Long Print Poems
Long Print Poems. Below are the most popular long Print by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Print poems by poem length and keyword.
Serene in stillness,
uncovering in sense
poise and reverence,
albedo delineates a world
away in chaos,
whilst discovering
this ease and comfort,
a tome
thought long lost,
resides in hands
gratified
at its homecoming
Enfolded
in recollections
held between leaves,
this journal of time
crafted with loving eyes
stroked with passion,
smudged crossed markings,
reflecting angst
and joyousness of days ,
a story of a life’s’ past
Ink smeared lines
retching emotion
at times sparking
a flame of anger,
an ire
for past injustices,
evaporates as the papyrus
crumbles,
the wash of feeling
your crafted words brought
paid for
in love and despair
Tranquility in images
from a past gather in,
long departed souls
visit memory,
bringing the warmth of
earlier happenings,
gazing into twin eyes
coloured as to be
different,
searching the foretelling
as doom had stalked her,
visited and was
victorious,
finding none
This perusal,
no search of wisdom
in faded sepia
Framed in richness
of early moments,
captured in a heartbeats
pause,
Past glories,
engraved by differing hands,
inks and lead ever wrote,
in loves print they lived
.. and live
in this
muniment to life
Embracing these recalls
mere breathes captured
in a rush of feelings
Saturated in memory,
serene stillness
overcomes all else …
I had financially fallen on very difficult times,
and had to sell many of my valued treasures,
including twenty rolls of uncirculated dimes.
To get the best bids, I'd taken great measures.
Most valuable was a glass sculpture of Earth,
but only be sold without taking it apart.
There had never been an estimate of its worth
and letting it go at auction was breaking my heart.
I had it very clearly stated in the contract deal
that once the gavel struck, it belonged to the buyer.
The status of my insurer signed it with his seal,
and that information was revealed in an auction flyer.
The bidding began and only one paddle was raised.
Four thousand dollars was insulting for this artwork,
although the Baccarat sculpture was not appraised.
I looked pleadingly at the patient auctioneer, Kirk.
What a calamity if I didn't receive a larger price.
My hopes suddenly began to plummet to a new low
I had no belongings left to sell, nothing to sacrifice.
I didn't know where to turn after this financial blow.
Then, a phone bid came in at ten thousand pounds
"Going once, twice.... SOLD! " Kirk had done his job.
But the buyer backed out. I asked, "On what grounds?"
They sent me to an office where I met a guy named Bob.
He said the bidder hadn't read all the terms of shipping
and that he was afraid the fragile sculpture would shatter.
Legally, the sale was binding. The buyer must be tripping
if he thought I'd let him out of the purchase, it didn't matter.
A deal was a deal, and he was now the brand-new owner
of A Baccarat global sculpture that weighed nearly a ton.
He didn't read the fine print, and now he was a groaner.
Finding a way to move that gigantic piece that he'd won.
Later that day, I received a cashier's check for the money.
The eccentric buyer wanted it for his wife, and to be gifted
to her on her next birthday. Turned out, he thought it funny
and would install it in their greenhouse if they got it lifted.
Anatomically speaking
I would rather not let you see my brain,
yet you can imagine it the same way I imagine yours.
Poetics abound, but let’s not fall into that mind trap,
comparisons in the dark will teach us more.
Pull up a chair, be beautiful, I’m not old
In your brain, you are not young in mine. We are
sea creatures floating just under the surface
of the oily film of our affectations;
there in that saline soup
our brains swim, meet and assimilate.
Thoughts grow feelers long enough to find
our furthest reaches, no matter how far awareness
submerges, surfaces, or emerges,
these sensors don’t end where the skin stops breathing.
Show me your feet, and I will show you my hands,
we will paint them with a naked green and blue dye,
then print out our dreams on the air between us.
What I wish to say is:
brains need this kind of image-making,
otherwise two luminous jellyfish such as we
will never find each other
in this deep dark ocean.
A furry little caterpillar
Crawled onto my knee
He turned into a butterfly
And landed in a tree
Beside him was a humming bird
Sucking pollen from a rose
When down fell an inchworm
That landed on my nose
A little baby bunny rabbit
Hopped onto my lap
When I started petting him
His ears began to flap
‘Did someone knock?’ a voice enquired *
And when I looked around
Two bleary eyes and long pink snout
Popped up from underground.
I came across a rooster
Sitting on a fence
A sign said "you can pet him
For only fifty cents"
As I peeked into a sty
I heard a great big thud
I saw the three little piggy's
Rolling in the mud
I looked up in the sky
And I saw a lonesome goose
I whistled "where are you flying to"
He replied. "to visit Dr. Seuss
* - my addition for the contest - bold print fails to transfer
24/07/18
A door made from the haphazard weaving
of wood, rust, and ivy.
Smudged newspapers flap wings
in a heaving wind. Drowned birds
emerge from wet print. Barren condoms
spill to feed the mouths of empty cans.
The garden has no house.
Rubble and verge limn a floor-plan.
Weeds grapple, roots maul concrete.
Black bags regurgitate
bacon rinds.
