Long Old poetry Poems
Long Old poetry Poems. Below are the most popular long Old poetry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Old poetry poems by poem length and keyword.
A summer, I returned to my father's farm vine.
I spotted him alone in the field, sipping wine.
Come here, my son, he said, smiling.
I have a question to ascertain your grasping.
"See this son?" he pointed to a ripe vine.
Please explain to me the magic of wine.
It is no magic..." His gaze made me sigh.
"It's a miracle," he said as he drank hereby.
This vine was nothing past January.
It was merely a wilted, dry stub filthy.
Spring awakened this ancient wood.
Vigorous, strong, green, with mood.
Summer brings these auld seeds to life.
This time it grew bigger and ran rife
The wine we made smacks when sip.
In it, I am able to forget the hardship.
Your mother's grave, close to mine
Are you clever than me? Will you dine?
Wondrous miracle, I said, sipping my wine.
Do you think I'm a clinging vine?
Written: November 16, 2021
''V'' New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
11/12/15
Doggone
This is going to be an odd song
I just stopped on a path above the strangest frog pond
The scent of the bogs strong
But the draw coming within is causing me to feel beyond fond
Even though they all say to stay away, and that going against a gods wrong
I told them all, well then it will be not long
Nowadays is a tumor rare?
Don't even try to find any humor there
Some of the spread rumors scare
While others begin to lose their hair
It's easy to speculate from a computer chair
But you don't want to spend your whole entire future there
Because at that rate you will maneuver where?
Why should I try to lie?
We didn't always see eye to eye
Because for a while I would leave others high and dry
Even if they would cry and sigh and die inside
But it was wrong, in this life of mine
I'll get it right this time
By: Dalton Ogletree
KEEPSAKE
My Mom Norma, who raised, nurtured and showered
me with endearing love, loved diamonds and why not?
She was an April baby and diamond is the birthstone.
She gave me a diamond ring before she passed away.
My eulogy was composed of poem, short story and
very short song “Norma in the Sky with Diamonds”.
She had also given me several jewelries through the
years when she was younger, stronger and full of life.
I treasure all the jewelries she gave me, as keepsakes.
There is one so special to me, a very special keepsake.
It is a very unusual pendant for I have never seen any
other pendant like it and I always get the same comment,
every time I wear it and also “what a beautiful necklace”.
This very special keepsake I call time glass gold dust.
It is a one inch pendant made of fourteen karat gold,
glass and gold dust or gold powder in the glass shaped
as an hourglass with upper bulb and lower bulb with the
gold dust staying in the bottom bulb when you wear it.
Instead of calling it time glass sand or hourglass or
sandglass, I call it time glass gold dust or secondglass
for when I turn it over, the gold dust goes to the bottom
bulb in a second, as I can only count one, nothing more.
Every time I wear this valuable, special keepsake,
I get compliments and I imagine her happy face,
smiling at me with eyes like diamonds shining so
bright and I hum Norma in the Sky with Diamonds.
9/13/21 "K" Contest, New or Old Poetry
Constance La France
XMAS TRADITION
How I longed for the Xmas tradition we celebrated when I was growing up. The Xmas tradition that still lives on; but we left behind. It is celebrated here in some parishes. However, it is not the same as we celebrated it in the Philippines.
As Xmas advent approached, my father busied himself making Xmas lanterns to be hanged in every window of our house. They were made of bamboos and colorful papers with bulbs inside to light at night. My brothers and I were so excited watching him make them and when they were all hanged.
Then the devotional nine-day celebration started on December sixteen, wherein we walked to the church to attend a mass each day starting at dawn or four o’clock in the morning. After the mass, at five o’clock we ate rice cakes with tea or hot chocolate outside the church. There were so many delicacies to choose from, as they were so many who made these rice cakes to celebrate the Xmas season and to show and share gratitude.
On the ninth day, the end of this devotional tradition, the mass was held at midnight or Xmas Eve welcoming our Savior with gratitude. Instead of eating the rice cakes after the mass, we all went home to celebrate Xmas Eve. We all gathered at the kitchen table, young and old, enjoying Xmas dishes and rice cakes and togetherness.
“Christmas”, the season
to reflect and be grateful
for our gifts, blessings
11/27/21 "X" Contest, New Or Old Poetry
Constance La France
That passion’s night, to make me sigh,
my love seized several beams from sky
and shaped a ring of moonstone bright.
To make me sigh that passion’s night.
My darling beau, to make me smile,
then star-shine stole so he could style
a necklace rare with diamond’s glow.
To see me smile, my darling beau.
Dear Valentine, to dazzle me,
took whitest pearls from twilight’s sea,
with starry strand to intertwine.
To dazzle me, dear Valentine.
