Long Poetical Poems
Long Poetical Poems. Below are the most popular long Poetical by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poetical poems by poem length and keyword.
I needn't don a tuxedo nor pay a dime to enjoy a pleasing symphony!
In my own back yard or lying abed at night I hear nature's harmony!
The rolling bass of thunder, the strobe-bright lightning on a stormy night,
Plus the rain pelting my windowpane, anoint me with pure delight!
A chorus of crickets in the holly bush lull me to sleep in Morpheus's arms.
I'm awakened at dawn by choirs of robins, not by strident clock alarms!
The vagabond winds soughing through the ponderosa pine join the recital.
Cicadas add a blend of percussion with castanet-like rhythm so very vital!
A quartet of mourning doves serenade me with their soothing coos,
(Interrupted by a pair of raucous blue jays injecting their atonal views!)
I hear the water's hymn as it trickles o'er ancient stones in a nearby rill,
And the delightful choral melodies of golden finch as they sweetly trill!
From afar I hear the clarion trumpet call of elk echoing in the hills!
The merging of these harmonic voices is one of life's gratifying thrills!
How I relish the exquisite orchestration of His creatures in glorious recital.
Oh, that I had the poetical acuity to give this symphony a deserving title!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
You made your bed, now lie in it
devoid of warmth and care
between the crumpled, dirty sheets
Pretend that I am there
You made your bed, in crazed haste
and hoped to cover all
the memories that you had of me
but now you hope I'll call
You made your bed now feel regret
For love like mine's unknown
You shiver as you toss and turn
her lust is all she's shown
You made your bed for her instead
and yet you burn for me
you thought a better beauty queen
gave heightened ecstacy
You made your bed, in thorns blood red
she sleeps and lets you burn
You dream of me, my constancy
Once sated, now you yearn
You made your bed, let it be said
I made my own bed, too
the man who loves the all of me
sleeps soundly, not like you.
The bed I've made, with roses laid
Is where he longs to be
its sheets on fire with his desire
he loves and feasts on me
Sleep in your bed, where love is dead
Weep for the love you miss
and see me in your lucid dreams
bathed in my lover's kiss
Eileen Manassian
Please...read poetry for the sake of poetry and refrain from making inferences that are not called for. I enjoyed writing this piece as I thought of that saying....You made your bed, now you must lie in it. I've written on proverbs and poetical themes. I enjoy the challenge.
V ax
I njured
P ersons
E ffective
R esponse
R egister
I beleive the above is needed.' To clear the air
Just like rain does, it cleans the atemosphere
And exposes the shortcomings of infrastruture
I also see the need for an annual assembley
At rotating host countries to address health
Concerns worldwide also possible advances
That may be identified to human benefit
Over a current and long term time timescale.'
Any panel could include medical proffesionals
Affected by misadministerd medical intervention
I plead poetry reflecting lifes challenges as my
Reason for creating this poetical blueprint
As it were.'
Contest: Secrets of The Soul
Sponsor: Ink Impress
The whole of this poem is purely poetical
And does not express my personal belief
About soul secrets.
The secrets of my soul are safe and
Protected where the orchids dream,
And never where nightmares are seen.
Where orchids dream is where peace
And tranquility dwell and where secrets
Abide that none would dare to tell.
Red and pink roses agree to stand guard,
Holding security codes printed on cards.
Myriads of thealted lines are trapped in
your pulse; some of which are tolerable.
But others are filled with disgust.
Moreover, these vaulted secrets are reserved
And kept alive, being soothed by every beat
Of your heart, forever to thrive.
Since Adam's transgression, all souls have fallen
from grace; and without Christ, we will
Continue in decline at an alarming pace.
Again, the snail of time seems frozen:
White grass surrounded my cauliflower;
Now, naïvely visited by mice, -a dozen,
Come from the huge hoarfrost`s tower.
Furs with the variegated undecided color
Stay in the bed of tired yellow leaves,
Telling their jokes with old dark humor
On what poetical surprises fate retrieves.
Beyond the horizon of their question,
An echo in the season of the frozen sea,
Whose trembling hands, with scent of onion,
Squeeze the lemon of the sun in my cup of tea.
My morning tea`s made from leaves of time;
Flying leaves,-I tried and never I was able
To catch while tasting my dry biscuit`s rhyme
Fallen down under the sky`s golden table.
To be nobody - but -yourself-- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else--means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. E.E. Cummings
Panagiota's Lament
I woke with some sadness this
morning,
Hesitating to write my very
direct poetry, anymore!
I honestly believed I could hide
my fighting spirit?
In some poetry that does not
knock on anyone's soul door.
I cannot be anyone but a soul
stirrer!
I try to get people to wake up
and think!
And too bad the masses do not
like it.
Of my poetry, you won't find
any close duplicate.
I cringe in pain when writing
poetry to please others!
