Long Pencils Poems
Long Pencils Poems. Below are the most popular long Pencils by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pencils poems by poem length and keyword.
Not Every Day is Perfect
I took my pad to the park today.
I wanted to find an idea for a book.
I was blocked…you know… stuck.
I walked outside, and looked up into the sky.
The clouds threatened rain.
I had no umbrella, but a man in a clown suit presented me one…
immediately.
I took it, and walked on.
Down the brick paved golden street,
and turned just to the right, the bus stop on ahead.
The shuttle to Mars left five minute ago, so I hopped the train to Texas.
We arrived early for lunch with the king.
As I sat with his highness, I whipped out my pad intently...
No!
Still no ideas.
I left from there as the flamingoes were dancing and getting out of hand.
I decided to take a stagecoach to the florist shop as it would help my mood.
The soup was chicken, with small white rice, shapes of animals and crackers.
Still nothing to write about.
The day was getting late. I had to go back home.
A roller skate, a rickshaw and two hot air balloons…
The darkness came early, on my sunshine day,
But I am very happy, as my package arrived.
I have new pencils, from far away.
I will take them for a walk, instead of my pen.
Tomorrow I will try again.
What brings me joy is getting together with friends,
oh, not in person, that's a no-no at this time but on line;
we dance Latin and I love to find their smiles shine,
love to organize my art, paints, pencils and pens.
Walks each day brings happiness for Spring is here,
have started a nature journal of sketches, words;
I am getting accomplished at sketching those wild birds,
life is adjusting and I am somehow filled with cheer.
My cat is blissful to have me home for this time,
lots of writing, meditating, painting and deep thinking;
with all the walks and exercise I am shrinking,
have seedlings thriving, flowers, basil, oregano, thyme.
Social distancing is a drastic thing for us to endure,
have found things within myself that I never knew before.
________________________________
March 29, 2020
Poetry/Rhyme/Finding Joy and Cheer
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1239-886-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, A Cheerful Rhyme
sponsor, Line Gauthier
Honorable Mention
Dark women and their softly lit shadows
haunt our days.
Men who dwell upon form and beauty,
are attracted to moths,
they grow too old, too fast,
their erotic minds
like over-sharpened pencils,
wear-down too soon.
Women who follow men
seeking the dangerous comfort
of strange desires,
blossom, then disappear into suburbia,
where they grow their fingernails,
de-claw their hungers
watching shopping channels.
Are we not all a portion,
and smatter of both these
gender frailties?
We live avoiding
the genitals of angels and demons,
yet the anatomic ****
of the over-sugared,
and unleavened breads,
grow ever stronger
in our backroom eyes.
Well, teachers and students, I'll tell you:
Education could have been smoother on the blackboard.
It's had chalk dust in it,
And eraser marks,
And lessons half-learned,
And minds with no answers written—
Blank.
But all the time
We've been teaching on,
And reaching milestones,
And turning pages,
And sometimes learning in the dark
Where there ain't been no guidance.
So folks, don't give up.
Don't you close your books
Because you find the chapter's kinder tough.
Don't you fail now—
For we're still teaching, dear ones,
We're still learning,
And education could be smoother blackboard.
Keep your pencils sharp,
And your minds sharper.
Keep your eyes on the board,
And your vision broader.
Keep your hands raised,
And your spirits are higher.
For every test is a testimony,
Every grade is a stepping stone.
We're all students in this school of life,
And every day's a new lesson to own.
So let's keep on reading,
Keep on writing,
Keep on solving,
Keep on trying.
Because of this journey of knowledge,
It ain't always clear,
But it's the key that opens doors,
And the light that conquers fear.
Remember, my dear learners and guides,
In this classroom called life,
We're all teachers, we're all students,
And learning never dies.
He is so angry he will not talk to anyone.
I happen to be teaching his class a lesson
They are in teams enjoying themselves
Except him; he is shutting down rapidly.
He taps the pencils against the desk
Over and over and over and over and over.
I ask him to come with me and he does.
I ask him what has happened.
Seeing tears, I go get three tissues.
He tells me he wanted to check out a book.
The librarian said he could not have that one.
He is totally sad.
I am sad too, because this has ruined his day.
He told his teacher he did not know how dumb he was
Until today.
I have no words, just feeling sad with him.
I never travel anywhere
Without my book at hand
For jotting down my daily poem,
No matter what I’ve planned.
For likely I will have a thought
I must commit to rhyme
And therefore I must be prepared
At any place and time.
