Long Poesy Poems
Long Poesy Poems. Below are the most popular long Poesy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poesy poems by poem length and keyword.
"Tyger, tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night…"
Archaic spelling set aside,
And not intending to be snide,
But really, Mr. Blake, I take exception.
While a tiger's luminosity
May pique your curiosity,
What the beastie's wattage is, you've no conception.
But who am I to judge you?
And so I'll not begrudge you
This "poesy" that was your lifelong passion.
But could it be that you were smokin'
A little "weed" the night you spoke in
That weird and kinda highfalutin' fashion?
Oh, we'll debate it, if you want to,
But it will come back to haunt you,
And the tiger, in the end, will defeat ya.
'cause metaphysical or not,
If a tiger's light is hot,
That's a sign he's getting ready, pal,
To eat ya!
Headpiece filled with potential straw
Play often by the dictates of law,
The day with its fill of silent sorrow,
Filrts with sense, and falls tomorrow.
A motion and a spirit that impels to lose,
Uploads the videos to attract more views,
Time's winged chariot slows down the gate,
Forgets the event, and confuses the date.
Like a burnished throne that packs often more,
Falls from the window, languishes on the floor,
Turning around the road less travelled by,
Burns up the hope to give up with a try.
Infite riches in a small amount of room,
Begin with a blessing that calls out the doom,
An old and worn bilthe spirit haunts the little lake,
Gets up the ladder and unravels the mistake.
Peculiarly pure and polluted wings of poesy,
Terminates the yarn and drowns in urgency,
To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield,
Cracks up too early and stumbles on the field.
The forest of the night gives way to crops,
Fumbles and fiddles and fizzes out at stops,
Why a second coming grumbles like a dream?
Without any care flows down some stream.
Traces of soiled feet and sparrows not in grand gutters
A wasted wayward soul comes and mournfully mutters,
The ignorant armies clash by night under the Casuarina tree,
Makes the lines, breaks the rhythm and turns them fully free.
It takes too long for the last duchess to uncover and sing,
Distances of dissociation constantly throw and fling,
Never the mistress of spice shall ever be there so soon,
And look at mandates of a sudden and savoury tune.
Nine bean rows, poetry of earth crowd up the avenue,
As the lines search the old in the funeral of the new,
Mists and mellow fruitfulness fuel the futile fun,
Ignore the grace, spit out the truth with sixty minutes of run.
The decade, a facade, distills the wilfull muse,
Reverberates, rediscovers, and stacks up glorious refuse,
So this is the beginning of the end and a no way home,
Recklessly strives to the few to find a lost syndrome.
.
hern purty hover'd mine
shoulder (i savour'd her powder)
take'n note she were
mine mark'd up slip
"that indent'd line
'long hern torso'z
hips
unto her glabrous
monz"
she perused this poesy
some dayz in mine
past
now again
hern
visits
overwhelming mine
think (no not with powder)
with linez
glabrate linez
POETICS in PROGRESS
a discourse we don
ornamted speech
eloquent oratory aloud
seminal ideas
in pillars of poetics
a dialogue delivered
feelings aroused
from slumber
by symmetries of sequences
soliloquised
persuasion intertwined in poesy
perceptions personified
arrayed&adorned
in audible orations
of
experimental sound&
sense
freewheeling
sensable
becoming sententious
loose language codified
yet
open ended
figures of speech
of arrested moments
denotative&
syntactical of
preliterate tradition
solo
but
not self conscious
or
self orientated
words freed
to float & hover&
find a home
a random place to rest
a refuge for letter
sound-images
to
stimulate a reply
If I have to poetry see and define
My words would shrink and stop to ink
My thoughts would be unable to align
And in confusion I would rather sink..
Visions in words would learn how to speak
Words marvellously moulded by a wordsmith
Far reaching charm a poet would constantly seek
Unique gems adeptly crafted by a goldsmith..
It’s the power to paint and portray
Compose a tune.. an ambient so rare
An art gallery, a rich tapestry to display
Masters of words of sublime flair..
Much more.. the magic of poetry
The soul of verse can one acquire?
Abc’s and rules.. suffice to pen poesy!
Who grants the gift of Muse and the grace to inspire?
On the mystery of poetry I still ponder
Poets and their feeding Muse hearts impress
Their path of no sand or end would wander
What is predictable willing to transgress..
Fill your glossaries beyond lands and seas
Empty the wealth of your mine into sieves
Precious pearls of rare beauty you receive
Stir souls while telling stories before you leave..
I like to write in verse- I like to tell stories
sometimes, I will rhyme sometimes I shake up my poesy
so, lets take a trip down my memory lane-
my writing is deep and dark at times
often my poetry is of nature that chimes
when I pick up my pen there is often pain
I write for me and you, I write to break the chain
why just yesterday, I stopped to write these lines . . .
on a country road
under a pale hazy sky
wheat swayed and danced,
I could have stayed forever
with birds soaring and screeching . . .
