Long Quill pen Poems
Long Quill pen Poems. Below are the most popular long Quill pen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quill pen poems by poem length and keyword.
OH BE THIS POEM AS SACRED AS HER NAME
Often I am compelled to hover over her shoulder
Each letter formed, each thought defined
For she has poetry on a leash
And walks it, pray I, at least three times a day
For she owns words that are her property
Well, not so much ownership but instead just rather properly
When roars the cage, when spears are aimed
When hoards of men come at her who the lovely’s never ever claimed
Fear not, poetry’s prize
For thou art ever in your Heavenly Father’s eyes
For you were birthed when an angel whispered “Autumn,” and that’s how you were
named……………………………….......
I see her sitting by a kerosene lamp with a quill pen just because it brings her back to a
simpler place
Where each sentence is aptly signified
And in each syllable she writes in the middle of all that is dignified
For this be a lady
A lady who can take on the persona of that which she chooses her poetry to be
One day she writes genius about how we all know life is a struggle, but then at the end of
the day, hopefully you have some with whom to snuggle
Or she’ll describe the horrors we hear of every day while most are deaf and blind but she
takes all our sorrow to her angelic heart
For one so wise should pen meet eyes and place upon a page of profundity with which the
words and verbiage she vies
Yet she always tames the concept she struggles with
Okay, so perhaps I’ll agree, she’s not the best
But take twenty poems by twenty poets and I’ll bet hers is the best, and if not first, hers is
definitely better than the rest
© 2011.…..~free cee!~
Pretty good for an old geezer (geazer) and I still haven’t gotten an answer, if I have more
than one mouse I have mice what if I have more than one moose? AND IF ANYONE
DESERVES A MORE HANDCRAFTED AND DELICATELY PHRASED POEMTHAN THE ABOVE, IT’S U
D……but don’t forget, the only time I get to use e-mail is at noon because that’s the only
time the old-age home I live in allows us us…if you wanna write it’s,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
free cee
666 satanic street
c/o Dying Legends Old AGE HOME
Abu-Dhabi, somewhere ===they don’t even have zip codes
It will make its way to me, fear not
P.S. the trick KEY to reading my style poetry is
normal voice / Mild Voice \ LOUD VOICE
a tap'in Clap'in SNAP"IN neat Beat my Treat
Hip Hop pop'in off VOODOO Poetry the other White MEET
As we travel the Ancient Sands oF Time to Land oF King Cyrus
the Nile River of Life & Ships oF the Desert with Land Pirates
thee Ocean oF Emotion gave to the Victor Chiba a Love Virus
He gave it to wife Essama Chiba 2 Lover Lovingly Loved Paris
walking a Dreamer Dreaming Dream Life comes to LIFE in ( i ) Iris
as 2/C SWEETEST Lovely Valley oF Purple Passion Flower Irises
in the compassion fragrant that Surprise-us
( I ) sat down under the Lone Cypress
me & Essama Chiba she my sister from Ancient Heart of a Lioness
Queen of the Jungle we reminiscing on past Life is priceless
( I ) opened my flat black back pack pulled out 3 purple papyrus
( i ) pulled out my Quill Pen ( i ) had Rhyme wanting to Write-this
But they've overcome their Shyness
Essama Chiba with her husband Slyness ,.,> UNSUPPORTED CODE ;;J
a Flower oF Wisdom
Bee Humming Wisdom
when given the chance to Breath air we need Wisdom
Life comes to LIFE in are Heart & Soul we store Wisdom
Got paper.,.Got Quill Pen,., Got time for Journalism
a poet Soul the Spark oF LIFE.,.But LOVE into the System
Author Notes
I talk to my sister from Ancient Times
she lives in Cairo Egypt one night we talked about her Husband Mr. Chiba R.I.P. then Life comes to LIFE
( I ),. had a DREAM ( i ) got to meet him
for my sweet sister from Ancient Times
Master Poet Essama Chiba we walked a
Dreamers Dreaming Dreams Guided by Mr.Chiba
25 Lines 233 words about LOVE that Last
Beyond the GRAVE into the SPIRIT WORLD
( i ).,.use ( I ).,. as the Magic oF the 3RD.(EYE)
The crimson sun still up
as she woefully walks
in an abandoned rustic railways;
Her feet ~ as heavy as the stale steel rails
almost buried in forgotten soil;
Her hands as cold as tombstone plate
whilst holding a gun on her left hand~
She grips a quill pen
to write the obscure death
of the man in blue suit~
and the deaths of twelve passengers
still unsolved...
She was here some decades ago~
aboard in an old steam train
The memory of that macabre ride
haunted her for thousand days and nights.
She writes in scarlet ink
on a bloodstained scroll
that says like this:
" To all the victims who died here,
I lay my hands before this forgotten railway
and the weeping willows as my witness;
I never thought too much love would kill.
I killed my beloved man in blue suit,
the driver of that tortuous train journey...
Yes I killed him to save the three million people
dwelling on the final station;
Using the twelve infected people,
He was sent to spread that virus
that he thought would change the world.
I didn't understand till now~
Yes, I killed him with a silencer
and unlocked that explosive weapon
before it reached its final destination.
But I was spared~
not the twelve people;
Now, with this gun I’ll give justice
to all people who died here
by killing the undersigned murderer.
Till death,
Anonymous ”.
