Long Poetic prose Poems
Long Poetic prose Poems. Below are the most popular long Poetic prose by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poetic prose poems by poem length and keyword.
Embrace the line
it flows straight yet narrow
guiding the eye and the hand along its edge.
Behind lies the blanks waiting
hoping for some beatific message
to be filled in along the emptiness.
Focus and see the ink
flowing from the pen
in a cursive calligraphic display.
Words and phrases wrapped around a vision
that waltz dances on the page
then springing forth in calypso imagery.
Hears it, feel it, see it give birth
in poetic prose and rhythms felt
deep in the mind, heart and soul.
Embrace the line
it draws attention
and unexpectedly,
poetry is born
right there
with love, inspiration and deep emotion
revealed along the lines.
Believe in me...
Elegance, I see...
Auras that shine so bright
Understand that you’re alright
Tranquil as a rose, a teardrop on its nose
I must say, you’re such a poetic prose
Felt ashamed for so long...for oh so long...
Understand, beautiful, you’re my lovely song
Lacking sunshine in the hottest city...
Lacking sunshine in Arizona, baby!
Breathe in and out...
Be faithful without a doubt..
Be hopeful always.
Beautiful are your ways these days
Wish you could see
Your endless beauty
Wish I could handle
That fact that you’re more than beautiful
Can I be honest with you?
I didn’t mean to make you feel blue
Didn’t mean to make you weep in rue
Do you forgive me true?
The world can be so cruel
But, know that you’re beautiful
I have plenty of sunlit smiles
That will last us a million miles
You are you
Can I be like you too?
You are so true
I love you, who knew?
When tongue is silent, but muse is chanting - that's poetry.
When we write what the heart has been asking - that's poetry.
As dawn's hues glisten golden rays, in blue, bronze, orange skies,
musings mirror daydreams, so enchanting - that's poetry.
Butterflies smooch cosmos, as bees sip on dahlias nectar.
Scents of deep red roses start enhancing - that's poetry.
Clement air pleasantly overwhelms with pleasures of love,
muse becomes a bard lost in romancing - that's poetry.
Mentality turns dark when clouds spread densely like ash smoke.
Scarlet ink screams tears to stop storms advancing - that's poetry.
In shades of loneliness, thoughts reach out to our loyal moon,
beneath her moonlight we sojourn, standing - that's poetry.
A heart is healed by spoken words composed with compassion.
Poets smile when they see sad lips laughing - that's poetry.
As sands of sorrow pause, soul glows like a million fireflies.
Nature's metaphors leave our pens dancing - that's poetry.
Stale ink dehydrates and thoughts become segments of cement,
mind is a machine, where words keep jamming - that's poetry.
Daylight or night, bed, bath or driving, lyricists inspired
by sunshine, snow or when rain is lashing - that's poetry.
Word weavers scribbling sonnets, free verse and poetic prose,
forming imagery instead of ranting - that's poetry
Silent One, writes to honour Rumi, Shakespeare and Wordsworth,
In hope my words will be everlasting - that's poetry.
The Silent One
29 August 2020
An example for the Ghazal contest.
This Ghazal has a two worded refrain. Slightly different in format to previous ghazal, I posted, called 'Only the moon understands.'
This one has 14 syllables each line.
There are different definitions for a Ghazal, and different interpretations of the from.
Ghazal poetry is poetry of longing. Traditionally, the ghazal tended to focus on unattainable love, often illicit, or sometimes on metaphysical questions. But, today, the ghazal has broadened to touch many types of longing and loss.
The ghazal is a form poem that uses the art of rhyme and repetition. As it is originally a Persian form and the Indian subcontinent, the refrain and rhyme can be lost when translated to English, as is the meter.
Painting a picture of porcupines playing
Pincushions parked in the field
Purple and pink for this playful perception
Plans of their purpose revealed
Painful endeavors of pacified pranksters
Preparing a pie at their place
Pecan or pumpkin, pickle, pineapple
Pieces are smeared on their face
Putting the paint on some powder puff paper
Pleasure in each stroke is plied
Pausing to peer at some porpoises playing
Prancing in pansies they hide
Puzzling problems with pretzels and peanuts
Posturing people to prove
Pistachio perfume in prime presentation
Preaches that peaches will move
Polishing pastels on pre-printed pages
Prized the possessions we seek
Paisley the plumes of a peacocks posterior
Portraits now come take a peek
Pampering pelicans play the piano
Pure as a piccolos prayer
Picking a parcel of plum flavored pudding
Poetic prose fills the air
Pleats in my pants shout in proud proclamation
Puddle my pores that perspire
Poodles on playgrounds prevent prosecution
Plotting my hearts pure desire
Passion precedes every past tense of parting
Piled with a presence so true
Painting a picture while purposely dreaming
Promising my love to you
I’m not whom
You may think
I am
But am the who
That I am
And the coming
To being more
As the belly
Of my soul
Craves
In hunger
For divine
Wisdom
And guidance
Poured from
God’s overflowing
Cistern spilling
Out onto
The dry sponge
Of my soul
Awaiting hydration
Of awareness
And inspiration
To be likewise
Squeezed out
Onto other
Dehydrated sponges
Of spiritual souls
Needing
Flowing prose
And wetting rhymes
Saturating healing grace
During all needed times:
Grief and despair
We’re not to harbor
For to do so
Is to jam-jar horror
Always remember
On the way
We go
Spiritually bound sailors
Sailing waves
To the shores of life
Frothing away failed
Behaviors
So in keloid memory
Of this little prose
Flowing rhyme
From me
In every moment of
A trying time
Keep this little flow
In mind
And enjoy from
The Cistern above
Healing peace and love:-
Traditional poetry has rhyme and metre
Which determines the way it is composed
These features make it a simple matter
