Long Pored Poems
Long Pored Poems. Below are the most popular long Pored by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pored poems by poem length and keyword.
"The road to write is paved with good intensives."
— attr. too know won
The mourning it always do come sum-how
where they're voices brake the piece into peaces—
we was all of us promised a wright to no the truth
butt the heir we breathe has went, spent, mined out, beyond the vane/vain gnus
proscribed like a wether we cannot sea—the err of it and yeti.
Running from the lie's the money stayed, still
He, galled, gulled, lead in, shuttered—should of ironed the flood on thin eyes, thin i's
they swept the e-rupture under the rug of the volcano
lent, bent, the routes of it t'all drowned the ceiling every moan and mown
knot one sole voice cud of broke the rein of time it-shelf.
The children play was born into wore there bodies the pour of plague
sum-body never said nothing—the reign felled on the pane/pain like whether
emigrate, immigrate or stay, him and her and them bear/bare the same old hole
they're writes they're breastless rites to exst was pored over the alter
and the sole of it, the soul of it, they burned the maid in the mourning stair.
And now, , we scroll and sprawl and drool through the mourning of taht
sum-how the "famine" is a cantent, the "worn" is a wra, the "wand" is a wrte
end sum-one's always loosing there wright two exist, here, hear, their
too nations, to flags, two many wounds the power they powder the flood they could of ironed
where we're board-stiff wore down, the fowl foul heir of sit, the steal they steel—
the raised cities rased, razed—
interesting, someone didn't run Grammarly,
rite.
Grew gaunt gift from a gull'ble root -
taunted twigs tracing hiccups 'n' pukes.
Sassy soil spat th' syllabic stem.
Bruised branches from haggard trunk crept.
Anon sauntered lusty leaves like
punctured packs "f Impalas 'neath spikes.
Their pored palms sav'ring azure's glare
'til that which mar served full bloom's pear.
Adawed ergo were frantic fruits;
comely clusters braced blisters pruned.
For hampered hands t' clutch, torn throat t' trace
felon flavor numbed nature gave.
E'en from this fruit had this metrist
bitten, beaten b' flavor time splits.
'20:07:24:08:04
Note:
a) Of gaunt gift.
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Anon - immediately
ii) Azure - unclouded sky
iii) Adawed - subdued
iv) Ergo - then
v) Metrist - poet
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) th' - the
ii) 'n' - and
iii) "f - of
iv) 'neath - beneath
v) 'til - until
vi) t' - to
vii) b' - by
I walk alone on the beach,
Emerald waves rise and fall, lapping on the sandy shore,
So many beach-lovers walk together,
Their faces beaming with love and adoration,
I walk alone on the sand barefoot,
Collect shells of unique sizes and shapes,
I converse with you about the roaring sea,
The whistling wind, the multi-coloured sand,
you are far away, but
You are with me.
Years and years passed away listlessly,
Struggles in our life did not let us be together,
A love so strong, and powerful,
I see you in my dreams,
And nothing else matters.
I paint on my easel with a wistful heart,
Sceneries of long-lost past,
As if we lived in a fantasy,
The little quaint village we grew up in,
The ambrosial garden we frolicked around,
The magical swing we shared and
The favourite books we pored over.
Your love pulls me to a dreamy past,
Tender days which will never be erased,
Solitary life at present remains serene with your thoughts,
Future is undetermined, life will choose its course,
Only I know wherever you are, you are mine.
My heart beats in my ear
I hear my happiness I hear my fear
This steady sound is like a drum
And is beating now so I hum
To the beat of my brain
Seems music is no strain
Did I choose it or it chose me
Like the sound of dancing feet
The sound of love in a voice
Furry and soft colorful and plush
The sound of a baby breastfeeding
And of the mothers heart bleeding
Sounds of rodents in the green grass
Devouring green garden running fast
Sounds of life giving cherry chase
Sounds of hot tea being pored the taste
Sounds of the cicadas near sugar creek
Sounds of the deer walking gracefully
Sounds of the river sky flowing
Sounds of life being lived by beings
Erewhile took hoisted oath crushed cod,
'pon Cecilia 'n' cramped Cynthia's nod.
T' his lusty lover he'd rehearsed
pored pledges gored b' lanky love's lurch.
Damp dell 'n forg'ry hewn dark deceit,
'n which sassy smirk 's draped - smothered spree.
Furred fabrics ergo "f cloning sewn
torn was b' bounty blitzkrieg b' time thrown;
"Trade thy love with me. I'll borrow",
thrived oft - offshoot "f th' ticker's sorrow.
But untutored mind 'n deceit lagged
"s her words smarter than visage nagged.
Anon did wielded wits 'witch him,
'n' anon sent he her 'way raging.
'20:07:25:11:00
Note:
a) of damp dishonesty
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Erewhile - long ago
ii) Cod - a man
iii) Cynthia - moon
iv) dell - young woman
v) ergo - then
vi) oft - often
vii) visage - face
viii) Anon¹ - immediately
ix) Anon² - At once
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) 'pon - upon
ii) 'n' - and
iii) t' - to
iv) b' - by
v) 'n - in
vi) 's - is
vii) "f - of
viii) b' - by
ix) oft - often
x) th' - the
xi) "s - as
xii) 'witch - bewitch
xiii) 'way - away.
patience is not an embargo;
eerie enmity oozing flows
gaunt gores, perforated pores pruned
fostering felon feasts - foiled fluid
neither is patience hoisted hay;
nocturnal nature chopping day,
smothered smithereens callous clips,
dark dribbles, moist mood, drizzles drip
patience is all but wanky wait;
taciturn haste fuming torn trait,
etched emotions lagging, joy foiled,
confetti of wishes - wit's spoil
patience's an ocean draped'n torrents,
amateurs savor waves' torments.
