Long Paragraph Poems
Long Paragraph Poems. Below are the most popular long Paragraph by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paragraph poems by poem length and keyword.
I firmly believe that fairy tales should come with a disclaimer
some sort of warning label affixed to the very front page
right before the first paragraph or the opening scene in film versions
in big bold letters on the cover of the play program
declaring that such stories can prove dangerous to developing minds
I’ll gladly testify to the truth of that statement
I grew up wishing on stars because Jiminy Cricket told me to
assuring me there was no dream too extreme
Not a single one of those wishes ever came true
Others’ fondest desires manifested into reality
those of the kids whose parents had money
Never for me
No prince on his noble steed showed up on my doorstep
or merely a sincerely nice guy who behaved like royalty
I couldn't care less about a crown or the riches that come with it
I’ve been an adult awhile now yet I continue to wait
for fate to intervene like lightning from the blue
though my luck all it would do is set my house on fire
Crickets are compulsive liars
I Know You
A friend read a book.
Something that I had written.
When?
Hard to say…
About?
Really did not matter.
The key…
“I know all about you now.”
She chimed with all serious intent.
As if she had won a prize or a contest?
I stood very still, while inside;
the poet laughed lightly, (if somewhat hysterically)
the dancer, moved with two left feet,
the writer used the backspace,
for a whole paragraph…
the painter spilled a gallon of enamel,
the color rainbow and sparkle hue.
The sword master pulled a dagger,
too small to craft into a pen…
A princess in the park,
a clown, a hero and even a villain
felt ever so slightly unmasked.
Then just as suddenly overcome,
All of the above rolled as one on the floor.
One mirror, one page, one image or three?
You only know a very small part…
of me.
It sat there—not as metal, not as memory,
but as something half-asleep and listening.
A quiet creature of keys and shadows,
its body dulled by dust, its spirit still humming
beneath the years.
It had known the weight of a man
who believed words could bend the world~
a man whose hands were rough with labor
yet gentle with letters, as if each keystroke
were a small salvation.
I remember the music of it~
that click-clack cadence like rain on a tin roof,
like a heartbeat learning to speak.
I was a child then, cross-legged under his desk,
catching the syllables like fireflies,
not knowing they were seeds, not knowing they were mine.
When Granddad passed, I carried the machine upward
as though escorting a relic to its resting place~
a silent procession through the narrow throat of the attic.
It waited there—through summers that smelt of cedar and heat,
through winters that whispered of things forgotten, it waited~
a sentinel of stories I was too afraid to write.
Years later, the attic groaned under my return,
as if recognizing the footsteps of someone
who had once believed in beginnings.
The machine was still there, its silhouette steady,
its longing patient. It had survived because some things endure
even when we abandon them~
faith, memory, and the quiet insistence of a dream
we pretend we outgrew.
When I touched it, the dust rose like breath.
The first key resisted-a refusal,
a reminder of all the years I’d resisted myself.
But then, a single letter, dark and certain,
punched through the page like a pulse returning.
By the third paragraph, I understood:
I had not resurrected the machine. It had resurrected me.
And somewhere between the rafters and the rising words,
I realized this truth: I was never the one writing the story.
I was the story finally finding its way back to the page.
The accompanying memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
Magic occurs by the moment
Modern eyes dismiss
The world, we think we own it
So oblivious
Zombies, we roam this land
Searching for a bite
Everything tastes bland
We have selective sight
A baby, born today
10 fingers and toes
Though the green can't stay
We already know
How do we know, you ask
Expectation, my dear
Fairly simple to grasp
If you have two ears that hear
We exist on a giant ball
Gravity is our glue
Logically we should fall
But God already knew
Aren't you relieved
That we don't go flying
A gift we received
Without any trying
Isn't it neat
The way seasons change
Right beneath our feet
This ball will rearrange
We call them by name
Winter, spring, summer, Autumn
The subject becomes lame
Teachers already taught'em
Imagine yourself foreign
To this land and all above
A gentle blow of wind
And you would fall in love
Magician's would be your neighbors
For they can walk upside down
Recite a paragraph for favors
Taste, smell, feel, see and sound
Whether we realize it or not
We live in a world of magic
But we accept what we've been taught
And that's what's so very tragic
The book of our life opened when we were born…from that moment everything we experience…every adventure we ever take or took…are faithfully transcribed upon the pages of that book.
Meaning every day we are alive…every day we age…whether we realize it or not…we’ve written another page.
I’ve often wondered if that’s the reason why we fall asleep at night…to give our heart a chance to think our mind a chance do dream…and our brain a chance to write.
Of course it is our parents who begin the writing…until such time we’ve grown…
old enough to pick up the pen…and begin writing on our own.
We meet so many different people in our life…literally…everywhere we look…which means we will find them mentioned…in the pages of our book.
Some will be a footnote…perhaps in only one sentence they appear…
crossing our path momentarily…and then they disappear.
Others will linger in the pages of our book…their influence reaching far…
for not only do they help to write our story…they help determine who we are.
Some of our pages will be filled with losses…some…will be filled with wins.
This page may be the end a chapter…while on this page…one begins.
Every page we’ve ever written once the ink has dried is there for us to see…as each chapter, each page, each paragraph each sentence…becomes a memory.
And though we cannot rewrite the past…we do control the pen
which means each day when we rise…we begin to write again.…
Adding another chapter to our story…recording all life’s stages…
Hoping when it’s time to close our book…
we’ll be happy with what we’ve written on its pages.
A visit to my village in the month of june,
all that it offers you is a very short day and a lazy afternoon.
Soft whirring of the fan making heavy the eyelids,
trying in futile to stay open over a paragraph in a book.
With the little ones all wide awake,
chattering over games of carrom and chess
sending about a crazy cacophony of voices.
But with the red and green sherbets making up
for the tormenting heat outside.
Competing over how many mangoes one can eat,
a one..a two..and there's no count how many more.
The otherwise chirpy fruit orchard wears
a graveyard like eerie mood of it's own in the hot summer noon.
With not too many birds in sight,
yet you can sometimes spot a dog sulking in the grove hiding from the hot sunlight.
While I continue to crib and cry waiting impatiently for the monsoons
a sibling in a faraway land keeps fond memories of his Indian summer afternoons.
In the topic of magazines.
I sat on the cover, close to the reflection of her eyes.
Relaxed in the greeting of open arms.
She paused, sitting upright.
The gap between us now closer.
Allowing the invitation of smiles.
Our upright becoming a corner staple in the edge of anticipation.
We both sat.
Allowing ourselves to do what came natural.
My reflection seen clear in the middle of her eyes.
Her personality pasted all around me.
No currency was exchanged in the beauty of two souls flipping to page 42.
Reading the full article.
Taking our time not to wrinkle the pages.
Moving from the cover to emotional commitment.
The exchange of excitement
Where she was free to be herself just as I.
Ideally, I reread every paragraph.
Falling in love with everything represented to be pharmaceutical to deep need.
Constantly reading then rereading the same passages over and over.
Hiding myself behind the cover.
Wanting to know more
Goodbye my favorite forever
Eternal fragments lost in abstract soup de jour
Our handshakes full of tremors
When the memories rain it's sore
My heart in freefall, falling up and out, forever's too soon
The paragraph on the backs of pictures stabs the point home
Skeletal strangers with nothing left to prove
The distance signals in real time leaving the breadcrumbs of
jarred hearts, painted candied hearts and Pacman ghosts in slow pursuit
The light of pumpkin eyes, rhythmical in pursuit of boyish daydreams
Girlish looks of starving hearts depreciated, are less than pennies now
Parting words circled in funny papers still shaking with regret
When you see me in the folded memories
Just know you're not alone
Your light smiling on in the hollows of my eyes
Smiling in hindsight begging you to come home
Begging me to be brave
Goodbye my favorite forever
You're my long way out
In fading and in passing
Set me a long way down
Locked in the room with the beating heart
That was in love scratch in a room engaged in walls
That didn't move I was in tombed lost
Stockings is reality
Lost in the pages I was encage in sentences paragraph in a book
Inprisoned in my mind shook engaged to fail as I shook
I was renaissance giving prompt to go off and on again
I was wicked stoned punished my only friend
Was my end in the end was my friend
Shocking is realities
Reality found me crying in the alley broken down the end Defeated I found myself very on the streets with the needy
While all alone I took my time I crawl
Heeding life's misfortune I fall
I could have walked to could have chosen to fly so I flown
Was lost now found mine self walking alone
While in my mind goes to deny the watts currents electricity
Shocking is realities repertility
8/13/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2023
A WORD IN A BOOK
No book is written with one word
No matter how vital it may appear
For that, we carefully have to think
Every word for the book is so dear.
A verb, an adjective, a noun one may be
That describes what we are and do
Or he is a period, a colon, or a comma
That emphasis puts and gives us a clue.
Each of us a meaningful role plays
In life’s voluminous book, sublime
In the chapter titled “Humanity.”
In the paragraph of space and time.
None of us more significant must feel,
From the other words next in line
Regardless of how trivial they may seem
It is them that our functions define.
Our gratitude to all words around us
At every instance, we have to show,
For without their valuable presence
We would never be able to glow.
What kind of a word “king” would be
What sort that of a “general” of glory
If “subjects” and “soldiers” were not there
To assist them in writing their story?
© Demetrios Trifiatis
01 NOVEMBER 2013