Long On writing and wordspoetry Poems
Long On writing and wordspoetry Poems. Below are the most popular long On writing and wordspoetry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long On writing and wordspoetry poems by poem length and keyword.
For years I have wasted,
Precious time spent with you,
And it is time I faced it,
You are mean-hearted and cruel,
You ravage the inspired souls,
Who fall for your covert snares,
And while the many pay their tolls,
You parade your chosen’s fares,
You teach that poetry inspires,
And yes you’ve proven it true,
For you are all hideous liars,
Your judgments so very cruel,
Winners of your tainted contests,
Are always the same chosen few,
While other poets are held in jest,
And told they must pay their dues,
I mean have you actually read,
Some of the fodder you hold high,
Rambling words spewed noxious and dead,
Which waste the eager reader’s time.
Most have no rhyme or reason,
And lack of any story to tell,
For they fester like a lesion,
And erupt with a worthless spell,
And upon the oh so rare occasion,
A true poet shows you gifted grace,
Your editors mock without cessation,
That in poetry they have the final say.
So go about your selfish greedy missions,
Where you only admit those with your views,
To accomplish their life-long ambitions,
And be recognized for their great works too.
Yes this world is full of those full of themselves,
And you do nothing to help those who turn to you,
For the self righteous is reserved a special circle of hell,
One of hollow accolades from a mirror only of you,
You could change and empower those moved to poetry,
Those who have been hurt or dream of something better,
These poor spirits where their hopeful poetry can seed,
A life sewn with hope by simply connecting letters.
I have been gone for a while
needed time to regroup
this delectable mixture
this poetry soup
When I am not here
I wonder with query
uplifting comments of Karen Leary
Kristin Reynolds my friend
this is not a wrap
as she weaves you into her poetry trap
Sharon Weimer my sweet
just how are you
she molds you into her poetry stew
Patricia Adams, Heidi Buys and Chitra Lakhera
I hold none closer or who are dearer
Janice Herzog, Carrie Richards, and Christy Hardy
pour in the ingredients of this tasty party
Rhoda Galgani, Elaine George, and Laura Mckenzie
who stir up the words and stir something in me
Sara Lokken, Farah Chamma, Fathima Dawood
so inspiring the ingredients so delicious, so good
Teresita Cailo, Adell Foster and Constance Lafrance
this smorgasbord, so hearty it makes one dance
flavors and seasonings that makes up this group
all the ingredients enhanced by diverse poetry soup
TO THE ONES THAT I MISSED
NOT AN INTENTIONAL SLIGHT
SO MANY TO ADD IN NOT AN
OVERSIGHT IT JUST GOES TO SHOW OF
THE DIVERSITY WITHIN
BECAUSE WRITING UNITES AND ALL
COLORS BLEND
BECAUSE POETRY IS COLOR BLIND
AND WE SHOULD BE AS WELL
MAY WE ALL HAVE A BETTER YEAR
AND LIVE TO TELL THE TALE
A poem's a painting of a verse
whose artist never once rehearsed
the hues that he himself conceived
for print.
For poetry cannot be taught,
nor can the perfect poem be sought--
a poet's words are not produced,
but sent.
A poem's a planted evergreen,
the likes of which no one has seen,
whose leaves are luscious and exempt
from wane.
For poetry cannot be stopped,
nor can existing trunks be chopped--
the trees of ancient planters still
remain.
A poem's a lie sincerely sold
or truth that is corruptly told,
completely clear or indistinct
when read.
For poetry cannot be wrong,
nor can it ever not belong
to life-- the two forever will
be wed.
A poet is a medium,
and through his art the world becomes
available to be perceived
as such.
A poem can never be or say
too much.
It's a sudden rush for me, the ultimate high.
That my poetry is metaphorically like a Samurai.
The punctuations are deadly as my steel blades.
Death and poetry become a medley, so be afraid!
Like an acrobat, my sentences dance across the page.
My couplet's trained for combat, and my words are filled with rage.
I slice and dice spinning my blazing Katana!
It's not nice when winning can bite like a piranha.
I'm addicted to the push of my writing pen;
And I've been convicted of every past and present sin!
As I purge myself of every sin through my poetry;
I can't guarantee it won't happen again so accept an early apology!
So as the last couplet comes to a close, feel my energy.
I leave bodies to discompose, and their burial is my poetry!
THE POETRY PALACE
Perhaps the finest building in the city
Or the country for that matter, you see -
Either extant or extinct - would seem to be
The Poetry Palace, the nurturing cradle of CREATIVITY,
Replete with verses from writers of great and small activity.
You will not fail to receive an ILLUSION
Perhaps more - maybe even an INFUSION
And EVENTUALLY a conviction - that within these walls lie
Limitless richness, lavish anguish, oceans of emotion, aye!
And finally the INEVITABLE profusion of confusion
Caused by the differing styles and intentions
Each poet has with his wordy inventions.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck for
Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.S. Contest "POETRY PALACE"
All
Poets
Who believed
That they belonged
To a group of supportive free thinkers
And who believed that poetry was "FREE"
Just discovered
Their belief
Was a
Lie
What
Is all
Of the fuss
Really about
Or are you capable of honesty
Or is this about being upset
Because you are
No longer
At the
Top
Words
Belong
To any
Creative mind
Who can find something good to do with them
Who have a right to control their own words
And use those words
To connect
With their
Fans
Names
Are used
To describe
Poetry forms
That would exist without the labels
Because poetry does not need labels
To justify
If it is
Really
Real
The printed word, to me, is art.
As beautiful as any painting.
Poetry, prose or a well written book,
Is an art form, I'm maintaining.
When I create a tactile piece
With wood or wool or clay,
I'm fiercely proud of what I've made.
About poetry, I feel the same way.
I have a creative personality.
It appears in forms, varied.
Writing is just one of my tools.
My thoughts to paper, carried.
So an artist I consider myself
Though I don't paint landscapes bright,
But in other ways, an artist I am,
With my crafts and the poetry I write.
for Linda Marie's Poetry Panorama contest