The gun silently flicks
pointing her head~
Darks clouds hide the day
as her blood flows
on the thirsty ground.
1 May 2021
Modified for “ Guns Poetry Contest”
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
11th place
I sit and think of
programs that
assign values to
words that are wrote
love and hate and in envy are
words that of passion may be
but value nothing to
the values of the machine
angles slopes and rectangles
roaring sounds growing louder
winds that blow and clothes that flutter
things of value they may see
flowing curves of tender flesh
rising above clean white lines
bright blue eyes sparkling bright
flesh being speared by burning light
hearts that beat with beating flutter
longing felt some how deep inside
burning passion consuming flesh
of these computers feel nothing
as I sit the words I write
on screen of black and white
speaking words into a mic
parchment not nor quill pen
oceans roar on screen back
waves crash upon the rocks
clouds above of reds and grays
lit dimly by setting sun
no man-made things of lines and squares
shining chrome painted black
backwards turning of the wheels
and guitar not played
arrows fletched in ribbons long
words in blood wrote upon
shot into the shining sun
traveling through the coming time
writing words for computers to read
caring not what people may see
dreams soar not upon the lines
no passions burned with the thoughts
what to write and what to be
what is the purpose that I see
will my words count for ever more
or be lost and never seen
writing poems on Friday morn
wondering what I may be
known of none or maybe more
lost through all eternity
Would my poetry improve if I used a posh pen
A fountain or quill, as was used back when
People took pride in all that they did
Not like these days, anything for a quid
Where are the inkwells that adorned a poets table
Imagine a quill pen with a white feather if you are able
The poet or writer looked in charge of the situation
As he dipped the quill into the ink with a flourish
And wrote words of inspiration
The ink flowed freely as the poet wrote words
Hardly ever heard of or used
Words that tugged at heartstrings
To take in, ponder and muse
A fountain pen came next without the romance of the quill
It was a status symbol some people collect them still
You did not dip the pen into an inkpot
Instead, you fill the pen with ink
Sometimes it got too full and made an ink-blot
Fountain pens are not used today only by a few
It was the Americans that invented something new
Biro is the name of this pen used by everyone
They are a dime a dozen and are sold by the ton
They are very practical and convenient to use
Therefore it's not the pen that makes poetry flow
It's the imagination of the muse
Sweet Home
From the tense of turbulence you profer comfort,
from the tests of time you offer abode,
Will all the fortresses of home refer incline?
Will all the fortitudes of hope adversity sublime?
The ocean of pleasure thou are; forever will I clamour instill,
The mission of leisure sweet amass; forever will I welcome still.
Dotting the lines of succour through the poets' quill-pen,
Blotting the limbs of honour through the Equerrian quince.
The enclave of birth and nurture to the dwell enclose,
The conclave of might and culture to the bells entwine.
Entrenched in shelter from rain and sun concomitant undo,
Embellished in sceptres from ornaments to unravel the feud's undue.
As the elements of Architecture are singing beautitudes,
The velvets of bevels are clinking tambourines.
As the culverts of artefacts are mincing soirees,
The valance of bevies are ringing solarium.
In May you lay in mash of holy velds,
And in June will Juno return amidst.
Oh God of mercy grant us the grace of lair,
When the solace of sauna breeds comfort of sweet home.
Adeola Yusuf Amuni
Words reflect the man,
yet it reveals not the true
nature of the beast.
What you read is a
verbal mask, a secret self,
in an ink disguise.
One may write humor,
then be revealed as sullen
and melancholy.
Or write heartfelt prose,
to be found a true cynic,
to whom love is bunk
Thus we praise the words,
but would we applaud the man
once divulged to us?
Often, to write well,
an inner demon must be
allowed to break free.
Imagination,
cleverness and some guile,
does make a good read
As can honesty.
Which is rare when found in form,
and harder to write
You must not fear it,
if you wish it to come forth.
It seeps from your well.
Dip deep your quill pen,
into your true self and see
your writing change face.
Gone will be your shield.
Open to criticism,
will take true courage
Time moves along with change of scenes,
Strange is not strong yet alters din.
Space cannot wait with empty air,
Change breaks the gate with gushing flair.
Move with the times or change will rip,
No broken chimes can forge new grip.
Count your blessings with heart and mind,
Love prompts living with what you find.
Live bold and brave with ample nerves,
Thus you now save yourself with verve.
That old quill pen can write with ink,
You know you can style a new link.
Tell your own tale with mystic grooves,
Dare sparkle sale as gut funds moves.
Too soon the end comes quick and brisk,
Around the bend the end of risk.
Be that sure soul who wonders best,
Attend pure whole in your life quest.
Leon Enriquez
13 March 2016
Singapore
My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to sleep nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.
My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.
A sacred heart of timber;
With embers in ashes set apart;
So consumed in words torn apart
And burning into red embers.
Though big boys shed no tears
So in mine own eyes look never,
With words of fervor I'll never tire.
My wooden heart consumed over
So give me quill pen to draw pictures
Of this passionate desire that
Sets ablaze the oak of my heart.
Wooden ashtray holds a glimmer
Leaving my heart on fire.
Turned into so hot red embers
Is a sacred marple heart ablaze
Hot cruise under waters so vast.
Oak burning hot in the inward
Where fire cracks in silent whispers
Turning hardwood into charcoal so black
That will ever and over start a new fire.
So doused is the heart of timber
In petrol and set on fire!!!