Long Pencil Poems
Long Pencil Poems. Below are the most popular long Pencil by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pencil poems by poem length and keyword.
Your laughter’s echoes are like a broken record in my hysterical brain
I misplaced my journey-like notebook, written in pen and pencil prudently and sincerely
Solace sunrays are embedded in your blue-green eyes and it’s driving me insane
Change is a challenging chore, but as someone once told me, “No one ever stops progressing, but it’s your job to improve frankly!”
Confined to this Depression wars, I feel like I’m frozen forever in his ribcage
Don’t accuse me for committing atrocious felonies – my intentions don’t lean on greed
I love God’s Wonderful deeds indeed! I loathe this fast-paced world, especially in this day of age, sponging up avarice and rage
Be careful what you watch, say, touch, hear, and taste – nourish your family seed
Visions of unforeseen, unforced miracles is a memory I hold dear honestly
I recall years spent on pondering about the tragedy in this fast-paced world and its many crimes
You scan my verses as if it’s a short story, catching your sheer curiosity
You have read me several times like a children’s book with silly Mother Goose Rhymes
I resemble shrouds of misfortune for cat’s sake...Now, am I worthy to be compared to a children’s tale? Am I the cause of the world’s calamity?
The dusk has dawned upon me…unearth the mysteries in the hollow, tacky atmosphere
Man’s plans were destined to be a fail from the beginning of time – why’s my heart thumping with pride and vanity?
Why should I rely on Man when I have God by my side? He’s the one and only that makes me have tears of hope, not frantic fear!
I’ve seen his wonders, so imperishable! I’m a witness to God’s phenomenal, faultless Work!
Why don’t you look at yourself in the mirror? Let’s face it – we’re all playing roles in this world’s tragedy!
Why are you throwing the blame on me? You resemble an irrational jerk!
I can’t bear being that individual who speaks his mind deliberately – I’m not acting immature! Straighten up your mind; stop acting so silly!
~!@#$%^&*())(*&^%$#@!~
Inspired by Jake Ponce’s poem: Ephemeral and the verse (entitled: The Key To My Heart) written by Jan Allison! Check both poems out and you’ll be amazed and it feels as if you’re placed in their shoes. It’s remarkable. Do look them up and read their works. You won’t regret it.
^Written by David William Breidenthal^
***Date this was written: Thursday, May 29, 2014***
I, the sleeper and dreamer
Wish for your end
Is it wrong, blasphemer?
Should I break, should you bend?
I sharpen your demise on a pencil sharpener
Peeling you away….reaching your core of lead
Should I break or should you bend?
Or can’t I just wish for my end?
There’s knives protruding from your eyes
The eyes I know are dead
The blasphemer you are will reveal where your body lies
Beneath your core of lead
I found you among the disposables
Wishing for my end
I blasphemed you and you just gave back
My pencils burning with lead
I screamed as you pierced through me
I felt it in my soul!
But I’m to blame for this masterpiece
I sharpened you with gold!
The shavings fall upon the ground
And still this dream moves on
Pierced, I fall without a sound
Until the break of dawn
I, the sleeper and dreamer
Am still pierced to this day
So I hand the pencil sharpener to you
And pray you’ll be with me
I grew up with inches, yards, miles, and feet.
I knew the difference, it was easy, and neat.
But today I am far behind in the dust because
Metric scale is what the new math does.
Millimeters, centimeters, cha cha cha.
Pencil thickness is about one centimeter. Rah Rah Rah.
Ten Millimeters is one centimeter, reminds me of cents to a dollar.
I may be catching on, so I stand up and holler.
One hundred thousand centimeters is a kilometer, friend.
One hundred centimeters is a meter, did you know that, Uncle Ben?
Millimeters, centimeters, cha cha cha.
Paper thickness is way less than a centimeter. Rah Rah Rah.
Now I think of my recipes. Did they change the tablespoon too?
Do I have to worry about cups, pints, and gallons for my glue?
I used to know my measurements, but everything is new.
Don’t even show me the rest of the new math. It is a boo hoo.
She was buried in Spring . . .
when green buds were bursting forth,
and the wind was a gentle whisper
and the squirrels and chipmunks played.
Now, the snow has fallen soft and pure,
and he recalls her face so fair,
her hands folded- now beneath the snow on snow.
She rests where once red roses lay,
peacefully.
