Long Pen and ink Poems
Long Pen and ink Poems. Below are the most popular long Pen and ink by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pen and ink poems by poem length and keyword.
Deep within the world so modern,
Lies a hidden road not trodden,
That states the obvious truth be told,
Printed in ink black and bold,
That lost in worlds of ecstasy,
Trapped in snares of misery,
That wars the rumors be told they sneered,
Now not alive a bray a’bird,
Gone are thoughts that thinketh straight,
And now to turn back it's O’so late,
Truth is gone, and truths be’come,
Lies run wild thru’ Urb and slum,
Prove me wrong this not happen,
But wrong they are yet shamelessly clappin’,
All so jolly good way they are,
From the Truth they stay afar,
Given in to the delusions be,
These strange worlds move so surreally,
That eats place a first a crown,
And Wannabe’s laze and fuss arroun’,
Talks about this and that and all that’s good,
Ney earn their money and cry for food,
When not given they stage a protest,
What they think is unjust!
But truth be told they sloth all day,
Sit around and laze away,
Their youths burnt dry, so willfully done,
When the brave reproaches them, they rant and away they run,
Sad to see, this is our reality,
Where all but’s none have time for thee,
Where life’s no respect and death appraise,
No wonder! They fit in with Artemis’ ways,
Tis’ are days of Noah’s time,
Filled with false hate and unwanted slime,
The hot is cold and the cold is hot,
They should be left to these ways to rot,
For no amount of reproach or preaching change they,
They want to remain that way,
So, let it be and move on in life,
Find a place to settle, build a home with your wife,
But when they come, O’Brave men of life,
To scandal your family and toss the knife,
Don’t debate them in anyway by words,
Take up your weapon and massacre they featherless birds,
Let them cry foul, whine and weep,
For they are into misery so deep, even the good that they do is evil so steep,
Let it be, let it be and protect your families,
From these so called ‘Justice Warriors of all the Sissies.’
What is well, when men of old just a teen,
Went to war for freedom’s freeing,
No scandal was found heard, no loose talk in the winds,
They wives waited for them, rather than sinned!
But if now one were off, to fight for justice cause,
In their absence does much spend, party’s all that splend.
Not all I say that way be done but are true, true indeed to none,
Tis’ a tragedy with my pen and ink I write and run.
As a mere child of eighteen years, I married my love Anne. An older lady,
she was twenty-six years of age. I love to write, collaborations~plays~sonnets and of course poems. As I awake to a new day, what do I find. I am in a world I do not know, everything has changed. They say I am England's national poet, how could that be true. Many new inventions, oh~my head is spinning. I learn my pen and ink are out of style, a thing they call a computer is what writers now use. I will never learn this computer machine, I want my pen and ink back. I want back to my simple life, oil lamps~pen~ink and paper please.
Date Written:1/6/2023
3 Place
("Pema", 2017, original pen and ink)
The Journey of Souls
Dogs make the ultimate example
Of a conditionable being,
And my deaf-dog buddy
Old Pema the Pug is no exception.
Meanwhile Buddhists of all faiths
Believe reincarnation effects us all
And involves the journey
Of a soul through countless lives,
The idea of improving our lot
Being central to life’s meaning,
Improvement which comes from the habit
Of accentuating the positive and eliminating
The negative, combined with deep insight
Into our true nature.
One way to do this is through meditation
And contemplation in a mindful way,
But the point is, it’s up to each of us to do.
So back to my pug.
Like I said he’s getting old,
But he’s still a best friend
And I’m sure I mean the world to him too
At least in the basic fact of how he’s bonded to me
In a way that’s sweet but
Also unfathomable.
This morning as I worked on a project
Building some closet shelves in my study
He came to hang out with me
And of all the soft spots available
Chose to take his place
On my meditation cushion
A spot he has over the years grown familiar with.
And it strikes me as a profound
Yet obvious fact that his conditioning
Is leading him to not only follow me
In this life,
But to set a course for his future lives
To improve his lot
Whether he knows it or not.
Maybe at some point I had a similar mentor.