Neither with quill nor in person,
can that ever be.
I am condemned to do exactly
as E.E. Cummings said: write
fearlessly!
To some, I am a a good friend,
and to others?
Alas, they see me with their
squinty, stiff poetic or political
lens.
Wanting me to write to please
them?
No, that will never happen, I
write about what I see as true.
Amen!
I believe so much in poetical
liberty I can't be labeled, try
as many do.
It's just me, knocking at your
heart, pleading with you...
To be wide open and to be the
most joyfully, open you!
August 14, 2019
The foggy snow hats the mount peaks,
The chilly wind frosts all snaky creeks.
The shelter covered by creamy layer;
Face of a pane of the wistful thinker.
The clear icicles cling from the gutter,
Like the tearing of a sadden perceiver;
The thousand drops flood within:
Reviving my mother's teaching.
Once a spoiled teen in mother's arms;
Had poetical talent with full charms.
Then flew to adore distant flowers,
Received pitiful consequences later.
The obstacles shadowed the daily life,
Just a few of them have been rectified.
The foggy days repeat over and over?
Only self-confident man can endeavor.
Even powerful mind soaked in tears,
Let the body move on without fear,
Hopefully the snow fog will cease;
The strong heart could stay at peace!
Tomorrow the weather could be fine,
Keep moving on the tough, nasty line,
Even the fuzzy way lessens the vision,
Try hard to find the right destination.
Go on to reach out the ideal flowers
That bloom in the beautiful weather;
Leave the foggy days, obstacles of life,
To pass over the foggy day and smile!
It’s like solving a puzzle
Figuring out by introspection or divine providence
Which word goes where and how it goes there
, I’d trade a runner’s high for a punner’s high any day
It’s better that way, at least for me
An emotional dump and stress levels fall like Humpty Dumpty
This is my eighth poem in two days and I’m not even losing sleep
At least not any I can’t afford to lose
And what’s more prison’s no excuse
They can’t take this away from me
Not as long as I have pen and paper
Hell, even if they took that I could still compose
Just a bit more ephemeral in general I suppose
But it keeps me on my toes when the words I chose come together in the end
I won’t pretend it’s all about being brilliant
It takes happy accidents and coincidental turns of phrase
like “turn of phrase” and “happy accident” that have something poetical to em
I don’t create anything I just find the rhythm that occurs naturally,
And actually, if I over-think,
it stinks, it’s ruined and wrecked,
I move on to the next part and come back when I lack brain and have heart
I’d rather relieve my mind than my bladder
Splatter my troubles onto the page and watch the rage disengage
The hardest part for me is knowing when to stop
What a great title for how I feel!
Was never chained to be a potato peel.
After eighteen, I learned to follow my own stars.
I acted, was in movies and naughty Pangie met writers, actors
and even famed musicians in bars.
No, not two bit wanna-be writers or actors at all!
Those in real movies, published writers and all!
They were regular friends and visitors at my small house.
Don't think for a minute, I am a bookish mouse.
Decades of a wild life, nothing boring, not ever.
Boredom and I do not get along, 'tis not my pleasure.
Hey, I don't kneel to any poet here!
And neither should you, sing of only your soul's cheer!
Be you, no matter what.
If others do not like that, well, tut- tut.
I love writing at zany four a.m.
It seems the world and I get down perfectly, then!
It's the most exuberant time of my
day.
I want to run outside in the cold and shout, ole!
I think I was blessed, the minute I was born.
Some hate that and look at me with green, jealous scorn!
Two authors used me as characters in their books.
Boy, that's exciting, so stop giving me second looks.
I don't try to impress you with words or forms.
Couplets for me, are so norm!
I love real people not filled with baloney.
Poets like that are not my cronies.
I cannot type as most of geniuses do.
So all my poems are one finger-dos!
Yes, and my long-winded comments, too.
Sorry, but can't just say a word or two.
Where am I going, what's the rush?
I tell it like it is....so very much.
So that's only partly who I am.
I still am growing, hoping to be a better human!
I'd like to see more openness.
Tis my crystal dream in this poetical forest.
11-29-2020
4:30 am
Title of poem...credited to.Max Highstein..album "GRATITUNE".
That is how it is spelled ..not a typo.
I shalt ne'er be a famous bard such as William Shakespeare.
From mine pathetic poetical quill he hath naught to fear!
Mine immoral mot, "Where'er thou mayest be let thine water flow free",
I fear shalt ne'er compare to Bill's immortal line, "To be or not to be!"
"He hath eaten me out of house and home!" could be said of mine cat!
(Why could not I have conceived that line - all I can say is drat!)
"A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" cried Richard The Third!
(If I had said that, people would have deemed me quite absurd!)
"Brevity is the soul of wit!" and thus "This is the short and long of it!"
Alas, I shan't match wits with Willie so while I'm ahead I'd better quit!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved