Long On paper Poems
Long On paper Poems. Below are the most popular long On paper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long On paper poems by poem length and keyword.
I thought by writing this poem
I could ramp up the cognitive demand
I wanted to get down on paper
The time my chopsticks talked to me
They told me there is a towel
On the flag of Belarus
I was flabbergasted by this
I dipped them in wasabi
I imagined a scream
Like a falling bomb
I overheard someone
Asking about the buffet
I heard the name
Emma Chizzit
This was repeated several times
With more and more intensity
Then it was realised that this
Australian woman was asking
"How much is it?"
Followed by my chopsticks
Asking me about Moses
How he makes his tea
Hebrews it was the answer
I paid the bill and left
It's OK
that you don't have much to say
Your words are kept on paper
For your eyes to savor
It doesn't matter that your best friends
Are Agatha Christie and Emily Dickinson
It's alright that the phone doesn't ring
With silly chatter over pointless things
Don't be concerned with the prom princess
With perfect skin who looks flawless
You are not one of the sheep that blends in
You are more alive in your own skin
Of books, and writing, and libraries
They can keep their ugly judgments and drunk parties
You don't need doctors and therapy
Because you prefer anonymity
To toxic high school hypocrisy
You put yourself before contests
To see which boy likes which girl the best
You like yourself for who you are
Proud to be unpopular
Proud of your poetry, proud of your rhymes
Your unvalued hobby, your peculiar pastime
You like reading the thesaurus for fun!
Never apologize, never be done
You know
your old soul
Don't fall into the female curse
Of self-sacrifice, always love yourself, first.
7/17/18
I've been writing since I was 13 and I am 62 year's of young age,
we live, we learn, we grow, day after day life turns the page.
I have been on many different poetry sight's since 1975 you see,
the truth about the different sight's show's only one difference to me.
The only thing that makes them different than the other's is the name,
they are all geared to make money, which makes them all the same.
If you are not a payed member you don't fit in with their click.
that gives you a 99% chance that as a winner you won't be the pick.
So sad but yet these words are so very heart breaking true,
you have to be a payed member to get them to notice you.
I am in many poetry anthology books, and several was even put on tape, you see,
They weren't a poetry sight where you a payed member you must be.
We write our heart's, soul's and mind's down on paper for whomsoever to read,
with word's of love, forgiveness, knowledge with wisdom of life I feed.
Not a payed member, really mean's, it's truly all about the money you won't rise and shine, as they do,
you want to become a good poet, and get other's to notice you.
Then you have to know, see, and understand the truth in the words I write,
the only way I know to be equal, and fair, is start a new kind of poetry site.
One that is different in every way shape, form and a totally different fashion,
where everyone's work's are shown and presented the same, the standing out is left to passion
I am checking in on starting this different site, and give it life you see,
where a payed member just gets to use all the tools for free.
I did not even think, lo, that you would erupt,
Like lava from a wild volcano, so abrupt;
You are not mere water raised as a vapor,
Nor imaginations unwritten on paper;
Instead, you are my hopelessness and helplessness,
Breaking into waves of oceans of recklessness...!
My emotions pile up like Ice Mountains and hills,
Melt by the summer sun of feelings heart brim-fills;
I turn helpless as a child fell into a pond,
I plead reasons and reasonableness, to bond;
None dares to perforate the holes of my tears,
Is this because each element has its own fears...?
O my tears, I love you because you are unique,
You push yourself in full hope and when faith is bleak;
In birth and death when in mixed emotions you move,
My moods, on and off, you approve and disapprove;
You are like rains or gales that cleanse the earth,
Having shed you in abundance I gain new birth...!!!
17 June 2023
Teardrop Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
All my life I have been a big dreamer
and a big storyteller,
my mom used to say, I had imagination, just like my sweet grandma,
gosh, she was a great story weaver . . .
at first the tales formed in my mind were just things unwritten, and
I liked to watch grandma's face and all the expressions within her voice,
so, soon with storytelling- I was bitten and smitten.
Grandma created wonderful characters and scenes,
and because of her this I was blessed too.
But, oddly none of her stories were ever written on paper, not a single one,
no pen dripped on paper for grandma,
but my own words have fallen to paper over and over.
All her stories existed in her mind and she stored carefully each script,
and when grandma died at ninety-four
sadly she could not speak a single word,
so I tell her stories remembered in words written.
____________________________
October 17, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/A Big Storyteller
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 1117-309-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, End Feb 2019
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
In a space that should hum with focus,
Where thoughts flow like ink on paper,
I walk the halls, and what do I hear?
The clatter of egos—loud, brash,
A symphony of insecurity,
Each voice a drum pounding louder,
Drowning out the quiet rhythm of real productivity.
Oh, the harshness of noise!
Your chatter like chainsaws,
Hacking away the sweet silence,
The sanctuary where ideas bloom.
Conversations compete like wild animals,
Roaring for attention,
But who’s listening?
Who's doing it?
I can’t hear my thoughts,
Lost beneath the weight of your bravado,
Your anecdotes, your grand proclamations,
About deadlines, met and spreadsheets conquered,
But all I see is the façade,
The show of work,
Not the act of working.
