Long On writing and Poems
Long On writing and Poems. Below are the most popular long On writing and by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long On writing and poems by poem length and keyword.
The traffic was strident, lanes straight
the cars lined the street and froze rigid.
The cop with a glare of pure hate, directed
a line of gate crashers cutting.
The sidewalks segmented in rows, false
lure more tourists into a queue.
Cowed were young folk and old folks all queued
a ménage which was quite far from straight,
all had come for a peck at the Bard, false.
even a librarian or too, who waited with spines rigid,
and scowls on their lined brows like cuts
their critiques would be most direct.
Teens kiss in a clutch most directly
their faces make braces of queues
Scalpers hawk to the latecomers cutoff,
the elite meet and greet heading straight
for the red road with a rigid
line of bull filled with falsities.
Inside the antiquated theatre under false
the foot lights lining the aisles direct
Mayor and matron, gran and child in rigid
alleys to velvet seats also queued.
The stare of critic and patron glared straight
64 toward the author so pinned and cutting.
A bright white light cut
the chill air so false
and focused on drape lined straight
each fell open as artist directed
and orchestra swells filled their queue
and the author he sat stark and rigid.
His fate would he find in lines rigid
on the page of tomorrows review, they’d cut
make or they’d break his heart’s queue
these piranhas with smiles so false.
No fate could be more direct
this tonic he must imbibe straight.
So like dominoes, they fall lines rigidly, piercing cuts
Filleted be he by queues false,
in the end words directly aimed, straight to death cue.
Why should thoughts, ideas and dreams be
as esoteric as secrets?
Turn them into poetry,
and share them with the entire Humanity...
I have shared mine with all without ambiguity!
No fortress, stately rising into the vast skies,
can escape the battering storms so damageable,
and not tumble down...to lay in ruins as others have;
here's your only chance to be immortal:
be a wide river which can withstand tides!
Why should a literary work
be as esoteric as secrets, to remind the worst humiliation?
Don't pass under the yoke for a defeat,
be daring, fearless, challenging and brief;
do lucky survivors ever submit their will to desperation?
And should you be disheartened by a wrong choice?
Don't cuss fate or damn yourself for bumpy roads;
instead of complaining, look on the brighter side:
dare to make a difference with the gift of words...
by giving your dead language a more vibrant voice!
Verse: a metrical or rhymed composition as distinct from Prose: Poetry
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
That Old Willow Tree
A place of solitude
Down by the swamp
A willow tree grows among the weeds
Branches reach to the sky
Fronds hang down reaching for the earth below
Birds live and sing in her branches
Shade loving plants grow at her feet
It is so pleasant on a hot August afternoon
The perfect place to just sit and think
Maybe paint a beautiful landscape
Or even an inspired poem
Such a place exists only for the artist
There aren’t many in our hectic world
They have been paved over
Polluted so that the beauty is long gone
Or just lost to everlasting progress
If you find a place like that old willow tree
Love it and go there for moments of solitude
Think about what nature has given you for that day
Because tomorrow it may be gone
And you may sit at the foot of a parking meter
But it will never be the same
...
Robert Lee Frost, American Poet of the Twentieth Century
Young Robert Frost intelligent, quick-witted, and responsible
Gleaned material to write his poems from jobs of various forms
Where he would accomplish writes by poor light that was accustomable
To the times of the early nineteen-hundreds where his poetry was born
Recognized in his lifetime, successful, and praised
(Robert Frost, wrote poems about places that he worked when he was young and had to help
out the family because his father had died. In some of those poems, he wrote many from
the point of view of really wanting be somewhere else.)
Twenty-nine words to write my story
Twenty-nine words is all I’ve got
Twenty-nine words is my limit
Twenty-nine words, then I'm through
Twenty-nine words to write my poem
I’ve got to get started
Twenty-nine words is not too many
Many words have parted already
Twenty-nine words to write my rhyme
Twenty-nine words to write my verse
Twenty-nine words I’ve got to get started
Twenty-nine words – I’m out of luck
1. Twenty-nine
2. Words
3. To
4. Write
5. My
6. Story
7. Is
8. All
9. I’ve
10. Got
11. Limit
12. Then
13. I
14. Through
15. Poem
16. Get
17. Started
18. Not
19. Too
20. Many
21. Have
22. Already
23. Parted
24. Verse
25. Rhyme
26. I’m
27. Out
28. Of
29. Luck
(This is a fictional poem)
I made a monster out of body parts just like Doctor Frankenstein.
