Long Punctuation Poems
Long Punctuation Poems. Below are the most popular long Punctuation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Punctuation poems by poem length and keyword.
The Lost Art Of Composition
too often my thoughts and the ability to express them
are taken hostage without a clue to the cause
this is an affliction familiar to many a writer
as if madness wasn't enough
it proves to be immune to every method I've used
to relieve my minds constipation
it enslaves your ideas and duct tapes the mouth of your soul
binds your fingers and hands so you are unable to write
I Whiskeyed and Scotched it self medicated with drugs
the addiction that resulted I thought could be bribed
held a knife at its throat threatened, bullied and beat it
poked and scratched at the eyes
Kicked it in the balls
pleaded and begged even got on my knees and prayed
all my efforts were ineffective
it only pissed it off more and tightened the grip
around my Muse's neck
I had exhausted my resolve to this disease that consumed me
there was no other option but to surrender
I decided to give up , knuckle under call it quits
not answer the bell for the next round
I disconnected my computer and turned off my cellphone
the typewriter on my desk just for show
I've had since college every once in a while I have at it
so I stashed in the closet with books by Sexton, Wolfe and Burroughs
Cisneros, Bukowski and Gonzo
I turned down the lights and lit some candles
sat at my desk to prepare my suicide note
what happened when the ballpoint touched the papers surface
was the key opening the front door lock to home
an energy manifested that I had known long ago
before Technology had deadened it's nerves
it sparked the transfer of thought into a word
forming the shape of a sentence
this cosmic electricity flowed into my hand holding the pen
then designed a paragraph the child of chapter
I touched every noun felt each verb envisioned the adjectives description
heard every "ly" in the adverbs reply and ignored the rules of punctuation
I had discovered the remedy to restore my inspiration
the cure I possessed all along
The lost art of composition was my salvation
my own prescription is what I wrote
the poet is an artist that paints in the darkness
a poems words the colors that create light
a writer is blessed with all of the answers
cursed in the search for what questions to ask
Judge Burdon
With a bulldozer, I will demolish the hell of eternal youth,
Freeing its path to flow into eternal memories,
Building from white flint a matchless mountain,
Then my head will strike the volcano, to summon red fire, flame.
The mobile tongue of lava, reciting thawed remnants,
A long-forgotten poem, with scattered punctuation marks,
The boulders of movement, thrown toward the sky, eternally heavy years,
The earthquake of your loves, emotions that unite us forever.
To my love, grand proportions, limitless in longing,
Encompassing the entire world, the pure soul, thrill,
Across millennia, the undeniable vibration of love,
The thrill that traverses time, uniting us endlessly.
Let us all be, in turn, bride and groom, in love,
From an unmatched lineage, saddened by barbaric forgetting,
The smoke and angst of an undeserved future, sculpted in purity,
Verses tattooed in feelings, eternally carried in my heart.
Eternity calls us, with longing and dreams, to be together always,
Letting love pass through time, like an echo,
In my heart, sculpted, our story will endure,
An unforgettable thrill, that will shine across millennia.
a Tri-fall poem
With steady pumping hiss
the oxygen machine
curates a melody
for an angel’s soft kiss
upon the damascene
of Mother’s elegy…
and yet we weep sorrow
at the soon leave-taking
of our most precious gem,
tonight or tomorrow
her gentle soul waking
to touch the royal hem.
She has travelled afar
to that city not built
by mortal man’s design,
but by heaven’s true star,
who embroidered the quilt,
rolled it out; let it shine.
There are mansions high, there are mansions wide way up in the glory land,
There are mansions fiiled with jasper of wondrous beauty grand,
I've a mansion high prepared for me, 'twas built by hands divine,
But i know my mother's mansion is higher than mine.
I know my mother's mansion is higher than mine,
Her mansion is many stories high, a gift of heaven divine,
There's a room for every tear she shed in this world she left behind,
And I know my mother's mansion is higher than mine.
Yes, Jesus went and prepared a place just like He said He'd do,
He built for me a mansion, and one for others too,
And if her home was measured by her precious love divine,
I know my mother's mansion is higher than mine.
~ Mother’s Mansion is Higher Than Mine by Mac Wiseman
*****
The Tri-fall, created by Jan Turner, consists of three 6-line stanzas, for a total of 18 lines. The rhyme scheme is a,b,c,a,b,c [etc.] and meter for each stanza is as follows: 6/3/8, 6/3/8. This form requires little to no punctuation and can be written on any subject matter.
