Long Practised Poems
Long Practised Poems. Below are the most popular long Practised by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Practised poems by poem length and keyword.
She spilled porridge down her tutu
As she drank her mug of wine
Sank it in just three swallows
And then she wanted mine
She wore a pair of dirty ballet shoes
Practised plies down the stairs
Played the prima ballerina
With her ill judged airs
She caught a plane to Greenland
Because she though it nice
To drink her sloe gin
With fresh frozen ice
The very very last time that I saw her
She was doing long handstands
Riding naked on a surfboard
Off of Van Diemens land
I thoroughly cleaned and aired my house
Changed every lock on every door
Hoped she got the right message
Don’t come round any more
Sometimes I thought I might miss her
Bur then I quickly shook my head
Switched on the television
To watch a soap instead
She spilled porridge down her tutu
As she drank her mug of wine
Sank it in just three swallows
And then she wanted mine
Raggle Taggle gypsy boy
born somewhere different
in the countryside, though
not far from a big city.
Hanzi, at the age of eight
he used to live as a gypsy boy,
going from here to there
and everywhere.
He has never had the chance
to go to school, but he loved to dance,
sing and playing the bagpipes.
His father used to take him to the pubs
on the back of the horse up and down
drinking and singing until the dawn.
As his father was usually drunk,
Hanzi used to take him home
one night after night.
Engaged to the instruments he
practised every day when time
gave him the chance.
Poor raggle taggle gypsy boy,
he was so depressed but
talented as nobody.
He was an adult boy at his early age.
He left his routine and went
to the outskirts of Glasgow
as a raggle taggle gypsy boy.
He played his music begging
on the streets, violin, pipes, flute
and more, only for peanuts
and applauses.
Hanzi wanted another life,
far from the one he had before.
Many years after dancing
from here to there,
he was playing in a pub in Glasgow
when he met this princess.
Leah was her name,
very rich lady lost in the night cocktails,
looking for youngsters
gypsies to spend her live with.
Hanzi embraced her as a friend,
never as a lover, he was poor but honest.
He was only twenty and he wasn't in love.
Leah didn't care,
she saw a raggle taggle gypsy boy
going to somewhere in his life
and she joined him to follow his star.
Buttercups withered outside my door,
their stems split dry—
blood leaks anyway,
like this is how it happens.
Every step cracks the glass,
it keeps breaking, slowly,
what spills out—
rain,
my eyes.
Maybe the answer isn’t me—
with the one who refused the ring.
How am I even crying today—
because there’s enough grief, or maybe
because I can’t grow roses.
I watch the lights go out; there is
no one in the house, the chance already gone,
“tant pis,” then.
Who even wants the formula—
to initiate, comply, and carry it all,
as if it takes courage just to care
for her body, her breathing, her eyes.
I practised courage
in rooms that do not exist;
dust knows the lines well.
So, I guess they mean it when they say
“A rolling stone gathers no moss.”
“Stay still,” they say.
Nectar from too many flowers has given her
a halo around her head, a radiance
clinging to her skin—
is that intoxicating—
or just carnal desire,
overused?
In silence, we watch shadows pass.
They shape our thoughts and feed the farce.
Moulding lives to fit the lies
that see us strive, conform and die.
And scared of what we do not know,
we do not move or seek to go.
But idle in their well-known forms.
Find safety in such practised norms.
There is no need to speculate;
the shadows teach us fear and hate.
Breed small world views and selfish thoughts.
Dispense with troubling shoulds and oughts.
It matters not what's right or wrong,
so long as we all nod along.
Accept those preached invented truths,
and justify each new abuse.
While newborn Gods, those few rich men,
close liberty's gate and lock the pen.
Embrace what once seemed quite absurd;
they are the path, we are the herd.
In barless cages, with blinkered eyes,
bearing witness to corpocracy’s rise.
The missing light upon that wall
...an absence which now stains us all.
I cannot wait for forty days
For this life is all too fleeting
And forty nights without your gaze.
Might well stop my heart from beating
So send me off to hermitage
Where no one will hear my bleating.
Yet such must be our heritage
When death from plague lies in the air
Life’s price in an uncertain age.
Believers may find peace in prayer
Yet for me their words ring hollow
And so alone, I face death’s stare.
But cannot cross though lights are low
For it’s your flame I must follow.