In distinguishing such poetry from prose
A lot of writing now is in free verse
Where the main focus is on the content
The thing that now really matters the most
Is true capture of the poet's intent
Some free verse strive for a sense of metre
By carefully managing line layout
Some focus on painting a word picture
For that's what their poetry is all about
Prose rich in sentiment and imagery
Can also be rewritten as free verse
Would it then be described as prose poetry
Or should it be labelled poetic prose
What new poetry forms will the future grow
It's time alone that will give the answer
For poets may come and poets may go
But poetry shall continue forever
Traditional poetry has rhyme and metre
Which determines the way it is composed
These features make it a simple matter
In distinguishing such poetry from prose
A lot of writing now is in free verse
Where the main focus is on the content
The thing that now really matters the most
Is true capture of the poet's intent
Some free verse strive for a sense of metre
By carefully managing line layout
Some focus on painting a word picture
For that's what their poetry is all about
Prose rich in sentiment and imagery
Can also be rewritten as free verse
Would it then be described as prose poetry
Or should it be labelled poetic prose
What new poetry forms will the future grow
It's time alone that will give the answer
For poets may come and poets may go
But poetry shall continue forever
As a child, growing up, most of the poems I learned at school were of the traditional type. Memorizing and reciting them, which I enjoyed, were part of the learning exercise. Free verse, a modern form of poetry, was a new experience for me. Over the years, I jotted down some of my thoughts on things, especially, on Nature topics. I always considered such writings to be prose.
It was only after I learned of free verse, that I saw that they could also be viewed as poetry with a slight variation in the line layout to create a sense of metre. I referred to such writing as poetic prose and labelled some of my earlier poems as such.
Melting the dawn with eyes
Soulful eyes roaming – piercing the light,
Promising the night, erased from sight,
Soon bleeding its shadows through the rising
Sun’s beautiful, healing touch, kissing
Away the night – awakening the gentling
Colors of a morning sun, silencing the laughter
The laughter of the moon, the stars winking
Chuckling at the craziness of a nocturnal
Memory hosted by the flowing wonder, the
Wonder of a heart who believes, believes
Beyond any doubt, that this is the way…
The way to find out where beautiful brings
Its richest promises to life, stirring grace
Amidst the cravings of a stardust dusk, paradise
Thawing the icicle promises from their shadowy
Graves, haunted by the autumn who calls quietly,
In memories, nostalgic outweighing the melancholy
Flames of victory starving the hard hearted
Burning away the furious mysteries, the anonymous
Words who sing hope and shine with poetic prose,
Secrets pour from the hearts who hear her,
Love’s silent tears, glowing on the edges of a heartbeat,
Feeding the delicate faiths, the feelings, the grace
Raining like the downpour in summer’s heat,
Blessing away the sweaty hush and testifying to the
Joy that comes from knowing love far more alive,
Far more satisfying than any love on earth
This love comes to those who hear the dawn rising
With souls who discover the meaning of grace
In the fiery furnace of doubt and hear the music
The meaningful waves of harmony flooding the heart
With gentle that believes – His love is the only truth,
The only way, the only need for the heart who truly sees…
His love is everything I need!
A book is the beginning of a prayer born of hope, faith and love discovered within the pages of some writer’s glistening ink - quote by poet
Dust piled in layers
On books and anthologies, laying
Silently along the shelves
Where my thoughts would reveal
Endless moments spent traveling
Through page after page
Of poetry and promises
Pure, potent prayers
Praising with ink
Reading like an embrace
To the heart and the soul
Of one who knows that life
Lived on the ragged edges
Of a paperback dream
Is a life lived in light, laughter
Love that grows wilder
With each passing prayer
Yearning for a chance to whisper
Thank you in God’s ear
For the music of mystery
The longing in literature
The friend in fiction
The praise in poetic prose
The rushing winds beneath
A romance beckoning for joy
Found within the creased pages
Of history and happiness
A book is a brilliant blaze
Of inspiration and hope
A colorful creation crafted
On the empty page
As it’s filled with delight
Insight, a stirring of faith
Falling across the spirit in waves
Of grace and inspirational
Musings to reach out to the one
Who knows that a book holds the key
To creativity in tears of
Sensitivity and soothing solace
Awakening the mind to knowledge
The heart to feelings fully alive
And the spirit to the warmth
Of a soft, gentle affection
In youth, I wrote many poems of rhyme,
quatrains flowing freely on the lines.
Here and there a couplet would unwind
and on occasion quintains undefined.
As time progressed, I tried my hand
at Japanese Haiku and tanka you
but mine were plain and bland.
Soon enough came some monologues,
they are always in my head,
brandishing wild, love lustful poetry
with blank verse and ballad narratives unsaid.
Nowadays though, I think I may have settled in
with a grandiose display of my version of free verse.
But as age and loss requires and incurs
elegies and eulogies and epitaphs, the worse.
Still on occasion, a line plays out to idylls,
some kyrielles and odes.
Few limericks survive, as learned outside of school
but writing feelings, love, emotion
often lets me play both the lover and the fool.
A pastoral or deep poetic prose may still find
and shape in sonnets may reveal a deeper mind.
Hidden somewhere is a multitude of Vaasokhts
but not a single verse of love revealed
leaving many on the sidelines unknown
awaiting other compilation remaining to be shown.