Long Poetry is Poems
Long Poetry is Poems. Below are the most popular long Poetry is by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poetry is poems by poem length and keyword.
good morning
it saddens and hurts me to express this
however
once again I am forced to defend myself
as some of you may know
I do not have time energy or concentration for non poetry
poetry is heart and soul for both author and reader
it is not about status or how many views an entry receives
because we know the number of views does not mean reviews
can we all grow up for the love of poetry and poetrysoup too
I thought poetry was stress free and free from demands
I do not mean to offend anyone
this is not my intent
I am honored to be a member with all of you
I hope my words and entry too are coherent
this thought came after I received a message with words this morning
thank you
"are we"
are we children
do we have small minds
poetry is for beautiful finds
can we be adults
write and post for the soul
and not with a hidden goal
are we children
with blind understanding
without being demanding
are we adults
with love of words
when we read we hear birds
SkyWatcher
10-14-23
A poem is a presentation
of words to create an image
or render a valued thought.
A poem can be read silently,
it can be heard dramatically
or musically- by an audience.
It is edited and rehearsed-
as a theatrical mini-drama
to entertain or advise- which
the poet masterly directs.
Therefore, poetry is theater.
Theater presents happy, sad-
the good or the bad-
the wrongs and rights-
layered with opinions.
The poet and a cast of words,
often present them all.
This- is the poet's duty.
This is the poet's purpose,
and- this is the poet's joy!
October 8, 2020
~1st Place~
Contest: Hm's And Na's October 2020
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
Judged: 11/06/2021
Poetry is a calling
Like a moth to a flame, I cannot tear myself away;
I must look again, to see what I was blind to see when insane.
Sanity brings clarity; my eyes are wide open.
Let it all come from studious thoughts
And be written in poetry without reason.
Burn your history behind you, by telling your story;
Without you there is no me. To the end! Forward to glory!
Book up your ideas, in a non-idyllic life;
Cause pain, more forward, suffer pain and write.
Banish bygones to a memory of Hell;
Let all fall before the sword, inside books, under your spell.
Let passion shine through like a ray of sun;
Let no-one tell you to stop your writing, until you are done.
You know everything inside your enlightened mind;
So scars can no longer be formed, life cannot be taken. It’s alive!
Destiny is calling; do not ignore its call.
When words become power, we shall rule the world!
In a land of dis-placed people, searching for any answer,
The chancer takes his chances and the laughing boy becomes the fool.
Poetry is a gift, so embrace the peace, love and empathy within,
Because if you cannot sing or dance,
At least you can write something with meaning.
It is you who is doing this; it is they who wish to do it too.
It is a necessity; it is a thing you love;
You are no longer a Hu-
Man being on this land, you are immortalized.
You have risen up to a higher state of consciousness;
You have learned to fly.
Now you soar above the landscape
And roar out your words.
Let all who hear my call, roar with me,
For we are human no longer; we are birds,
We are fish, we are mammals, we are nature and the unseen.
We are writers, we are poets, we are in tune with everything.
We become something, to feel its thoughts;
We morph before your eyes.
We are constantly evolving;
We know just how it would feel, so we must write.
A calling to all;
You are what we have been waiting for.
Poetry is a calling;
You are an artist…so go show the world.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Why not a poem, when the world turns proud,
To issue a whisper one is not cowed?
Why not carve a poem, when heart turns sore,
To seek calm comfort knocking at the door?
Why not a poem, to chant sunlit days,
To shade the sparks, share one`s joy on the way?
Why not a verse to paint a starry night,
To hold the wonder in a silver light?
Why not a verse to catch the falling rain,
To listen lonely to its lax refrain?
Why not a poem, for the wafting breeze,
That rustles secrets through the leafy trees?
Why not a poem, when deep feelings glide,
To let them surface, with the flowing tide?
Why not a poem, when warm words gush new,
To paint a picture, honest, strong, and true?
Why not a verse, to sing the shine of spring,
The robin wobbling with its waving wing,
The sharp, sweet smell of star fruit in the air,
The meaningful moments beyond compare?
Why not a poem for the joy we find,
The friendly faces of a kindred mind,
The shared laughter, echoing far and free,
A tapestry of happy memory?