The word "quarantine" originates from quarantena, the Venetian language form, meaning "forty days". This is due to the 40-day isolation of ships and people practised as a measure of disease prevention related to the plague.Wickipedia
A firm`s board met today, all stern faces,
To discuss sales and quarterly places;
Some slides flashed up with complex graphs so grand,
Nobody grasped the impact of their brand,
They nodded quick, with furrowed brow, their head,
Pretending to understand all instead;
The CEO discoursed, with booming sound,
Of synergy and newer ground they'd found;
I, a fly on the wall, observed with smiles
The hollow words, the lies and practised guiles.
Hundreds of years ago, people come and go
And out of many occasions where people go
Life was not as plenty before as it is today.
Life then may be hard, but people don't forget to smile everyday.
One day when some people thought of praying and kneeling,
"What is the purpose of bowing or bending?"
Each week, one person from every family goes out and asks everybody around
Every person asked either nodded or said, "I don't know why? I'm just new here and playing around."
Nation as a whole continued playing, kneeling and praying, bowing and bending.
In time, people from every nation thought of something else.
Time and again people started to scare each other to prove that "boring life" is not everything else.
In the modern times, if you don't scare people, you don't care much.
So, scaring people is a sign of love...
if love or life is valued and respected.
How "Halloween" was coined? Think again... you will know the reason why!
To scare and to be scared can be therapeutic for cardiac exercise.
However, it is never intended to hurt, harm or demoralize people. It is a human behavior or habit for some, but was not designed in life
to promote enmity or instigate evil. It should be not be practised
to ignite chaos and never to build tension or heart attack.
(Prosebite)
Thriving we're amidst Highland Heather
Below azure skies, cotton wool clouds
Hearts in touch baring poetic souls
As we rival nature sighing aloud
Bare back pages await to be scribed
Words forming sentences by finger quills
Continual grammar practised on thighs
Whilst imaginary links ink their spills
We can only appreciate why we're here
Below canopies of green forested leaves
Absorbed by a wanting to write our lives
To fuse our us to continually conceive
For thriving we're amidst Highland Heather
Below azure skies, cotton wool clouds
Our hearts will never be able to say enough
As we rival natures beauty, we're avowed
An Exchange Without Record
The room had practised silence long before
We entered it. Rain thinned itself to thread
Along the glass; the radiator bore
Its breath like iron learning how to shed
A memory of heat. You smiled. I felt
The timing miss by less than one could name—
The way a step, once taken, must be held
Mid-air, then yielded back to weight again.
Between us, air revised itself—its tone,
Its temper—cooling where our shadows met.
Our hands obeyed the grammar of the known,
Then paused, as though the rule were incomplete.
I pressed. Not asking—testing, as one tests
Warm wax that waits for judgement to be cast:
Will shape consent? Will meaning bear the stress
Of touch, and not collapse when touched—too fast?
You felt it where the body turns aside
From language—there, before the mind arrives.
Your gaze adjusted, then remained, as if
Something had shifted weight and chosen not
to fall.
The room went on. A floorboard kept our sound.
Light slipped a fraction on the distant wall.
The quiet altered shape without a wound
And did not trouble itself to call.
Later, my phone
Lay face-down, dark with trust. I sent a line
Exact enough to break if held too long—
A sentence shaped to fail if over-read.
Read this with care. Then let it disappear.
Outside, a signal changed. A door released
Its pressure. Somewhere, steps forgot their haste.
My breath miscounted—then corrected course,
A human error, briefly left in place.
The letter worked—not in what it confessed,
But in what cooled, then could not be retrieved.
The wax set. What was sealed was not preserved.
Next day, you met my eyes—no more than this:
A held delay. No promise. No retreat.
The world continued—accurate, unchanged.
We live, it seems, by what we let remain
Unprovable—
and do not touch again.
Each day I awaken, excited by the prospect of the day
Why would I want to feel, any other way
I made commitments many years ago to treat myself, with tender loving care
How I follow this commitment, this is what I'll share
God created nature which includes the rising sun
In that sunlight every morning, I'm running, really so much fun
Over years I've learnt a skill so I can make the people laugh
And when I leave this planet please record it, on my epitaph
Barefoot is how i travel, since the first day of my birth
Connect to positive energies which arise from mother earth
Tibetan rites, a ritual that's practised every day
Reverses ageing process so I can forever play
And when I sit to dine, I select the very best
Organic raw non poisoned fare, for the soul, I mindfully invest
Play guitar with harmonica and also like to sing
Connects left right brain hemispheres. always makes me zing
Mentally, emotionally and physically, I'm always on a high
If you'd like to get more tips, I'm always waiting, I'll be on standby