Long Proses Poems
Long Proses Poems. Below are the most popular long Proses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Proses poems by poem length and keyword.
The shape of a wheel
Wikus
1/11/2016
It is quiet, it is night
In my heart, a question bright
Should I stay, put up a fight
Should I go, despite being right
Darkness covers no unjust
In their hearts for blood the lust
We should go, they say, a must
They will never again us trust
The silence is just a guise
There word spoken, soaked with lies
Unjust to us now oversized
Their action now without surprise
Will the truth be ever known?
Will unjust to us then shown?
Peace to us was just on loan
Useless for us our fate bemoan.
But in time the sun will shine
People will drink and they will dine
No thought be given to this fear of mine
Thats the proses, time after time
What comes around, goes around
Cries of pain a dying sound
But be sure, a wheel is round
In each position, someone else be found.
1) Any form – I am usually not fond of prose
2) 10 line minimum, 50 Line Max
3) No Names
4) No poems from any of my previous contests
5) Poems uploaded to PS on 10.07.15 or earlier
6) Avoid Homophone errors *
7) Avoid Cliches *
8) Correct spelling *
1)Yeah, I know that's how it goes
2)The guy don't like no proses
3)and 9 lines, he tells me ain't enough
4)He says don't write my name, but he knows it all the same
5)and my past poems I guess were kinda rough
6)Now I'm a bit confused, homophones I can't abuse !
7)This poem must be written last week ?
8)A cliche comes to mind, and I can spell it out in sign
9)But if I do I think he's gonna freak
Thanks Rob for the inspiration---you know I'm just kidding, LOL
That day that way we met
the nightingale sang while
whooping cranes bowed
their heads the sun danced
between the blue skies as
the clouds rushed by I
remember that day that
way you walked the way
you smiled that funny
way you dazzled me with
your cunning charm like
no other man ever had the
pink flamingos were wearing
my dress while gone fishing
signs hung about the broken
drift wood store fronts hot
sand caressed my skin the
turquoise waters released
a soft salty mist that day
that way the kiss was met
I awaited your arrival in the
midst of it all we knew full
well death would follow the
sullen hints betrothed frightening
were we wrong to fall so deep
in love destroying a brilliant
friendship by falling in love
a connection so valid why
were we wrong to hide such
a great love to covenant a love
that would someday blast off
shattering the moon sending
pieces of our love into the
universe racing sparks ignited
the stars that twinkled back
down to the earth that day
that fabulous way we met
painting a beautiful canvas
of cards hand written letters
photographs proses poetry
collection of memories that we
were forbidden to express love
hidden deeply breaking our spirits
envious minds colliding before us
an yet within warm tears flowing
shown only when a quiet storm
gathers I watch and wait
for raindrops to cover my face
this is our song for this is our time
to weep for broken hearts beckoning
thought desired to feel to touch
to only remember desperately
trying to hold on to what's left
what is really left the pain still
lingers it's truly apart of who
we are now nothing could pry
it from my aching bosom it
remains connected to my soul
like a permanent umbilical cord
that day that way our souls met
way before our hearts finally
introducing our bodies to fulfill
this sheer connection that lit
up the sky by and by my smile
and the wink of your eye why
we are but lovers clinging vessels
in time we now remain cherubs
cherbium and seraphim beauty
kelp our love an artform on display
unmoved untouchable burning flame
The mystic bay channels my
every emotion moving slowing
throughout tunnels and vessels
of my mind tampering with
my infamous glow my tangible
smile gathering mirth as i am
quite taken with self the heart
of my magnificent being tasting
the glamorous hues of heavenly
bliss coasting daintiness balanced
so well embracing thoughtful
interludes chastised mannerism
created just so as i continue
flowing between this galaxy of
stars twinkling magnitude offering
nothing an yet so glorified, fulfilled
with every inch of the fine wonders
of enduring this wide open grandeur
beyond a whisper blindly heard
bravely singing my own masterpieces
the notion a fine rapture of proses
carried out across the mystic bay
In our crimson embers lie the snowflakes
In our snowflakes rise our whispers
In the downward valley
You asked
Where are gone the embers
My bird asks your roses
The maniac cucumber
That would change your proses
to hankering lyrics
In sync with the drumsticks
and melt the burglar ice
seated in the starving slice
of my days and nights
into my tissues and veins
calling the fire that ignites
the fragile glass of window panes
pouring the dances of rose-fragrance grains
in the lanes and bylanes
of the churning existence on supreme fire
Dancing with the strings of lyres
Squeezing the pomegranate
desire
The snowflakes have robbed us of the curls of earthquake
No tales of ripples in the frozen lake
Purple pulsations have left my neck
Gone are the hours of scarlet cheesecake
We must wait until the white flowers into colors
Our arrival in the scent of sun and showers
Can never end in the frozen bower
Embers proceed with death in snowflakes
New sparks are born to infuse a break
Gather new embers
The golden spurs
of life in spicy strife
The poetry goes on
From Babylon to Houston
From embers to snowflakes
From heartbreaks to handshakes
The sunshine and the tree
The lemon and honey
The blending spree
The blossoming cherry
January 3, 2018
For Embers and Snowflakes-Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Storyteller weaves his tales
throughout my mind and heart.