My little book must fit inside
The shoulder bag I tote,
Along with sharpened pencils
To preserve the words I note.
I keep an eye out looking for
More books to fit the bill,
A task that, most surprising,
Isn’t easy to fulfill.
For just today, I came upon
Some notebooks in a stack
With varied colored covers
Small and portable to pack.
Alas, though, where I’d hoped for lines,
On every page, instead,
Were tiny boxes, in a grid,
An unappealing spread.
I wonder who would choose to write
On all those mini-squares,
Just waiting to entrap some words
And catch them unawares.
Smell of rain after a storm
With lightning, thunder, summer's warm
Water drops from skies above
Bathing all the earth thereof
And when the sun breaks through the cloud
The rays are quiet, never loud
Just like the thoughts I have for you
Silent, unobtrusive, true
Now please don't think that I'm obsessed
I just have time at my behest
And what I do with it is write
And play and plan the coming night
Where I will dream, I know I will
Of bluebirds, lilacs, from the quill
Of pens and pencils that I own
Next day flow words knitted and sewn
Into the shapes of letters and notes
Of music that itself emotes
The songs inside that must come out
Expression's what they're all about
I share them with you since I know
You like to read them all, and so
As long as you would want them to
My pen and pencil write for you
I always thought writing with a broken pencil was useless and pointless
But then I became a broken pencil myself
I became emptiness, a wilderness of my own thoughts
I became depression and healing all at once
But then I was my blank pages created with empty pieces of hope
Then there were my sharp edges and ink to begin my journey of a scowl life
Pain was my sharpness with everything I did leaving a mark of grace
Making visible my scars to be useless from the inside
I was a broken pencil written for the last time and my destination was changed
But then something was important for me to know that I had to turn problems to opportunity
That at some point broken pencils, lost erasers
But mine lost its mind to its broken heart
Poet
Masego Nkuna
My mouth’s in a cage, locked up and alone,
Sewn shut with no one to speak to.
My eyes have seen pain of mental torment,
A broken mirror that sees straight through you.
My ears are blocked to the screams and the cries,
A sand grain alone on the beach.
My skin’s now contorted to a dead cold bronze nothing,
Not tanned in a figure of speech.
My nose has been shattered to smells of a rose,
To the smells of happy and free.
My bones have been snapped, two pencils from one,
My body is now wasting debris.
My “me” has been broken, discarded and burnt,
Once strong, now brittle and frail.
My life is now cursed in this vegetative state,
On a bed my mind’s locked in a jail.
The name of this poem is "…" So the first line is shown.
The system would not let me put that in the title box. Sew, so...
...
Hear and now, know here and now, no! No!
It is all wrong, “aint” that a fact?
No. Really… no.
Aint, paint, saint, I feel faint.
! Yes. Use that one. ! Use it again!!! (! Symbol and then…)
How about a ? ? (? Symbol for question and then ? for punctuation correct)
That is odd. Let us not discuss txting. (texting, xing, dead when driving)
Small “c”, big “C”, capitalized.
What about the rest of the letters?
Are numbers okay to use, if I forget how to spell, to, two, too much?
Paints in the box. The letters the shapes the textures of life.
Smell them. Take them in with every wiff, whiff? (Onomatopoeia, can you sing that?)
Double “dd”, double “tt”, double “oo”, wrong word score.
Spear, fear, mear, mere, “find the thesaurus”.
Have you ever spent time reading one?
You should.
The dictionary was badly burned in 1963.
No one nose, no's, knows who set the fire…
We did not land on the moon.
It was a sad day, but our people came home.
Safe.
The world moved on…
Remember when they gave spelling tests?
Three times each and every word, every line, get one wrong then do nine!
Are you still wondering the name of this poem? (...)
Laughter is the best place to begin looking at ourselves.
Mixed paint in a tray. Pencils, pens, art in words…Free Speech!
Hold on to your flag...
We, all of us… build sentences,
erect paragraphs and dream up skyscraper stories.
We swirl and whirl words around until they fit together,
The effort to find the perfect match.
The ultimate combination of acceptance and understanding.
Authors don’t get to stand and sing on stage, we must be quiet.
Storytellers rarely receive the time they need to fix the uncertain details.
Maps are lost, tiny jewels fall between the cracks,
but swiftly pens capture, miracles and even an epiphany.
Patient warriors, working for no one on earth,
fixed on collecting nothing more
than the truth.