'20:06:27:12:20
Note: of pored patience.
Listen here: https://soundcloud.com/zuxian/reserata-carcerem-xxvii
Written: August 13, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
Quote: "Epiphany is the soul briefly, brilliantly, and regretlessly shown. Leave reason behind and listen to the soul for wisdom." By Poet
****************
Epiphany
It cleaves—not calm,
but comet-quick—
a blade that bursts the dusk,
shattering the shell of seen and known.
No gentle drift,
but a shockwave through bone,
a fissure flaring where silence once slept.
Within:
a pulse, a hush,
the marrow’s muted murmurs
gathering in gold-lit gravity
until thought reels,
raw and reeling,
toward the root of its own unmasking.
Then—a pane cracks in an instant.
A lantern flares in the mind's chamber,
casting glowing script
into corners carved by fear,
revealing the inked,
intimate dark
long left unlearned.
The air quivers, crystalline.
Each stone, once mute,
now sings with liquid, syllabic secrets.
Worlds tilt,
the axis aches—
the seam splits
between what is
and what might-have-been.
You cross—
not by will, but by wind—
into the sluice of sight:
light laced with blade-bright blood,
truth pored through nerves,
vision rinsed raw and vast.
And you pause,
pulse held in hush,
as if the cosmos
leans in—
breath warm as prophecy—
to slip its first word
bright and burning
into your veins,
your gaze
forever flared.
I pored over my weather maps contriving a prognostication,
Of the weather forecast for the consumption of the British population.
It comprised all the towns, villages and shires from A to Zed,
To include the burgs of Wookey Hole, Wyre Piddle and Guys Head!
The towns of Crazies Hill and Cuckoo's Nest could expect clear skies,
Nasty, Mucking and Mousehole were included in this surmise.
Rain bode for Scrooby, Spital, Tiptoe and Brian's Puddle,
Ugley, Ramsbottom, Fitchfield and the village of Affpuddle.
Hail would visit the towns of Piddlehinton, Diddlebury and Pill,
Sots Hole, Inkpen, Birdlip, Scagglethorpe and Toot Hill.
I warned Catbrain, Clock Face and Daffy Green to expect sleet.
That also included Giggleswick, Kibblesworth and Cackle Street.
Broadbottom, Muggleswick and Barking were to be aware of fog,
As well as Yelling, Wigglesworth, Slaggyford and Black Dog.
Scattered clouds were billed for Crackpot, Beer and Fairy Cross,
And for the areas of Fugglestone, Great Snoring and Balls Dross.
Beanacre, Fatfield, Wham and Jump could expect some light snow.
Raging gales I predicted for Lickey End and Harrowbarrow.
Conditions change in minutes in High Brooms and Frog Pool.
I dare not divine weather for those blokes, 'cause I'm nobody's fool!
A morn's sun raised the blinds
As sunlight pinked the clouds
Its colors fell across
My lap, tinting my words
Sublime, pen and ink tried
To contain sentiment
As they spilled blue
The blinds dissipate
As words release truth
High the sun rises
Its light controls pen
Slower the pen
Then pauses, waits
As the day wears
Colors painted
Artist tool
A palette
As sun sets
Blinds close
Darkness
Shades
Inspired by a stanza written by Robert Frost:
The Death Of The Hired Man
"Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light pored softly in her lap. She saw it
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand"
Just part of it ...What struck me was "moon was falling down the west"
I drank the blood.
Shuffled up to the altar,
pearly white shoes scraping over
faded white tile dirtied by the footsteps
of countless sinners.
(I knew, even then, that that same grime already claimed my soul.)
I accepted the golden chalice with shaking
hands and brought it
ever so gently to my lips.
It tasted like poison, but I drank the blood.
I’d never feel so holy again as I did that day,
wholly pure in untouched white satin,
bursting with life and joy
and the light shining from the proud eyes of the parishioners.
But the light of their spirit would soon curdle in my veins
from the hatred of false goodness.
I pored over page after page,
dutiful scholar I was,
and found nothing but tongues lashing like the Romans
they should’ve disdained,
not mirrored.
Every biting indictment corroded the gleam of my soul
until the only light remaining
was the reflection of that glistening chalice.
I am not the one who bit the forbidden fruit,
and yet the sweetness of its juice mixes with
the blood on my dry, cracked lips,
crimson trailing down, down,
down my ashen face.
A stain of my humanity.
A stain of Your hands.
I drank the blood.
The transplant attacked my system,
draining the life from my eyes
until I was left pleading You to sop up
the few lasting drops with a pitying rag.
Merciful as You’re written,
I begged you,
knees bloodied and scarred,
to transform me.
Make me whole
or dismiss me to the depths.
Fix me,
or allow the scourge and fire to purify me
for ever and ever.
I called into the night for year after year
before I realized it was as vacant as I was revolting.
Was I right?
I may never know,
but I do know something inside of me broke those days,
shattering me from the inside out.
I try to escape, peeling back rotten layers,
but it courses through my veins
steady and permanent as my beating heart.
I cannot claw it out, no matter how I try,
for I drank the blood.