It’s an orchestra of distraction,
A cacophony of competition,
Where silence is a crime,
And whispers are for the weak.
But listen!
True strength speaks softly,
In the space between breaths,
In the echo of contemplation.
But here you are,
Standing tall, voice raised,
As if volume equates to value
As if the loudest in the room
It is the most productive.
It’s a mask you wear,
But I see behind it—
Just shadows, just noise,
Just the harshness of insecurities masked as power.
We chase the clock,
Tapping away, thinking,
We’re winning some races,
But it's not a marathon,
It’s a serenade,
A melody of purpose,
And you’re just playing the wrong tune.
So, let’s pause.
Lower the volume,
Tune down the tumult,
And Let the silence reign
In this kingdom of commerce.
Let whispers be the wings of ideas,
Let the quiet be our battle cry,
For in the stillness, we create,
In the calm, we conquer—
Let’s reclaim the space
From the harshness of noise.
Let’s work with purpose,
Let’s make a change—
Because the loudest voice
It doesn't always win,
Sometimes it’s the softest,
The most profound,
That ignites the fire
Of true creation.
I entered a little contest on the soup
Where entries were judged according to
Merit and favor and everything good
With a judge who knows poetry as they should
My entry was scribbled on the back of a card
Then written on paper in the form of a poem
Soon I came to the computer’s word processor
And wrote it all down with dashes and a formula
The words came to me through my hopes and ideas
Dreams that did soothe me with a muse that bleeds
Through insights and feelings that prompt me to see
Hues of rich scarlet and gracefully intimate scenes
Soon the words beckoned me with their ideas
To listen to the deliberation of rhymes and rhythms
Signaling delights that fought to be in sentences
That formed stanzas broken only by delightful couplets
I welcomed the verses so enchanting and fulfilling
Calling out to me through the flow of lines and sections
Causing me to see that both poetry and prose belong
To the writer who listens to the call within their soul
Would the judge of my poem see the light it illuminated
Or would they be drawn to the sentences that appeased
The disillusionment and discouragement that flowed inside
The pen who lost sight of the demands that it should win
Clutching at straws, I hoped for a wonderful victory
With the liquid ebony that milks adjectives and adverbs
From the rich prayers that drain through my heart’s veins
Soothing and blessing my aspirations with inspirations
Clutching at Straws Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
September 19, 2020
If you've ever wondered why I'm always leaping,
It's likely because the situation is hilarious.
I'm strong, but what I surely fancy is weeping.
I envy tears to run down my eyes, imperious.
I went in the opposite direction from the charter.
I found my soul to be less than I had expected.
Yet, I had twice the courage of my partner.
With a calm resolve to my power, I connected
While I seldom have fine dreams,
I realize that adversity destroys hope.
I'm bursting at the seams; my eyes gleam.
Let me grow by flying wings over my slope.
In our thoughts, on paper, or in utterances, we are.
It's a conscious rally; I mustn't travel afar.
I reflect on myself while sitting on a shelf.
Is it a template of a hindrance toward myself?
Written: December 19, 2022
Crumpled Thoughts
They wait – in hues of vibrating silence -
Like leftover orts of rumpled paper wimples
On creased clandestine journal pages –
Bent scraps of wrinkled inspiration
Smudged moments held in their one moment of time
Musings fading to illegible
Lost chords in treasured memories of radiance,
Sunspots of incomplete illumination,
Or crumpled creativity on paper wings
Snapshots of raw moments in tormented terror
Footprint creased signatures of incensed avenging angels
For abandoned ragged beggars in pencil
Of partial tidings
Wearing incomplete tatters of disturbed serenity
Waiting – lined up – for their turn to speak –
Vying for resuscitation
As actors reading their scripts –
Players auditioning for ideas
Of ice castles throwing off anonymity
Whistling like nonchalant sentimental journeys
In phases of the moon begging for words
Libretti confronting notes wandering in obscurity
Impatient plans in fits of tantrum’s flight
Residue of fantasies for
Gypsy fortuneteller’s phantasmal globes
Rescued by ruminations tender muse
With the gift of time to take them from her
Nurturing womb into full life and maturity –
Blinking in the brightness of real time
Bits and snatches adjust sight from consecrated darkness
To lumens brightness of looming footlights
Now taking bows in postmarks of epilogues -
Snatched from wondrous oblivion -
Profiles sketched in hope’s penumbra.
1-11-21
Contest: Crimpled Thoughts
Sponsor: John Lawless
Development laps at emaciated canvas
Exponential images whisper a thousand words
Chemical dip shifts generic into candid
Graphic effigy given vigour by a brief submerge
Slippery minutes expand sqare memoir
Retrieved from squalid pool, jumped illustrious
Pregnant with wisdom from an embalm
Faith puts detail on paper basic miscellaneous
Source of light firms fine composition
Blankness bask enables solid ice to effervesce
Supernatural Spirit delivered christens
Fermented parchment finds miracles manifest
15th February
Philosophic Rearrangement