Long gone are the weeping mourners dressed in black.
It is he who comes,
to linger with the dead
and gaze at her name with tearful eyes.
He brings the flowers that she loved,
oh, she must be an angel up above.
So sweet and calm,
so full of life
she was a girl of delight.
So, quietly her eyelids had closed with a sigh . . .
He stands with a heart throbbing,
his pain and torture a thirst growing,
oh, backward, turn back the pages of her life.
He smiles at a beautiful memory,
of them hand in hand walking in the snow.
She makes a snowball,
and throws it straight for his head,
but he ducks away . . .
laughing.
She was buried in Spring . . .
when green buds were bursting forth,
and the wind was a gentle whisper,
and the squirrels and chipmunks played.
She was just a girl he vowed to love forever,
his wife, his friend, the mother of their child.
The child lived . . .
but the mother did not see dawn,
a life for a life.
It seems so unfair to separate those two,
she had wanted that baby so very much.
She was buried in the Spring . . .
when green buds were bursting forth,
and the wind was a gentle whisper,
and the squirrels and chipmunks played.
She exists in an undreaming realm,
oh, can she see her baby girl . . .
He stands frozen in the snow on snow
he knows he should lay down the flowers on her grave
but he is like a statue of stone . . .
________________________
September 18, 2017
Written for the contest, Poems That Paint A Picture 2
sponsor, Silent One
Free Verse/She Was Buried In Spring
Copyright Protected, ID 940700
Inspiration: Pencil Portrait Painting by Mike Theuer
Second Place
On some days, I am the pencil, drawing with uncertain steps hopes on sheets of paper,
My hand trembles, but leaves traces of dreams still daring to take shape,
Other days, I am the eraser, erasing with such force that holes remain like memories,
The paper tears under the burden of my attempts to make everything disappear, to forget.
There are locked doors on days when fatigue envelops me like a dense fog,
Too tired to open them, too tired to explain, to search for words,
I am a dusty book that hurried footsteps ignore on the shelves of memory,
But that doesn’t mean my silence doesn’t hide stories ready to be told.
And yet, every morning, I rise from the ashes of unfulfilled dreams,
Not for glory, not for applause, but because giving up has never been my friend,
No one applauds the trees that face winter with bare branches and courageous souls,
But they stand tall, and that has a deep meaning, a form of silent resistance.
Perhaps life was never about conquests, but about simple presence,
About finding beauty in cracked walls, in forgotten coffee cups,
In lonely mornings that no longer hurt as they once did,
Perhaps it’s not about becoming someone the world embraces with open arms,
But about becoming someone with whom you can sit in silence and feel you’ve come home,
To be your own refuge, your own island of peace and acceptance,
To be that place you can always return to, without fear, without regrets,
And to call yourself, finally, home.
THE WOMAN WHO COULD EAT WOOD
Who defied science?
The Woman Who Could Eat Wood had.
How and why at first no doctor could say
to her mom and dad.
Years later the doctors had discovered that after a test
special micro-organisms helped the wood in her guts digest.
‘Perhaps B can survive off wood because of some unknown power,’ her father had said.
‘I agree 100% with your thought,’
her mother had said.
‘A superpower I don’t have
All I can do is eat wood. That’s good.
But no one gets saved!
So I’m not special,’ B had made understood.
Sometimes she worried like crazy
that she was different. Sometimes she didn’t worry that she was different like crazy.
At first the cruel media (and some did too on Oak Street) teased her, hated her,
was terrified this kind
of “natural ability” could occur in her.
Quickly they lost interest,
forgot about her.
At Elmwood Primary school some people
ate for lunch sandwiches and fruit.
She ate doors and drawer knobs
and the occasional wood flute.
Some people
in the beginning
were scared that her
bodily functions were strange and not prizewinning.
‘She c-can d-d-i-ig-g-ge-s-st-t-t w-w-woo-d. As b-b-beav-v-ers d-do!’ a classmate had said, not grinning.
‘Friends, Pleeaasssssssssse DON’T be scare of me!
You’ll soon come to understand me. You’ll see.’
‘And YES. I eat like a beaver.
But I don’t cut down trees with my teeth to build
lodges and dams. I don’t eat layers of tree bark.
It’s totally impressive how quick they can build.’
After a long while
most people just accepted she could eat wood. Sure there were a few meanies of guile
who teased her and her parents to tears
for awhile.
