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.
Mother Nature’s Verse
Minute after minute
Hour after hour
The poet sits
Thinking
Dreaming
Watching the blank paper before them
They wonder what their reality means
Is it sad and depressing?
Could there be a ray of light in the darkness?
Where are the angels and demons who fill their thoughts?
Are they needed or even wanted on such a day?
The window gives hope and images that become poems
Mother Nature’s unwritten verses
There for a single poet to see
Does the flower on the hill have feelings?
What could it be thinking as it sways in the breeze?
No one knows and no one cares
The poet will watch
They will think and dream
They will see what others can’t
And that flower will be the one ray of light
The one to open the poet’s mind
And the poem will be written
Mother Nature’s verse will be sung
All because of a window and a flower
Sad news today, February 6th in our year 2011
To "The Great Gig in the Sky" sell out in Heaven
My favourite blues rock guitarist, Mr Irish Gary Moore
Joins the "Midnight Blues, "Too Tired" no more will he tour
At fourteen years of age he received his first guitar
Like many budding rockers aspirations to be a rock star
The Beatles, Elvis Presley and the amazing Albert King
Heavily influenced this left hander, who made his right hand sing
As he grew past his teens, the genre he'd enter would mean
The likes of John Mayall's Bluesbreakers and Hendrix, now he's seen
Blues Rock it was to be, when Peter Green caught his ear
If you grew up with this maestro, you'll know his career
It started way back, way back in 1969
Skid Row, from Dublin he joined, as the music industry would find
This is where his association began, with Lynott, bassist extraordinaire
Many nights sharing the blues, this two Irishmen would share
His solo career just grew and grew, then into Thin Lizzy he would blend
Sharing the Black Rose stage with Phil his Irish friend
The blues became his life, with two Albert's who'd share his stage
Guesting with his 'Midnight Blues Band' many a jam they would engage
I now close my humble tribute, for he'll always be in my heart
On this day in Estepona, Spain, my hero in final depart
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/music-5.php
Sure, there's a place and time for everything
And if everything happens for a reason then there can't be a mistake
And if you look behind the road of success
You'll see a trial of failures
And I'll keep trying to help here
Even though everything seems so helpless
These are 4 things the Master said
"Men should Pray and ought not to lose heart"
"By your patience possess your souls"
"Don't think I came to bring peace on this earth, Nay I came to bring a sword"
"One day they will kill you and think they are doing a favor for God"
You don't hear these things at Church now ain't that kinda odd
Why stop I''ll just take you a little further
We are sheep for the slaughter
We need the Shepard,
He said to remember to Shepard the flock and that I would be a man of God
Does anybody know who the King of Glory is?
Please, it's suggestions I need, you can keep your comments
When it comes to poetry
I don't know a lot,
But I enter each contest
Just hoping for a spot.
The terminology to me
Is foreign and new
So I look up each form
And my best, try to do.
Acrostic and tanka
Were words I didn't know,
But I'd look up the description
And off to work I'd go.
Once upon a time
I wrote what I felt.
Now I live for each contest,
Get another under my belt.
They've become an addiction,
These contests , to me.
Still, I'm waiting on my results,
And not too patiently.
Maybe again, one day soon,
I'll write just for pleasure,
Though I'm still keeping score
To determine my measure.
I wanna meet a woman who
ain't about the games and b.s.