He alchemies my leaden days
into golden thoughts.
We soar above the shrinking earth
on word-filled wings at night,
glide on intellectual planes;
it’s Truth we seek to find.
Charting unknown territory
of heartlands, minds and brains,
we plumb the depths of mysteries
that rule cabbages and kings.
Like Capote penning portraits,
his stories glow so real.
Their 3-D essence touches me
in déjà vu surreal.
He’s captured me in tidy yarns,
with friendship for a knot.
Allowing him to nurture me,
he feeds my starving heart.
He takes me here, he whisks me there,
with legends of the fall.
But one place I can never trod
is deep inside his soul.
I have revived for a continuous time and died improved and degraded,
undecided, beautifully ugly, to save this holy profane and full,
passive, honest, my hell, the eternal and passing season,
your space, my hatred, in its place, with the caress
and sinless to climb out of the cold blood, without virtue
of the same stranger, one too human, in some darkness,
invigorated by my friends, the moments, eternal drops
of sunsets, as in an undedicated prose: to them, to us, dead!
Hope without hope
for I no longer hope, never always, my statue, you, the face,
body and with much guilt, who have doubted limited in you,
always bride, worldly, inspired and few proses,
without diploma, a wise fool, kept in mind, so, smiling,
a monochrome peasant, a devil of him, of me, faithful...
I am the least alive in my most vital and blind death,
your luminous shadow darkens me with its black and translucent light.
You, the perfect error of the earth,
you are my most distant close one,
my warmest love, cold as the frozen flame,
the steel flower that withers through blooming,
your absent presence makes me disappear through birth,
you are everything from nothing that becomes nothing from all without emptiness,
a life so dead it buries living dead in me,
the sweet bitter poison that heals me through sickening...
The poor king of the finite infinite
you are my gentlest torture with harshness and mercy,
my last first encounter with the meeting that separates us,
my highest love, low as the sky buried in heaven...
In me withers a blooming so dead it gives birth to life,
I am an absence so present I fill my voids with full emptiness.
He conjures pretty poems and proses,
but something in the wicked wind forewarns,
In his eyes, a sea of roses,
in his flesh, the pain of thorns.
A child, swinging gaily on the beach,
in back, a little girl, within his reach,
before his eyes, a sapphire blue,
but behind him, soon his ears,
heard a toddler on the sand, in tears.
In school, he read of heroes, brave and true -
when he'd grow up, that's what he'd do,
but some things wash away with time.
The ideals seen by the young man's eyes
would flit away like butterflies.
One day, in matrimony, he would wed,
"To have and to hold", is what he said.
He cursed his eyes, which would betray.
A happy family is what they could see,
but the wind said it was not to be.
He conjures pretty poems and proses,
but something in the wicked wind forewarns,
In his eyes, a sea of roses,
in his flesh, the pain of thorns.
It was a magical time. It was youth and exuberance; It was excitement and discovery; it was innocence. It is now just memory, ah, but once it was the reality of sunshine and butterflies. The seeming timelessness of youth is a realistic illusion, when no thought of such days ever ending or even slowing, would enter young minds.
And we were there when …
Whistles of steam locomotives were heard clear ‘cross town as the enormous engines puffed their way along steel ribbons … in the winter months, sled rides, snowball fights, and ice skating … the summers brought sunshine-filled days of bicycle rides, swimming holes, fishing, and sandlot baseball games …
In the fall school started again, and both old and new faces illuminated our days … there were football and basketball games … cheerleaders … after-game dances … and, finally, the garnering of a drivers’ license.
Then, quickly it seemed, school, college, military service … that first big-time job … meeting that certain someone … little feet running about the house … another job … another high-school class reunion …
Quite unexpectedly, something triggered the conscious realization: Our youth had slipped away. It was a process of erosion … slow … consciously unnoticed, like the melting of an ice cube …
It was then fond old memories began seeping back into our thoughts … Some of those old memories were shared with the newest members of our families … sometimes they’d demand: “tell me again …” and we’d comply …
The Days of Wine and Roses have given way to the Days of Rhyme and Proses as we read days of retirement away … through a Kindle book.
… and those memories are a beautiful reminder of yesteryear … and encourage more memories yet to be made.
Captain of the most distant islands
living poem among my proses
that each one was exchanging for roses
with moonlight and wandering mornings
II
You loved as few have loved
with sea madness and clear lyrics
the greatest poet that will remain in us
as he in the calm portrayed...
III
The island was your light and your horizon
was a witness to your fate, luck
let my verse take you back
IV
Timemate here awaits you
beyond this letter and this death
I follow your companion brand...!
PS TRANSLATION/ADAPTATION OF THE POEM
SONNET OF THE POETISA ADELA CARPORAL
ARGENTINA FOR THE COLLECTION 1000
POEMS FOR PABLO NERUDA.
by alkas