She made some friends
and she even had some boyfriends.
She actually loved the taste of wood
that’d make most sick. That she liked to admit.
'I have no choice but to,
I guess,’ she’d admit.
She never felt sick or put on any weight.
Skinny as a HB pencil she was, but not unfit.
Her poos were wood when she didn’t pig normal food when she asked for it.
In fact she preferred wood.
It was free and it
saved her parents a load of money and too,
saved on dentist bills because her teeth never split.
TO BE CONTINUED ... IN PART 2
Following rules, we learned as kids,do you remember?
Do not take another's pencil, it is a sin, nor their precious toys
nor dimes to in your pockets, put in,
What allows us now, to steal with such giddy, sin-filled ploy?
Whether be it a car-jacking or a despicable looting done on camera
with grimacing, hideous joy?
Most of us are not thieves, and raise heck at plagiarists!
But things now escaped in adults as crooks as forgers or "fraud-sters anonymous."
The simple truth is that things taken, display a huge lack of integrity,
And simply fail, with their lack of character and bald- faced chicanery.
Play up front and honest is my call.
Pretend you made a home-run,when in fact, all you had was a foul ball?
Winners fulfill promises, losers on their faces will fall.
Cheating wins no games in life, that's a big loser's call.
1-5-2021
8am PST
Dedicated to Maria, my daughter, a woman of ethics and
elected to office legally. Thank you. It was a hard road but
you made a difference for the good~ in many!
Wow~ a woman of integrity. Without that, nothing works.
Love, Mom
I am not artistic, but
I signed up for a class
To learn to make mosaics
Out of little bits of glass.
We studied some examples
From a long-past ancient date
Then received our own materials
With which we could create.
I watched my classmates jump right in,
Ideas at their command,
While staring blankly at the tiles
And glue I had at hand.
With paper and a pencil,
I can quickly craft a rhyme.
My talents don’t extend to places
Where the words aren’t prime.
Yet I’ll complete my project
And will proudly bring it home,
Knowing it will never equal
Even my worst-written poem.
Do serial killers do head counts
Why are spaceships aerodynamic
Why is loud in cloud
See at the back of a hospital is that the backwards
Surely a plaster is more use than time on wounds
Every sad comes with an ad
How many sides does the sea have
What do rocket scientists say when something is easy
Does that mean that 2 birds in the hands is worth 4 in the bush
Can you get half a hole
Shouldn’t geysers be waterrisings
Is a Tom really small
The pencil is mightier than the sword
cause that nobody is John ing Wick
How could you light a candle at both ends
Well I suppose if it was balanced on a glass
Every cat I have had must have been on their last life
Wish there was a room full of mush
Time is loads of ships
Fleeting
What do you get for 2 kings and a queen in chess
God save save the….. what is it this week
2 soon
In the words of Queen
Matter really nothing me to
See if you have a..never mind
The White Charger
White is the steed that gallops, sparks fly from his mane
The rider reaches out to my heart, passion burning as a flame
Entwined in hope, flames burn high, passion ever ascending
The white charger gallops by now, passion assuaged and descending.
My Mind Is Blank
My mind is blank a sheet of nothing white as virgin snow
Where is it now I am searching lost not knowing where to go?
White and blank no thought at all what am I to do
I know I’ll get my pencil out and draw a picture of you…
White Wedding
Pure white the ghostly figure, as it floats around the room
It stops and smiles sardonically, at the soon to be groom.
I see you are taking a wife; she once was to have been mine
Well my friend be careful, you soon may have to pay life’s fine...
The ghostly shape now pressed close, to the sweating groom
“I don’t know what you are talking about- please leave my room.”
Oh you will find out soon enough, after the vows are said...
Then the black widow bride, will find a reason for you to be dead
Her only wish is a wedding, a wedding all in white
A husband she does not desire, you will find that out tonight
Don’t drink the wine or take your fill, from the wedding glass
Believe you me it’s not worth the risk, this is what has come to pass.
The whiteness of her veil hides the stone heart of a killer
The black hearted murderess, to her this is the thriller...
To take a groom so young and strong, his heart he wants to give
She will take it out of you, so be warned now - run to live.
Well that’s his story and he was sticking to it as he left the church at great speed…
© 3/10/2102
3 Different poems For the Whiteness Contest.