I wanna get to know a woman
who's life ain't filled with so much stress
I wanna meet a woman who ain't so selfish
I wanna get to know a woman who
hasn't been threw so much heartache she's chest less
I wanna talk to a woman who knows exactly what she wants
I wanna get to know a woman who's street smart
but at the same time ain't too siddity
now what I don't want is a hardcore/feminine
cuz for the record that shhh! kill me
I wanna meet a woman who ain't sick of love
I wanna meet a woman who mentality isn't men is dogs
I wanna meet a woman who ain't bisexual
I wanna meet a woman who knows being submissive
doesn't mean I'm a think less of you
I wanna meet a woman who wants to live holy
but also isn't afraid to ask her man "can you hold me"
I wanna meet a woman who's mind is right
ya know down to earth but still ain't addicted to the night life
I'm trying to meet a woman who's trying to pursue companionship
wants to get to know me as a friend
but in love with me is where she's trying to end
The drunken pen knows no boundaries, flowing from one page to the next, one idea to the next never stopping too long in one place. It longs to write fluffy, flowery, big descriptive words that require a dictionary and thesaurus to understand but instead it produces only bite size words of reality. Flares of genius arise to be suddenly dashed by memory loss and distraction, leaving behind inferior pieces of work. One day this pen will rise above forced rhymes, poor punctuation and every other criticism that can be bestowed upon writing and a masterpiece will evolve. And what exactly is a masterpiece. What is beautiful to me may seem otherwise to many. Looking at wilted lilies I yearn to grab a brush and paint the white petals and bright orange stamens as well as the deformed ones that have turned brown. My pen can capture the same image only it struggles to describe a reality that seems boring, beauty missed in the imagery. Expressing important aspects of subjects is my main goal but my pen often fails me. Knowing many truths, my pen and paper struggle to hold the facts - is this because many will not wish to hear them. My pen fears judgement. Can a scientific mind scribe poetic or will a drunken pen be blamed for imperfection.
Written October 2, 2012
For Joann Grisetti’s contest
“Drunken Pen Part 2”
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.
The New York Times won’t publish
All the wedding news it gets.
Unless you are “acceptable,”
They’ll send you their regrets.
With attributes like wealth or fame
Or Ivy League degrees,
The Times may run your story,
But there are no guarantees.
I’ve always know this as a fact
But recently I’ve learned
That even in obituaries,
Some folks will get burned.
There isn’t space enough, they say,
To honor all who’ve died;
So only certain folks deceased
Deserve their place inside.
An influential person,
Or one “offbeat,” even “quirky,”
Will trump an ordinary guy
For reasons somewhat murky.
And so a woman from the west,
Who sculpted cows from butter,
Received her dose of fame while others
Got tossed in the gutter.
A local businessman who was
A veteran and giver
And art collector didn’t have
The goods he could deliver.
The obit writer at The Times
Did let the family know.
“Of course his life was worthy,”
But his story’s not a go.
My husband promised when I died
I’d make The Times – “Don’t sweat it.”
But now I realize there’s no way,
So he should just forget it.
It seems some people count for more.
There is a great divide;
But somehow that should be erased
When someone’s up and died!
Poetry allows for the soul to fly free,
Opening one’s eyes to capture more then what they see,
EVENTUALLY saturating the core of one’s heart,
Tying together whatever has fallen apart,
Reinventing words with intense INFUSION,
Yearning desires are rekindled with a hint of ILLUSION,
Placing pieces together like a puzzle in your mind,
Accepting one for what they say as your ears become inclined,
Letting go of yesterday becomes INEVITABLE to embrace today,
Awaking emotions in such a powerful way,
CREATIVITY becomes the potter’s clay,
Enlightenment dismembers any form of disarray.
BY: SABINA NICOLE
It's fearful to think
that your last moment has come,
and like a pen out of ink...
it stops when a word needs to rhyme.
Keep off the edge at any cost, death waits avidly
for another victim to be added to its toll...
go the opposite direction where you find a wall
to avert another possible tragedy.
Desperation plays a major part in awful thoughts,
hope is found in faith: read all Proverbs and be saved by their soothing words;
ignoring wisdom is to live foolishly and recklessly as thugs...
why live a wretched life and hate others? Why keep on sharpening your swords?
I have never gripped on rocks to reach that edge of despair,
even though death seemed real and allowed no escape,
but with will and determination I was able to annihilate
those evil forces coming out of demons who had no love to share.
Why be unappreciative, troublesome, worrisome and uneasy...
when life can lead one to victory as it has led many in History?
Commit an evil act, and you'll suffer more than Cain...
embrace love and your fear will never drive you insane.
Entered in Linda-Marie's contest,
" Life and Death...And Beyond..."
Written by Andrew Crisci