________________________________________
May 21, 2020 (Edit from September 23, 2016)
Poetry/Rhyme/Verse/I Like To Write
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1253-762-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Submitted to Brian's Choice O Contest
sponsor, Brian Strand
Third Place
From Latin and ancient Greek, English derived three words:
poesy is the creation, the art work of poetic composition.
poem is the created, with beauty of language and expression.
poet is the creator or maker, with the gift of poetic thought, imagination,
and eloquence of expression.
A poet is born with a troubled and jangled spirit within,
forced to express what is seen, imagined and dreamed in words
for themselves and for anyone who hears or reads their works.
A poet is a miserly wordsmith, in love with words, their meanings, sound and strangeness.
A poet is an artist, painting with words and expression, but not constrained by form or method.
A poet is a skilled craft person, creating and making works and compositions,
but is not restricted by tools nor craft rules or disciplines.
A poet is a skilled musician using rhyme, meter and rhythm to create word scores,
but can also use line breaks, punctuation and the words themselves to create sounds.
Often the sounds made are jarring and discordant to create an effect or evoke a response,
but not all poetry is for a performance.
A poet is a peddler of emotions and feelings evoked in the writer and reader,
eliminating from deep within and as reactions to what is happening or not happening.
Poets are free to use whatever verse and form they choose.
There is no right way to eloquently express their art and craft; it is the poet's choice.
The best description of a poet is a person with an eternal fountain of jangles.
The jangles of emotions, feelings and life's journey within must be expressed, written or spoken about.
Nature and the world about triggers jangles, metaphors, memories, responses and associations to be expressed.
The poet writes to be read and have their thoughts and mind outpourings jangle response in their audience.
Artistically rendering words, much loved and cherished, in ways to evoke intense emotion in the hearer and listener.
The poet seeks jam sessions of free improvised jangling with self or with anyone who reads or listens.
The poet a lover of words, a wordsmith, peddling jangles.
Despising my dull, listless time as a child,
I once wished myself to be fully-grown:
now grown, no longer am I as beguiled
by growing up (as old age I bemoan);
the wisdom of many long years is sublime;
but the salad days of youth eternal
are what makes songs of Poesy rhyme,
as shedding of life's leaves feels infernal.
Therefore, be in the winter of your life
with love: for love restores you like a tonic,
carves out the melancholy like a sharp knife
(to hush the voices so dark and demonic).
To age well, live well: so love and be loved,
and bar not the comfort of your beloved.
I hope you enjoy my book sometime " Beauteous Be Poesy" my publisher is Trafford Publishing 888-232-4444 the book can be ordered through the publisher
or I can be reached at 315-542-1439
Troubled waters - in my eyes
The rolling caps of those treacherous waves
Like a victim - to the dark black clouds
The thunder - and thus lightening strikes
Bewildered - each day one only tries
One comes to shore - one only concludes
That in those dark clouds may you see light
In the tunnel - and may I wake each day
To an aura of sunshine in my way
And may the sun then warmth my soul
In turn - seeing myself - I am whole
I walked those roads mile after mile
And climbed mountains also to the peak
Crossed bridges even in my mind
Yet what I see - what I then find
Happiness so difficult to partake
And each morning then that I wake
Shall I smell the roses as if to say
That life dreary it be, I want the bouquet
And I pick the petals - I cherish the thought
That's still so true, love can really never be bought
that those special little things mean the most
But I perceive - you love the storm
And I prefer the sun so ever warm
Two peas in a pod? no not true indeed
I cultivate and destroy the weed
Lifting spirits - to brighten my day
The lightening strikes all of our lives
But unless you look for the gift I see
That the sun ! I ponder the sunlight
Mesmerized by the beauteous radiant rays
And life can be treasured in several ways.
Just for today
I write short lines
To focus say
Dawn will come soon
New light sparks fine
To hide old moon
I wander here
I wonder why
I feel sad fear
Late sojourn brings
A weary sigh
Watch fate now fling
Here beyond time
I feel strange grief
Aglow with rhymes
Here beyond space
All seems but brief
Soul wears no face
In this strange place
No motifs stand
None wears a face
Faceless I face
A barren land
Obscure this trace
Feel upon feel
Words make poetry
Touch now reveals
Thought follows thought
Surge finds poesy
In simple lot
Why all this strife?
Here madness hurls
Why lives a life
Who lives the dream?
Here in this swirl
Who fits the theme
Equate and add
Do sums add up?
Equate the fad
Address the vain
Pride fills big cup
Address the gain
Words come to mind
Words scream unheard
Word fail to find
Line after line
Gliding like birds
Lines that feel blind
Only words then
Rhyme after rhyme
Reason primes scan
Only words here
In space and time
Greet love sincere
Leon Enriquez
15 July 2014
Singapore