A boy's found-treasure: a nickel can-opener,
a pen with a lady, whose clothes fall off
when turned upside-down,
a chewed Superman doll.
That night his closed eyes
fly over the city with a half-naked lady.
while a can-opener
slowly opens up adulthood.
There once was a bully who ruled
Thinking, man, he had everyone fooled.
He did as he pleased
With the power he seized
Sure that he’d never be ridiculed.
But the people who suffered his blows
Were delighted at what I suppose
Was a foolish mistake
For a bully to make
That reporters found ways to expose.
Now the papers all print up the news
Leaving readers to weigh things and choose
If this bully should leave
For most opt to believe
Such behavior he cannot excuse.
The moral, of course, hits a nerve
For most bully-types rarely observe
That they cannot defend
Hurting those they offend
And their punishment’s what they deserve.
The signs have become clearer
It's just as I feared.
The phone only unlocked
by the print of your thumb,
How did I miss this?
How could I be so dumb?
The messages from "I don't know" or "no one"
A particular "Hello handsome?"
Note the quotations
Its in the form of a question;
It appears you left in mid-conversation.
When confronted you dismiss it
as if I had no right to ask
However, I feel the need to question it
due to our dark past
Just because i sought out alternate comfort
and made some mistakes
it does NOT give you permission
it does NOT make it OK.
And don't let me forget to mention
your indiscretions
I was under the impression we'd learned our lessons.
It is not about fairness
you're only doing it out of spite
It takes a bigger man to do what is right.
Form:
An older woman came to the counter and gave me a quizzical look…
She smiled then said, “Excuse me…I’m looking for one particular book.”
“It’s a book I read to my granddaughter…who usually fell asleep before we were done…
I’d like to send it to her for her birthday…this year she turns 21.”
She said her granddaughter called her up…out of the blue…unexpectedly…
and asked, “Do you remember this book Grandma…and all the times you read it to me?”
“Of course I remember.” She said. (As she was telling the story she gave her heart a pat.
“Of course I remember.” She repeated. “You don’t forget something like that!”
She said her plan was to send her granddaughter a copy of this book
with a note saying how nothing compared
to the moments we spent reading it together…
to those moments that we shared.
She hoped to find that book in our store…she asked if we had it…we didn’t.
I told her it’s a very old and obscure book…and I believe it’s out of print.
I smiled and said, “I don’t think you need a physical book…it is plain for me to see…
How that book…after all the times you read it…is printed in your memory.”
“And I”m sure it the same for your granddaughter…in her memory that book is installed.
It’s definitely a memory she was thinking about…why else would she have called?”
Then the lady tapped my hand…”You’re right.” She said to me.
“We have the gift this book left both of us…we have its memory.”
As she left the store I thought how a memory doesn’t fade…it’s condition is alway mint…
and how a memory…unlike a book…will never go out of print.
Working in a bookstore I’m surrounded by books with stories of joy and sorrow…and more
but some of the best stories are not in print…
they come walking through our front door.
(In December 1851, Napoleon III, nephew
of the great Bonaparte, staged a coup d'etat
in Paris.)
The child was dead. Two bullets in the head.
The room was decent, humble, honest, clean.
An Easter palm was pinned to some old print.
A grandmother wept quietly in one corner.
In silence, we took off the little boy's clothes.
His bloodless mouth gaped open, and one eye
stared wild, surprised, unseeing, drowned in death.
His arms appeared to ask us, as they flopped,
for help; one pocket held a wooden top.
You could have put a finger in each hole.
I don't know if you've ever seen a hedge
with over-ripened blackberries; that's how
the darkened clots appeared. His broken skull
reminded me of firewood, split in two.
The old grandmother watched us as we worked,
saying, "How pale he is! Come near the lamp.
Oh, God! His poor hair's sticking to his head!"
Once we were done, she held him in her lap.
The night was ugly. Shots were ringing still
along the street. Others were being killed.
"The boy has to be buried," someone said.
A walnut cabinet gave up a sheet,
but grandma wasn't ready. Not for that.
When my earthquakes everything I'm trying to circus balance on my last ounce of positive will the Jenga begins to fall
But there are a couple of things that calm me down before the rubble of anxiety fills the air
This poem is about my favorite thing
I think it's my favorite because of the seasonal hide in go seek or Mary go round trip they allow me to travel
The seed is forever present but not every flower smiles the same
However, in full bloom I picture a Van Gogh field of floral print in my frontal lobe
And I just want to let my kisses frolic through your petals
Because when the sun butterfly kisses your skin, it gives your freckles goosebumps
I'm drunk from the way your Daisy dot face tattoos pull me away from reality
The feeling hugs like a daffodil yellow
The warmth brewing mid-morning when the sun only has the blinds open a little
The pastel sunrise in your eyes is making the 6am night soft
Here's a cloudy thought: I wish I could paint every single freckle of yours a daffodil yellow
And tell you how much I love them all but yes I have a favorite and no I'm not telling you
Because to see your daffodil yellow freckles wink at me is to die for
It's the country song that keeps me wanting more
It's the slow caress to my stress that massages the pain away
It's my favorite
p.s. her daffodil yellow is the reason my smile says hello...