping silently into quiet blush
as sonnets wove seamlessly upon a sable brush.
A ruby-throated angel fanning poetic vows
sealing us to our muse in a jaded stand of boughs...
We bid farewell and made promises we'd never keep.
Carving our weighted hearts into the shag bark of memory.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While nibbling on French croissant so fine,
Audrey sipped coffee, feeling divine.
She struck a pose, twitched her chin,
The staff oohed, awed, gave a grin,
At bunny who dined with glamor and shine!
“Oh, daaaarlings,” she said with a flair,
“I’ll nibble on pink pearls, I swear!”
“I’m Holly Golightly,”
She said most contritely.
This dazzling bunny made Tiffany's rare!”
*"Breakfast at Tiffany's" is a 1961 romantic comedy film directed by Blake Edwards, starring Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly, a quirky socialite in New York City. The film is based on Truman Capote's novella and explores themes of love and identity. (Source: Wikipedia)
Some say you are lost
If you are not found
On their ground
Some think you are blind
If you do not find
What they find
I am an atheist who believes
The universe is a tapestry
Not a thread
The science to chart the stars
Is but a celestial church
That medicine and vaccines
Are answered prayers
That communities
Can save each other
That math and music
Language and learning
Rebuilding destruction
And regretting a wrong
Are inherent miracles
That to plant a tree
Water a garden
Kiss a scar
Soothe a bruise
Give a smile
Hug a sorrow
Cook a meal
Play a song
Clasp a hand
Bandage a cut
Wipe a tear
Hear a need -
Is divine
I believe the soul of nature
Is sacred
and a rainbow's refraction
Is all the more radiant
For the formula it contains
I believe the finitude of life
Makes a more precious day
And, to my friends of other faiths
I believe - we can meet halfway.
4/27/20
(this was inspired by a poem I read by Anil Deo called Any Athiests out there - thank you for your kind response to my novella-of-a-comment, Anil!)
I was a schoolgirl then, in nineties
Braided hair and full-blown inundation of dreams
Yes. They still are strumming these to stack those feelings, intact
As an old page of a novella still wash the eyelashes, with nothing too showy in fact!
These often get teardrops whence a day is overpouring with drizzle out there, somewhere.
Dreams and all about dreams, they do come home, with no specific stanza in Rome, still try to spare
A Sonnet, a tire, attire or a screw, handheld too!
For days too long ago, they jump into play, they surely do!
I never thought about me, a glass covered VIP will be anyhow a mentionable from a perceiving crowd!
Yet, I felt I lit up for the Marie, that did mention the good name, for so many ways, in his legend to be proud!
Did he or did I that played on the height of a pin, I never felt that is a fair way to say, anyhow, anyway
May they feel the bliss that got the receiving crowd into a French braid that received the sunlight, years ago, per say!
How a president, a visiting one, will be the one to cherish the momentum of simple one,
the grace, the Carpediem, the lone star and the lonely synapse of memory that does play in the half-lit room, in tune!
I'm bald and have piss-yellow teeth; don't use balm or whiteners to appear young again.
Every scar is a jagged path to a novella called living.
Cursed and blessed with a good heart,
Wild horse temperament that's bucked most riders off.
Loyal to the few who've stuck it out,
through all the ups and downs.
I could blow out of here at any time
, but for now everything's just fine.
I've crash-landed on a cay of calm.
Quite proud that I've made it this far.
More than halfway to a hell, oft mistaken as a star,
At times slipping into the murky waters of mundane,
Just another battered face rooting through a discount bin.
Always on the fringe of a spinning tassel of contentment.
Everywhere there are mounds of glitter glued to plastic bags.
Covering up the dry rot-I've no interest in any of that.
Shocking I can pull it together at a funeral, but not when I'm putting down a pet-
I want to be a whirling dust devil outside this hollow town.
Not inside the plastic masks of all the dead-hearted clowns.