Why not a poem, when we face the wall,
When a divine beacon answers our call,
When a thread of hope guides us on our way
Towards a brighter more forgiving day?
Why not a verse to please our inner self,
To be creative, at peace with ourselves,
To let the smooth rhythm carry us along,
And weave our stories in a gentle song?
Why not a poem to paint the image
Of a rare bird, with colourful plumage,
And its cruising flight in the azure sky
To reach the apex of the inner high?
Why not a verse, to quit behind a trace,
A little beauty, in this hurried space?
Why not a poem for others to see,
To inspire all those who desire to be?.
A poem conveys in a trite, cute way
One`s feel, thoughts, mood, any time, any day
On issues bearing on men and the earth
From birth to death, with sadness or with mirth.
So why not press the keys, to carve a verse,
Whether it rhymes or not, terse or not terse,
Let our imagination free its lens
And let our heart find its own recompense?
For in the writing, and the letting go,
A silent sparkle starts to softly flow.
And in that moment, free from doubt and fear,
We'll grasp why poetry is held so dear.
Many a poet I know a fool
acting like they know-it-all
many a poet I know a tool
acting like "Mr Poet-all"
unknowingly showing me
their knowledge of poetry
has boundaries surrounding
ideas rebounding around
their impounded grounds
only seeing the same repeatedly
nothing new unfortunately
forever under lock and key
belittling anything new they see.
As a poet I'm not especially traditional
more so "special" writing additional
my raw and new to poetry style
unlike those into poetry awhile
so can I now pick the thoughts
of a traditional poet know-it-all
I believe to be caught in restriction walls
appearing to parrot what taught in schools
see if I perceive conviction in their cause
or robotic perspective their memory stores
too Inspect credentials for signs set in stone
content or unambitious toward the unknown
should I see respect or a moody moan
for new styles outside their own zone
Seemingly their priority is to teach all to try to be
writing unoriginally prevent the mind think free
in a strictly stricken view I see crippling you
never trying new or seeking something else to do
you have regulations on how creativity is written
preventing inspiration thus so negatively driven
speculating with unchallenged repetition
as though been tutored to a limit
you're now failing to ascend merited
having starved all but within it.
So please respect my detected inclination at play
but poetry is a creative artform not set in its ways
and those paved paths you pace and wear thin
were once unpaved before their now adored placing
so shouldn't a creative artform progress and not stay there
wouldn't it go on new quests paving unpaved or
invent realise and find in amaze ways new spaces
not be assigned a confined station like railways
instead seek to new roads or train to fly the skies
cus a closed off mind concealed in a cocoon
denies the butterfly wings the room
like a inverted narrow mind blinds clues
let's preserve and branch from the lay of the track
if poetry stays then poetry slacks but if adapts
poetry won't wear weak crumble and crack
recycling the same will only sink in to the black
I don't want to conform to the common or normal
because I see it as a creative short fall.
So why refuse new styles when you could embrace all poetry?
are you a poet or are you a phoney?
There is poetry that runs freely through these veins
Authentic eccentric even society could never change.
For the poetry that runs through these veins
Comes from years of criticism, rejection and pain
Check the poetry in these veins that runs.
Born from carrying the weight placed on
shoulders heavy like boulders as the world
grows colder.
Original Poetree is the name for it is me
I am he whether or not you choose to believe
That it ’s the poetry running through these veins
That has set me free.
Yes indeed none shall impede the energy
Possessed to succeed and become all
I am mean to be phonetically poetically
I indulge in the banquet of prose as the
Poetry continues to runs its course through the
veins inside of me. Call it gluttony call it greed.
This poetry does not ask permission it breaks down doors
From the tip of the pen to the sole of the feet walking along
The poetic path on the floor.
There is poetry that runs through these veins from my
Creative core.
It screams at 3 AM when the world is sleeping. It’s not waiting for applause
or publication, or validation.
in the space between
your listening
and my speaking.
This poetry is alive.
not the kind that sits pretty in coffee shops
waiting to be discovered,
There is poetry that runs through these veins—
not the kind you find pressed between pages
of dusty anthologies,
that pulses with every heartbeat,
that courses through capillaries like lightning through storm clouds.
pulchritudinous ingots chisel and shades
dazzle and illuminate umpteen reasons
poetry is like a swirling, susurrus-sibilant chimera
of innuendo arty souls, albeit vapid syntax
around serene scenery, orbs, and idealism
Is unction vital to adorn naked words with plumose wings?
whose views of contentment, vim, and happiness?
