Long Pages Poems
Long Pages Poems. Below are the most popular long Pages by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pages poems by poem length and keyword.
It is amazing…oftentimes to our wonder and delight…sometimes to our dismay
how we are the authors of our fairytales…the protagonists in our play.
How ‘neath the different colors of our covers…
we…as author…or playwright
in a multitude of languages…complete a chapter every night.
Our parents compose the first few chapters until such a time as when
our fairytale gets interesting…and we control the pen.
For we find when our story crisscrosses other stories…other places…other names
how, though our stories share similar moments…no two stories are the same.
The beauty of our fairytale is how every day it lengthens and expands
meaning no matter what we wrote the day before…the next chapter is in our hands.
Over time we find our spines may sag a little…our covers start to fade
our pages may discolor…our binding become frayed.
but, despite the inevitable ravages of time which on every book will take its toll,
we hope our fairy tale will have a happy ending and never lose its heart…and soul.
Besides, anyone who’s wise…any bibliophile…or book lover
knows it’s never a good idea to judge a book…based solely on its cover.
knows every story’s different…how life seldom goes the way we planned
how every book has value…and how NO book should ever be banned.
I suppose the best we can hope for is to learn from our mistakes
and hope, in our book, they’re never repeated…
and that people will smile as they read our chapters…
and…once our fairy tale is completed.
#BEAUTY DEFINED
is a woman in her prime
classy and refined she
keeps enhancing with time
grace and artistic taste is
what inspires this rhyme
poise, depth and evolving
now that's Beauty Defined
She is a character builder and
was never a yielder
eyes of twinkling diamonds
skin of leather
this woman endured
many trials and triumphs
it has been a lot that she has weathered!
Watch her mental stance...
Wow! SHE is really together! ! !
Now, doesn't that make you proud...
Constant struggles, necessary journeys,
I want the paths that SHE has crossed...
{YOU are well equipped when you have those
learnings!} As a woman beautifies and as she ages,
one gets to witness all of her stages...
from the book of life, whi6 defines HER pages;
A sense of PRIDE and SELF-RESPECT respect is what I find soooooo enganging...
To me and realistically, that's
B E A U T Y D E F I N E D!#
Once, there burned a fire deep within my heart
but that was long ago, before love was torn apart
Scribed were pages of sonnets, romance at its best
I shelved the albums by virtue of my own behest
because they caused me too much pain and sorrow,
and so, I thought, 'I'll get rid of them tomorrow.'
Ten years went by, but today they were torched
Memories, up in smoke, my poems were scorched
I couldn't bear to read them, or I would reminisce
Flames sputtered their cries with an incessant hiss
Sheafs penned when with love I was sorely smitten,
verses and lyrics for countless songs he had written
Gray clouds hovered; tainted air encircled my head
Edges of curling parchment were singed as ink bled
I watched them crinkle and smolder in the trash
The wind carried my words swirling in flurries of ash
I was renewed with pain as I breathed the smoke
It felt like my heart was mourning as thunder broke
There was a tightness in my chest and my throat
I was drowning in the rain, trying to stay afloat
Sparks fed my sadness as smoke drifted to the sky
Sobs escaped from my lips in an emotional outcry
The storm soaked the remainder of prose and verse
I turned and walked away with a groan and a curse
January 17, 2022
This or That, Vol 9 Contest
Edward Ibeh, Sponsoring
In the grey shadow of voiceless days,
I, a dreamer laborer, a faceless specter,
Under the silent vault that never opens its eyes,
I weave my destiny in threads of black linen, hidden in the night.
With arms that bear the weight of worlds, I build walls,
I lose myself in labyrinths of silent echoes,
Stretching the distances between me and the fleeing dream,
Life, an unwritten poem, always beyond reach.
I need neither splendor nor shining thrones,
Only cold shadows accompany me on my journey through stone days,
Brothered with poverty, loneliness is my sole companion,
I seek not the sweetness of love, but the cold kiss of poetry.