Many people have been killed because of this monster of mine.
I have goosebumps because this is a chiller.
I wasn't aware that I gave him the brain of a killer.
He has killed many men.
Tonight he will kill again.
I just put six bullets in his head.
But he didn't die because he's undead.
Now he's really mad and he's going to attack.
He has his hands around my throat and everything is going black.
I couldn't stop my monster even though I gave it a try.
I hope that somebody can kill this creature after I die.
Form:
(This is a fictional poem)
On Saint Patrick's Day I always pinch people who don't wear green.
I made the horrible mistake of pinching a man who was very mean.
He kicked me in the stomach and then he violently put my head through a glass
door.
The doctors picked shards of glass out of my face and I'll never pinch him
anymore.
I pinched a lady and she said she was being sexually harassed.
It was because I made the mistake of pinching her on the ___.
She took me to court and she was awarded a million dollars.
That damn judge held me in contempt when I started to holler.
Pinching that lady's ___ was something that I regret.
It took six years for me to pay off that damn debt.
Last Saint Patrick's Day I was doused in gasoline and I sure did burn.
I keep pinching people on Saint Patrick's Day, I guess I'll never learn.
Form:
1st off I'm a poet thats looking
for a woman who I can trust
because now I know the difference
between love & lust
maybe I kinda lost that nigga mentality
or maybe I learned from all my emotional casualties
the difference between me & other
niggas is pretty simple
I feel for the good woman and the
heart braking situations that they been threw
but in all actuality maybe I'm feeling too much sympathy
Naw never that, I just pray if
I hurt her that she'd find the heart to forgive me
I believe the female species is
the most beautiful thing God created
so it don't amaze me for the right one
I'm still patiently waiting
I guess the difference is I chose to humble myself
cause most niggas wouldn't take these kinda hits below the belt
difference is I'm looking for something
that can possibly last forever
I had a good girl I just wish
I could rewind till the 1st day that I met her
but I'm a grown man
so as we speak I'm learning from my mistakes
most niggas looking for the next dummy
I'm looking for my ideal mate
difference is I'm not worried bout who you used to be
whatever you did put it behind you. you finally free
I could careless who you used to be
and who slutted you out
difference is I accommodate you
on taking this other route
I want to write something
Of breathtaking beauty
Something of value
That will nurture a soul
Assuage a pain
Tug at the heart strings
And bring release
I want to write the words
That someone will cherish
The words that will bring light
To the dark crevices and corners
Of a battered heart
And bring healing
And peace
And light
And joy
Indescribable joy!
I want to write
About the enchantment of love
And being in love...
About fluttering heartbeats
And quickened breathing
About slowly reaching that melting point...
The mystical moment of surrender
Surrender with sweet abandon
To another
Knowing...
That you are safe
To experience
To know
And be known
Completely
That pleasure is waiting
To be mastered
and to master
and to obliterate all else
Except that moment
in time
I want to write……
But the words
Won’t come
I’m empty...
Parched to the core
And desperately in need
In need of those very words
That will bring me back to life.
This place is poetry paradise
And is turning my life around;
When once I would ramble, wander and scramble
Now I think more profound.
By waking each day thinking what can I say
That will make some since of it all;
How can I be nice and give some advice
To my friends with this poetic call.
Instead of the focus on problems
Affecting us each in kind;
Getting lost in the darkness and doldrums
Which plague our hearts and minds.
I’ve found a new path I think may last
Longer than a lickety-split,
Perhaps till I fly right up to the sky
And poetry seems to be it.
Driven within like a non-stop spin
As the earth, moon and sun;
This search to find words for thoughts yet unheard
Is uplifting, fomenting and fun.
I thank the stars and God thus far
For leading me here today;
With all of you who read write us few
To find one another and play.
Hide and go seek with words that speak
A whole new language of life;
This place is a drop of cool water we drink
Here in poetry paradise.