~from Shadow Poetry, A Poet’s Writing Resource
i love ice cream in the summertime while sitting on the edge of the lake with my feet wading in the water then catch a breeze so gentle and sweet - I pray another one just like it will pass through.i love a beautiful thought going through my head that is so sweet that it makes no difference that it's not real - because I get the same sensation;Only there is no price to be paid, no one to praise... but goodness for goodness sake. i love just feeling good and being grateful. for being reasonably
healthy after all i have done to defile my temple, and laffing for no other reason but for at that moment nothing is making me sad.i love being in a place where i can be caught up in my thoughts, knowing that i still have friends to share them with and that when i come down from this ivory tower of joyous thoughts. i can dry my feet off - turn on fake air and be ready to analyze some important issues, like which one of my grand kids, has which one of my traits oh well that's it for now...I wrote this all because i read this poster. Yeah i like breaking rules too, so i enjoyed writing this with no punctuation and little i's instead of capitol I's...https://fbcdn-sphotos-c-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xpa1/t1.0-9/1504073_732390496818098_5832240819954108140_n.jpg
Feel the year-end mood
Rainy punctuation,
Wetness all around
Touch of strange passion
Words stretch away,
New permutations
Here the watcher
Stretches out waiting,
Touch of wonder
Feel the pulse
Of mental images,
Poise of new voices
I wait to know
Some surge of feelings,
Blend of new rhymes
When rhymes fail
To rhyme in time,
Awkward lines distort
Discard the fullness,
Be as empty,
Ready to be full
Words act defiant
Accessory to murder,
Creative impulse dies
Yet words make
A measure that fits,
Ordinary excavations
Be unafraid then
When muse is absent,
Time for meanderings
Poetry is best written
Fresh as a peach,
Eaten for pleasure
Verse or no verse
Distant echoes call,
Stanzas feed compact
No need to ask
Why this ash and dust,
Let the fire burn
If you must know
Death's at the door,
Dye or die anon
Do not go beyond
That unknown sea,
For life calls to you
Christmas here
Tropical promontory,
Crumbling facades
Soon this old year
Must die to resurrect,
Phoenix reborn again
Only three more days
Till a new year
Arrives at the doorstep
Soul journeys feed
Wonder and wander,
Return to sender
Leon Enriquez
28 December 2014
Singapore
“Kiss me,” she says—
her eye swollen, rimmed in red.
“Hold me,”
but not like that.
Not with fear pressed
into every rib.
He doesn’t answer.
Just slams the door.
“He loves me,”
she whispers to no one,
eyes darkening with
each retreating footstep.
Years of apologies
smear her reflection.
Each bruise
a disappearing act.
“He’s just under stress,”
she murmurs,
twins curled at her breast
like unanswered prayers.
“I push him, really.
He doesn’t mean it.”
She says this
with blood on her lips.
Still kneeling.
Still hoping.
He storms in.
“You filthy whore!”
And she flinches—
but not at the words.
At the familiarity.
The fist lands.
Again.
Again.
Like punctuation
on a life not hers.
“Make love to me,”
she begs,
but her body remembers
only impact.
Only art made
from suffering.
Blood spatters.
Scars bloom.
Her body,
a reluctant canvas.
“Surprise me with kindness,”
she thinks.
But bows her head:
“If not,
then beat me—
your highness.”
Somewhere, the children sleep.
Somewhere, a door doesn’t slam.
Somewhere,
love does not hurt.
Put in the Punctuation
By Franklin Price
6/3/2015
Put in the punctuation
Wherever you would like
To pause the words and keep them
From overflowing your mind's dike
To organize your thinking
To better understand
The meaning of my poetry
Punctuation lacking is my brand
Meaning can change greatly
With Commas periods and such
The variety of what words say
With punctuation changes much
Let your mind run rampant
As you read my poetry
And if you need to punctuate
You may do it it is free
I leave these few words with you
Punctuate them as you will
A group of baboons a congress
As the men upon the hill
Acrostically speaking there is some confusion
Clear origin demands end of row execution
Rewritten meaning now calls for beginning
Of line emphasis for poetic underpinning
Start at the outset with succinct letter in mind
Then make form and message intertwined
In letters we trust because they begin and they end
Close disciples they are and all writers’ friend
At the heart of the matter lies imagination
Left aligned creations and no punctuation
Loo role lullaby and limestone are easy
Yankee however tends to make me quite queasy
In ‘the good old days’ the artist had a thesaurus
Supplanted by google because minds became porous
Titrating trivial knowledge is no inconsequential pursuit
As rules and strict order demand for the gems to permute
Never say never when you compose an acrostic
Deference to dogma is not for a truthful agnostic
To acrostic or not ‘that is here the question’
A liking for puzzles helps with harmonic progression
Let us be clear some poems are pure nonsensical tosh
Lo and behold though even loo roles can be rather posh
17th July 2019-07-15
Origin of the word Acrostic comes from Greek akrostikhis
From acron (end) and stikhos (row or line of verse)
I shot all the letters, my love, in the silent dawn of night,
From my last unread book, the pages remain unstarted,
The poems exchanged their corpses for impersonal words,
Full of blind ideas, like echoes fading in the valley unheard.
Turning the phrase on the erased spot of the final point,
A yellow, vegetal form becomes a banal detail in joint,
Leading us to the forgotten trash heap's communal grave,
A swirling fervor, a strange cross, a destiny tangled and grave.
After so many loves and insults, let's dream of each other anew,
Not just our most uncultured dreams, but in another view,
Conscious punctuation marks sent to the earth we embrace,
Old creations now hollow, a NULLity of words with no grace.
Let's lose ourselves in the silence of words that echo no more,
In an esoteric dance of thoughts flowing slowly to the core,
In a world where magic and melancholy meet and blend,
And in an eternal dream, my love, let's find and love again.
Hello Sunshine, Good day World
May I but sip from the Chalice
Rain, a rose, Quiet repose
The Warm that is Linda Alice
written by Michael in 1975
(I found this handwritten poem in an old box of memorabilia. I submit it not as an ego post, but as a tribute to a mentor who is no longer with us. He encouraged and supported me in our work that was challenging and heartbreaking. It was offered me as a small respite from that work and to give me a smile. I did not change punctuation or capitalization. It had no title - I thought his name would be appropriate. I also thought it should be documented with smiles and fondest memories.)