What is my life? An enigma where the echo of questions is lost,
An endless string of days, a thirst unquenched,
A solitude that crosses aeons, an endless refrain,
In a world that doesn't even know my name.
I live like a monk among the pages of the world,
Writing my expectations in verses that flow
Like tears on the unjust face of time,
And my dreams, pale children, are the phantoms of hope.
My life, an altar where the flame never extinguishes,
My purpose, a lantern in the never-ending storm,
An oasis of peace in the tumult of the world, where steps do not echo,
And maybe, one day, a sign of salvation will appear.
A mystic order of pure souls,
That will light up the darkness with their poetry,
A choir of hearts sustaining the harmony of the cosmos,
In this stone temple, I live, I work, in silence.
Thus am I, the ascetic worker in his sanctuary,
Without glory, without echo, waiting for a day that may never come,
Yet my heart beats in the rhythm of an unwritten poem,
And from each beat, poetry is born, echoing in other hearts.
When I was a very young girl a tragedy filled my world
I watched my sister's blood soak the snow on the street
she died while I stood with mom ... I still hear mom screaming
and I went into a silent world and though I heard- I refused to speak
I was in a dark and lonely place, so alone, so lost, so afraid, and sad
Then, grandma reached into my dark world with her kind voice
she would sit me on her knee and tell me her made up stories
you see, grandma was the family storyteller and I loved her so much
she will always and forever be my part of my heart and soul
I listened to so many of her stories and I became a storyteller too
I can recall watching her face while she spoke a story to the family
and I was fascinated with her facial expressions and tone of voice
though, I had heard her stories hundreds of times I would still listen
she encouraged me to write- giving me a journal and special pen
grandma told me to write my sadness and I did and I still do
We would read what I had written over "a nice cup of tea"
and we would hug and let our tears fall- she encouraged me to write
"write it, write it for the world to read' - (I do grandma, I do !)
grandma is a reflection of who I am today as a writer, I honor her
and all my hurts I write ... though sad they are beautiful, so beautiful
When grandma died at ninety-four she could not speak anymore
her voice had been silenced by old age and she died quietly in her sleep
I was shattered yet insisted on speaking at her catholic funeral
writing seven pages about my grandma and what she meant to me
I stood at the front of the church trembling- her casket a distraction
But, when I went to speak a great wind took my papers away
they floated around the church like they had wings and I was unsure
but I heard a voice ("you don't need them") and I started talking
I talked and talked about my grandma, me, and her stories
when I finished, there was silence- except for the sound of weeping
In that moment ... I knew the power of words and of storytelling
grandma blessed me with her gift- the Lord blessed me with writing
when I think of gran's face it is with so much love, her smile beautiful
I will see my grandma Helena again ... she is waiting for me in Heaven
and when we meet- she will say, "lets have a nice cup of tea"
I tried to smoke away the pain,
Rolled it into a blunt and lit it.
I breathe it all in to feel something,
I blow out to release the suffering.
Too anxious for my own good,
I pop a pill every now and then.
The pills stop me from overthinking,
They give me a moment of peace.
I wish I could turn my thoughts
Into alcoholic shots.
I wanna black out from my thoughts,
Forget them and wake up hungover.
Let me crush up my bad memories,
And snort them with my diary pages.
Replace those bad moments with
The good ones I recreated with drugs.
These night terrors don’t stop at sunset,
?And the clock hasn’t even struck 12 yet.
I’ll take my dose of Vivarin,
And fight the demon that’s appearing.
My body can’t hold up the abuse,
Each time I’m down in the blues.
I’ll try to get high off my own pain,
I’ll use anything to stimulate my brain.
I promise next time I won’t overdose,
Even if that’s what I feel like doing the most.