My true love wooed with more than these,
not only sight, but ear to please!
Two birds he brought that softly cooed.
With more than these, my true love wooed.
With rose bouquet, with kisses sweet,
he made my heart then faster beat.
Artisan of romantic play -
with kisses sweet, with rose bouquet.
By all of this, in motion set
was what I’d never known as yet.
It burst, then flowed. . . Ah, wanton bliss,
in motion set by all of this!
(BTW, this is pure imagination, people!!! So don't be jealous!! hahaha
This is a form called Swap Quatrain, PD. Happy Valentine's Day to you!!)
For the Get your Valentine's Day poem in... any Valentine's poem will do.. (new or old) Poetry Contest of Poet Destroyer A
He was set out in this world, as though by fate, by someone,
He sets himself out, on a trip accompanied by none!
He travels from place to place through mountains, hills, and valleys,
He feels no fear meting out gloom-terrifying alleys!
As a laborer, he works, when traveling to survive,
Spends his nights in a gypsy tent to continue his strife!
He talks to the sun and clouds, while he works during the day,
Counting stars at night, from the moon he does not shun away!
When others inquire of his country, he does not tell well,
He knows, yet, it does exist, as sure as extant of hell!
He talks to grasses or flowers just as a mystic does,
When he fails to get answers, he does not make any buzz!
Not an explorer, he explores; not a singer he sings,
He's a harmonious rhythm in the cosmos, he thinks!
When someone asks about going home he asks: to which home?
He thinks till he finds his true meaning of home, he should roam!
To the place from where he set himself out, he might not go,
Yet, the call of the setter of his goal, could he forgo?
Seeker! Finder! A vagabond is truly paramount!
He might not speak or write! His wisdom does earnestly count…!!
17 November 2021
''V'' New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Caedmon’s Face
by Michael R. Burch
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Caedmon’s ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
***
He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike—as father unto son.
But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known;
his father’s face becomes his own.
***
He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker’s might, man’s lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth
suspended under heaven’s roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:
his face was Poetry’s, from youth.
“Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon’s verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker’s ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, oldest English poem, England, Christian, spiritual, angel, poets, poetry, Whitby, Bede, Carroll, Stoker
Once there was a time.
A long time ago.
As I was looking for a flat.
Making sure it was right for me.
Just so I could make it my own.
I took a walk through the halls.
Way over there, in an out of the way corner.
That's when I saw it, the writing on the wall.
The closer I came, the more I saw a love spell.
Although It was wearing thin from years past.
This is how it read:
She asks if she could get back all the missing
pieces ~ all the pieces she had given away,
To lovers that didn't stay.
All the parts that had been broken, and betrayed.
All the parts that were left out in the rain.
All the parts that were dropped and kicked around.
It said she didn't think they wanted them anyway.
All the parts of herself, she felt she lost along the way.
She asks for all the missing pieces to be returned to her.
If that was ok ~ Just so she wouldn't fade away.
7/ 9 / 2011 8pm
Was looking through a 3 ring binder of my old poetry,
Outside the storm is raging, heaping piles of drifting snow.
Inside I'm snuggled in my easy chair, the fireplace all aglow!
I've retrieved an old tome of poetry from my library shelf,
To spend an afternoon with noted bards to entertain myself.
I'll never tire of the lovely lyrics leaping from its pages,
Composed by inspirational poets down through the ages.
Those gifted folks awaken latent emotions in my languid soul,
Creating soul-stirring verse about life that they so fluently extol!
I delight in the lines championing ordinary folks by Edgar Guest,
And the ballads of Robert Service on his daring Yukon quest!
The works of The Hoosier Poet J. Whitcomb Riley I hold dear.
It's as if he wrote about my Hoosier boyhood of yesteryear!
The fire casts gloomy shadows about as I read Poe's elegies,
But my mood brightens reading Kilmer's beautiful poem, "Trees!"
McCrae's, "In Flanders Fields", as a lad I learned by rote.
I chuckle at the whimsical poetry that Lewis Carroll wrote!
I treasure my time with the bards and their poems in the book.
It occupies a very special place in my library nook.
Well, I'll put it aside since the cat has hopped upon my lap.
Dear old Simba and I will settle in for a cozy winter's nap!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
After last year~after all the millions of miles, Santa put his sled in for a check-up with smiles. Last year the sled was very slow, it needed a lot more go~go. He wants to make sure all the girls~boys, will get all of their many toys. His mechanic said~take it for a ride, Santa came back and cried. His sled now has plenty of Zoom, out the back came a huge fiery plume. Santa had a jolly big laugh, a million thanks to all of your staff.
Date Written: 12/5/2021
2 Place
# 10. zoom
''Z'' Contest, New or Old - Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Constance La France