I did flash once on seeing the dark soothing inside
Of an ancient Tibetan temple
From the edge of a wide open windowsill
High above the valley below,
And in the moment recognized
Something of the heart, something familiar
A point of some significance
Now matured in time
To something vastly different.
And the thought occurred to me
Perhaps I was a small bird then
Attracted to the place, perhaps simply
By a morsel of food,
But in the moment heard and felt
Something much more significant
Much more substantial and transformative.
Maybe it was a million years ago
In a different galaxy,
Maybe it was just a lifetime or two ago.
What does it matter
To the dreamer dreaming this now?
Like for my pug
Pursuing his own self interest life after life,
It makes all the difference,
And eventually becomes self evident
To mean everything.
(2/21/24)
Circling above on a sun shiny day
The raven twirls within his dreams
Of horrors soon to be inflicted
Soaring in the skies
The Preacher reads from the holy book
Collections duly collected on chanted psalms
The raven above with a sinister smile
He knew god’s plate was not full enough
Dark clouds from the east flew with the wind
Under the ravens command
As lightening struck the village steeple
Fire and brimstone, hell on earth
Humans who once lived by their daily bread
Became the bread of crows
Telegraph poles free to weep the news
As the crows feasted on the burnt flesh of our sins
The ravens’ heart pleased to share his torment
Amongst the brethren of feathered dark angels
The greed of humans shall be ridden of this earth
Crooned the raven under the spotlight of the devils moon
All were dead, the children too
All but one lone poet, so it seemed
Arms outstretched, clasping at pen and ink
Dying, dying to tell this black tale
Now, in tranquility, lies the village graveyard
Somber, quiet, flowers cover the horrors
Of that unholy day, of the ravens sins
His laughter echoes, echoes the pain
It is said, in the heat of summer nights
Crows sing and dance
As they feast on the remains
Of us, all of us, poets and all
Beside the village in the swamp
On that a very somber twisted day
An alligator lazed upon the shores
She, the only witness, to this feathered fiendish crime
In stealth she watched, scales of justice
A billion years of Gods creation
She slithered towards the stench of death
Teeth primed for an easy meal
A baby, oh so small, shivering in a fog of illusions
Looked into the eyes of the raven above
She saw that hell may very well come from above, not below
She resigned her baby cries to eternity, momma dead and gone
The alligator, teeth sharpened by natures instinct
Darted forth, and jaws stretched, swallows the baby whole
Slithering back towards the swamps shadows
The raven provided this nights’ meals gratuit
She spit out the baby, and licked her cheeks
Providing both substance and loving warmth
Hell may live above
Mercy and compassion may come from the swamp
High in the sky
The Raven
Lost this little one
The Butterfly smiled
images are slow to fade, where did they go? why were they here?
pensive pen and ink, a gentle man of measure
pipe-smoke wafting cool blue persevering pleasure
cartoon humour designed with careful modest pride
arm-in-arm soothing his war-time petulant bride
oft-wiped canvas, woodland, moody misty scene
roaming through pale paintings where her lost man has been
merging ever always their special being; are they still near?
old parental faces time-spun and woven under my skin
memories upon memories, changing I, changing me
stories upon stories pile up, changing they, changing we
falsehood flailing, transition, turbulent knowing
transcendence, my mind, your mind, all minds are growing
we are mid-paced sampled brethren, thinking anew
significance in what we say and what we do
personalities on kindred journeys beyond kith and kin
kick string-strung corporeal cans down the celestial street
where the multi-dimensional membranes quiver
where energy swims across the quantum river
where slow light-speed traverses the nebula face
where superpositions collapse with certain grace
where fine bits of information feedback feeling
where negentropy out-runs chaotic dealing
pick soulful sounding song, counter-rhythmic orchestral beat
sprung from the fundament, nothing always trumped by something
prime numbers inflate unfolding untold troubles
universal endurance, containment bubbles
pushing, pulling fields, filaments of flexing shape
veils warp and wrap around a wily cosmo-scape
intelligent infant guises, gaining in-sight
impressions crossing chasms to inform the night
lives on holographic film, many melodies to sing
I hear them now, voices blending the chords of man and wife
I feel their presence, though they are forever changed
I know they are transformed, molecules rearranged
I share their warm substance, two people that mattered
I care for their essence, they will not be scattered
I record them in words, the library of thoughts
I sense they are near and far, few and many noughts
I am listening out for them on the other side of life
Not for the contest
No more do I despair
writing for contests with an off the wall theme
Those that want me to create a nightmare
from what was once a beautiful dream.