I can hold it in my hands. The heavy book of names
Now laden with the dust and grime. Leather-bound and torn
It is the color of the prairie earth, that changed from rust to gold
Heavy was their lot. of those who tilled the land
Kansas dust, would furrow brows, of the worried and the worn
I feel within my heart, sharp splinters from the plow
The weight of shoulders, tiring
From lifting me
Long before my hour came
Oh, for the power of these words
To learn the names, that held the brush
That paints for me, and planted row, by row
This tree of life, that let me grow
Bound in leather, bound in love, a family's footsteps, read
I feel the trace, in pages spread
Names inscribed, of birth and death
Of children lost, of hearts that bled
I feel the sense of who I am
Between the threads
Frayed and thin, within these bindings
Yet holding firm
Confirming what’s been said
By generational latitudes
Linking me to names I never knew
______________________________
(Quoted by William Golding NY Times)
One day I am living life without fear
Next thing you know nothings clear
My thought are scrambled at their best
That I'd break they would have never guessed
Yet there's been one voice from the start
Saying, " Pull yourself together don't fall apart "
Going from a life that's been lived numb
Now making sacrifices for more then one
Going against some things in which I believe
Because another's life I just can't leave
It was once easy to just walk away
But nothings even close to the same today
I was taught many years ago
Hide your feelings don't let them show
People are mean and most don't care
If you leave or if your there
But from all experiences we must learn
If it's bad don't take a second turn
Never show your whole hand
Until you know just where you stand
So I turn to the pages I write
To calm myself and help me sleep at night
Then I get up and try all over again
Refusing to surrender or give in
This all will make no sense to you
But it's this helping hand that gets me through!
An Uncle Charlie Original
© 2011 unclecharlie
"O, Lord, make my enemies ridiculous.
And God granted it. . . Voltaire
I grew up Ojibwe in a pure white world,
my long black hair was straight and never curled;
and I was bullied bad,
inside it made me mad!
Then one day I unsheathed my sharp sword,
all the hurt and the sadness within poured;
this brave warrior would not be ignored!
My rapier bloody,
I had not one buddy;
my time was all study.
There was no time to wallow in pity,
it was a bloodstained battle not pretty;
my only friend was with a black kitty.
Yes, I grew up Ojibwe in a pure white world.
My soul became blood-soaked from the fierce war,
the haters returning again for more;
I knew how to evade,
and to parry my blade!
The bullies were relentless and savage,
my true essence they wanted to ravage;
I waded a brutal battle to salvage,
this shy Objibwe girl.
On pages of white my words twirl,
with my sword pen words I swirl;
you see, I studied hard and my sword is words,
I thrust them out but they fly away birds.
A pen was the weapon I used on those nerds!
Still, my soul is blood-soaked from that fierce war.
A quote by Micky Mantle
"A gang is where a coward goes to hide."
________________________________
September 15, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/Unsheathe Your Sword
Copyright Protected, ID 18-4538-0915-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
It was cold in his shack and rain squeezed through gaps in the walls
Built as a summer retreat near the beach during prosperous times
A single door creaked under an onslaught of memories and drizzle
Oh well Dylan Thomas wrote in his Boat House
Waves reaches foundations erected on shifting sands and firm beliefs
Thunder resembled turmoil and salt of the earth in search of a home
A sea weed mattress moulded his mind into drift wood of dilapidation
The Old Man by the Sea and no fish in sight
He was freezing his hands stiff and stringent merely holding the pen
Once more he cursed arthritis and age and icy ink in mere circulation
His gaze fell upon a ceiling which suspended possessions and dreams
Carl Spitzweg The Poor Poet umbrella in hand
When the tide reached his shaky resilience and vanishing aspirations
He succumbed to the dire question of how to use the last bit of paper
Buried nearby the iron cast stove which was an alcove to his lost hearth
Dorothy Parker You may as well Live
As frost set in and he hesitantly resolved to kindle a dim meagre fire
Piled bits of a sodden wooden crate onto an opening for new beginnings
He rubbed his fingers and rejoined the quill adorning his crooked grip
No one can make this decision but me
When flames of near forgotten passion flickered a few shadows of hope
He required no pages to write to his lover in the realm of infinite script
The sepia photograph was faded but the picture held court in his heart
He draped an octopus around star fish and dolphins
23rd January 2020