Inversely hamstringing people with arrows?
sighs of sorrow sound sowed soil
mothers, wailing and yelling out to unborn spirits
as our hearts crave affection
poetry provides its verisimilitude vacuum
do susurrus coruscating suborn scarlet spills?
deep within a stymie pirouette
the tortured sinews of a troubled mind are twisting
my life bill was still due till my final breath
I bequeath you my spirit as expressed in sonnets
I bequeath you my marrow, wrapped in iambic style
I bequeath you my mind, crafted with mispronunciation
sharing with those who owe me a xanthous soul
When seeking to write
a poem, no need to
descend into deep, dank
mysterious wells of
creation – after great depth
only to come upon
one's ignitable soul-fuel
my muse, for example,
far more accessible, generally
wearing just a glistening
strand of peals, basking
in a warmth of sunlight
for poetry is less the self
making new composition, and
more a process of internal revelation
one's own essence
radiating back the lyrics
of a poet's exclamatory spirit
calling up and out
for conscious reunification
with the Divinity of
All Declarative Being –
the celebration of freeing
that which is already
written – a penetrable
gazing crystal entrancing
artful nature into greater
self-awareness –
hidden truth distilled in
each vein long before
the tea and patterned reading
the poet first learns release
if to learn poetry; begins
by turning those internal whispers
into clear explorable volumes
slicing open, and peeling back
the skins of words, shattering
shells, releasing flocks of
phrases and images, making
yoke-leftovers into omelets
stuffed with eclectic tastes for
sharing
one writes to consume
and be consumed –
poetry, a sacred ceremony of life and death~
the poet his own baptizing priest while cold
handed embalmer.
Poetry IS.
A personal thing you can relate to.
A common thread weaved into-
Life's fabric by the Master Craftsman.
An endproduct and tool for enjoyment
and understanding-building.
If you see a McCaw steal a Pirates
last lemon that's justice poetry!
If you ever see someone (else) unable to shake
their head of a tune (well that's just funny)!
Just as long as you don't also pass to them
a virus of yawn or hiccup too!
Needing yet another poetic pawn
of reset to spawn,
too-well, that wouldn't be cool!
That would be hilarious and wrong?
{Even more about this below}
((A temporary chastisement stealing
your atmosphere, like a frozen moodring.
A spell that creates a black cloud, intimately near,
that you just have to sail through.
Basking in it's rain and wind sheer.
Till you are cleansed of the melody malady's
sticky honey dew of snare.))
{Even more below} Sigh
(((Till some other air takes it's place under sail-
like electric eel current, (all clear)
leech of seasnail- transfusement-lunacy-loom.
But enough about points, needlings stuck
in a Godsmack groove.
Fangs siring innoculation, black tides undermoon
giving instant Karma lessons, taking you
to imagination fascination
School.)))
Poetry is a paradigm in parody
In transfiguration transcribing-semblence,
fro and TO beauty, irony and clarity
OF knowledge and recapturing-meaning
and it's relevance to BOOT.
Poetry IS Innocence imbibing Evanescence-
meaning in deed there IS also poetry in you.
To my most Beloved, Lenore: This is Not really Good-Bye.
You are my Heart, Forever More: The salty TEARS, I Cry.
I’ll put you in a Golden Shrine, Deep inside my Heart.
Keeping the Vow I made to You: We shall Never part.
LENORE; your poetry is still with Me, Deep within my Mind.
I found another Poetess, like you Her eyes are Green.
After reading all Her poems; Long lost Feelings I did find.
I envision what SHE looks like, though I have Never Seen.
I read HER works and my Heart starts beating, BEATING FAST.
HER words of LOVE and LIFE;I heard, are words from a Distant PAST.
LENORE: YOU know I’ll love YOU until my Dying Day.
But now I found Another: I will slowly move Away.
I’m moving into Happiness; It’s there I want to Stay.
Until Our souls entwine Again, Upon the Judgment DAY.
Inspired by and Dedicated To Carrie Richards