No more do I care
about Marvel characters who fight and kill
I'd rather spend my time writing silly limericks
for fun and honing a particular poetry skill
than worrying about meter and syllable tricks.
No more do I write
for contests where a sponsor forbids me to choose
how many spaces I indent each middle line
by someone who thinks they're a bard. No, I refuse
to write for a yobo whose rules constrict and confine.
No more contests
do I enter for judges who hold grudges and spite
or who offer friendship placements with a wink.
It's not fair to good poets who get N/A'd as a backbite
I've no more interest in participation with pen and ink
No longer care
to write for judges who give novel length instruction
Yes, rules should be followed, but not to such extreme.
It negates poetic license, serving as a poetic obstruction
making that contest sponsor, head of his or her regime.
No more writing
for those who prohibit adjectives and adverbs be used
or if the sponsor has never written in the specified form.
The power that some feel as a judge can be abused
while preaching about dos and don'ts from a platform.
Oh, spare me
from those who don't know the use of literary devices,
metaphors, proper grammar, and over doing alliteration.
To anyone who wants to enter contests, my advice is...
"Don't take a crown seriously. It will lead to abdication."
No more issues
to deal with sponsors who change their minds midway
through contests because no entries for the theme... bizarre,
and decide, without warning they have the right to say,
"I can do what I want." Who made them the contest czar?"
No blight is this
on judges who sincerely host, giving up their leisure time
to make PS a place where everyone can take an active part.
Those who appreciate good fun in free verse or with rhyme.
I applaud the fair-minded sponsors who have a good heart.
A few weeks ago, I decided to not enter PS contests any longer.
(“Pandora’s Box”, 2014, original pen and ink and oil)
Pandora’s Box
I don’t know who she was,
What she did or how she did it,
And maybe as the first it was sublime
Or maybe she was just another woman
With the kind of perfect snatch
To launch a thousand ships
On a sea of broken hearts,
But Pandora certainly left her mark, even today,
A stain across the whole of the Western world
The syphilization we’re all now born into and with
The miasm of her primordial STD
At our culture’s core.
And so it flows,
A not so mythic etheric ooze
Tainting hearts and minds
Of old and young alike,
Making the age of innocence
An ever more fleeting thing
Turning daydreams into nightmares
Corrupting youth upon their backs
In sagging decrepit elder’s sacks.
Ah, but there was a time
When the light shone bright and clear
And children laughed
Without a care
Before Father Time had his way
With Mother Earth
And the world turned
Into one long tawdry daytime soap,
With coked up stars
Too self-obsessed to even know or care
To what degree the schlock they sold
Was even worth the dime they’d all just shared.
Lost like this, removed from their roots
The players played
At the same old game
With the same old lines
Recalling Pandora only in their deepest dream
When from within the stench
The faint fresh breath of morning dew
Touched their petals fair
And in that moment glimpsed,
The soft perspicuous light
Before the dawn did shine
On Pandora at our core, demure and sweet,
Before her box
Was ever known
To any but her own.
And so it goes
In cycles great and small
The mind enthralled by all that can
And could ever be,
Returns unto the source
To sit and smile and rest awhile
With Pandora before she even knew the name
Let alone the power she possessed
And all it would unfold
Back before she was a she
When Pan was all we knew
Of love and life, in dance and play
Just simply being free.
(7/19/25)
("Bye Bye Safe Journey", 2014, original pen and ink and oil)
The Great Reset
As the modern world hurls towards tomorrow
more and more of us are swept up,
languages, dress, myths and beliefs,
consumed in the cause of hope and change, security and conformity
in short, control.
The two sides of this debate are as they have always been;
life vs. death, freedom vs. slavery, our choice being
as Henry Patrick once so eloquently said,
“Give me liberty or give me death!”
The modern world for once gives us the power to choose,
with the power to enforce,
but it has also shown this power of choice
must be voluntary to stick.
And so armed with an over abundance of data
leaders assault the masses with information
filtered through their biases, prejudices and grant applications
to control the flow through media,
mass, public, private and social,
control the content through
severs and censors, ads and algorithms,
control the outcome
with purse strings and a cancel culture
that stretches from the ivory towers to board rooms
local papers and Thanksgiving dinners.
None of this would be possible without the power of communication
of data, threats, promises and consequences.
Without this world wide web
of modern convenience, homogenization, cooperation
The Great Reset would be nothing but a dream in dictator’s heads
instead it’s a template being offered for us to embrace
by socially conscious bureaucrats
at the cusp of a future devoid of choice.
This is the future we face, at last
voluntarily enslaved to serve the greater good
in the name of death, the fear of it, in obsession with it,
as we cling to our smaller and smaller
piece of the pie.
Somewhere Patrick Henry is turning in his grave
spinning by now, like a top ready to break free
to be made anew, literally born again,
a spirit of freedom that, like love,
never dies.
(12/12/23)
("Earth", 1979, original pen and ink)
Missing the Mark
As they say, this world is full of sin:
the meaning of Life a target we continually miss
out of carelessness and habit.
This is the root of crime, which theft is the most basic form of;
murder, rape, arson, kidnap, assault and robbery, even defamation,
all involving stealing something that isn’t ours and wasn’t freely given.
Justified perhaps in the name of justice, personal or social,
or simply survival, we habitually treat the world as ours
for the taking and defending.
But beneath this action of theft
lies the outlook of dishonesty;
the motivation and intention to fool others and ourselves.
This is the lie that the world is full of,
the flaw in our nature that causes us to habitually
miss the mark.
Ignorance, after all,
implies we are ignoring
something we know to be true.
The one thing about habits is while they are tough to break
they are only formed by repeated actions and so able to be changed
through different actions when we find a different ground to start from.
Of course, this is easier said than done, but maybe the trick to the training
doesn’t rely on someone telling us what or how to do,
but simply making the target so close it is impossible to miss.
So close it can be touched with our finger
held in the palm of our hand,
or kissed with our lips.
These are the little things
we can, and do, do
that make all the difference.
This may seem to take all the sport out of it
after all, what is the point of a target if it isn’t a challenge,
if it is already right at hand.
But what is the point of living
a life of pain and frustration
from habitually missing the mark.
If we’re honest with ourselves we’ll be grateful
for the bird in hand, and let the two in the bush
go about living their own lives.
(12/8/23)
In words, straight from this writer's heart ~
my soul, or some other sensitive anatomical part,
I consider a poem a failure, without success
when poetry readers consider it a bloody mess.
Sometimes I write in the midst of discombobulation.
It's catharsis in a bottle of ink to a confuzzled mind.
Relief to me when I'm puzzled, not when I am blind
for to see what others don't, soothes my frustration.
In my thoughts, black and white scenes are flitting.
There's an urgent need of color, but none seem fitting
that my pen and ink consider worth transcribing.
It's discombobulating for me, as if I'd been imbibing.
Trying to sound cohesive when using clever metaphor
can weigh me down until I am prone, crying on the floor.
There are themes in some contests that seem ill-defined,
when I've no clue about a subject and I feel confined.
I'm drowning in quicksand, and no one can pull me out.
It's grimly perplexing to be filled with such brooding doubt.
My words begin to ramble, and I get lost in a blunder fest.
Seriously, it's a conundrum. About this woe, I wouldn't jest.
I wind up scribbling sonnets without meter or hint of rhyme.
A saturnine absurdity and a complete waste of my time.
An infinity of feckless, ineffectual lines without vitality,
so much so that my poem winds up N/Ad. Another fatality.
I need to find a way to make other poets savor the taste
of what I breathe in and then exhale so that it's interlaced
with profound meaning that others might comprehend,
instead of mere words on a page, that no editor could mend.
I don't mind constructive criticism. I'd be a foolish ingrate
to not accept well-meaning advice. Wisely, I'd contemplate
changing the course of a poem that simply doesn't mesh.
I'm not so discombobulated to realize when I need to refresh.