Long Quite Poems
Long Quite Poems. Below are the most popular long Quite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quite poems by poem length and keyword.
A dress blew up the internet: a fact that's strange but true.
It seems that some saw white and gold, while others, black and blue.
For nearly one full day or more (a web eternity),
On Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, ’twas all that one could see.
The cat memes and the llamas too had to take a backseat,
And ISIS, CPAC, trending down, did scarce receive a tweet.
The fabric of the universe was nearly ripped to shreds:
A world divided into camps by how they saw these threads.
Some, like a double rainbow, trip; they ask, "What does it mean?"
And others know we're all quite mad; the dress is orange and green.
The world itself could be on fire, in greatest need, distress,
But none would care until we knew the color of this dress.
The physicists, psychologists, the learned men of science,
Unveiled the doubt that shadows cast on visual reliance.
The theologians and the priests assuage our image flawed,
For if we cannot trust our eyes, can we believe in God?
The wise man knows this too shall pass, finds comfort mid the rift;
The silver lining in the cloud: the dress presents a gift.
For when the dreaded question's raised, he knows he's off the hook
When asked the no-win question, “Dear, how does this make me look?"
But if he's feeling spry and young, ambiguous but clear,
He'll say, a twinkle in his eyes, "No dress improves you, dear!”
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I wrote this a few years back when the image of the blue/brown dress was all the buzz on social media. Still trying to collect and get some of my earlier stuff over here to "home".
The new guy in my life chases me around
while we laugh and play in the local park.
He's the best man I could've ever found.
He gets me drunk without popping a cork.
We share bubbles; not the champagne kind.
The kind we blow way up into the blue sky
and when they go 'pop' we don't even mind
for it's such fun to watch them flying so high.
Looking at life through the eyes of this child
gives me a feeling that's quite hard to explain.
He brings out such an urge in me to run wild,
the riotous kind that makes me happily insane.
My grandson is a free spirit with angelic eyes
and a vocabulary that amazes me each day.
This child will grow into some woman's prize,
but his Nana wishes at the age of two he'd stay.
I KNOW A PLACE
I know a place wherein a wild time grows,
Where ale and wine and spirit freely flows.
Quite uninhibited behaviour there,
Whilst swinging rock band music fills the air
And couples wildly dance the night away.
Lost to the world until the break of day.
But sometimes, fuelled perhaps by excess booze
Or petty jealousy, a fight ensues.
The band stops playing, dancers stand and cheer,
Till someone shouts, “Look out, the cops are here.”
As if by magic, peace descends once more,
And, when the officers burst through the door,
They find not a hint of trouble of course,
As the band strikes up a Viennese waltz.
22nd May 2023
This or That, Vol 18 Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Edward Ibeh
~ ~ ~** ~ ~ ~ ** ~ ~ ~
a torn sun once wholly wise, the kind that sparkled whistling eyes
now a broken porcelain ,echoing screams from windows’ stain
booming through shattered rooms, waters of black -skinned moons
swish-swash slammed again, those gulps that cannot quite explain
why serenity obi-sashed in stenciled rite, as current raged into that night
of damp coal rimmed with mold, of hours drowning seismic cold
until each mouth a frozen ice, a scarred evening’s genocide
faltering without one chance, like rakes in dark shadow’s prance .
oh, rage that flung in past times, they murmured lantern chimes
in every road and churn, more fires ate the swelling burn
bones splintered from space; some offered vows, some said grace
now, thousands seek felicity, to slowly walk in dignified tenacity
hands pluck the soil, the rice fields; etching fresh name with gentle shields
as if to trace what’s left behind, on crepe stars a new hope they will find
the promise of a waking sun, to toil and build till weary nights are gone
and once more claim the gold of sky, until hearts’ wounds are mended dry.
*each line is a rhyme in itself
all rights reserved
©
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SPONSOR: Debbie Guzzi
CONTEST: Tribute to Japan
A baby salamander
In the middle of the road
Seemed in danger of a horrifying end,
So I thought I would transport him
To the grasses on the berm
Or a car would squish him coming ‘round the bend.
When I placed a leaf before him
He resisted crawling on
So I prodded just a bit ‘til he came ‘round,
But he wasn’t quite secure
Because when I picked up the leaf
That little creature fell right off and hit the ground.
After several more attempts
He’d made it safely to the side
And I left him where the traffic wouldn’t go,
Yet I wondered if perhaps
He wished I hadn’t interfered
Though, of course, there isn’t any way to know.
Greenswards Fecundity Blooms Away ™
Within a fortnight, as tempestuous slam
dunk March madness closes curtain call
“in like a lion, out like a lamb,”
twill hove tested survivability,
asper flora, thru harsh winter, and
those most see ring robust will pass exam
unbridled love bursting asunder
cavorting, frolicing, instigating
wham bam thank you ma'am
lollygagging, orchestrating, romancing
while birds and bees pollinate jam
ming, humming, fostering sensational slam
dance, where flora lifts, wafts, and yawps
invoke warble, gurgle,
burble from baby in pram.
Meanwhile latent Mother Earth
quite pregnant with
multifarious potent new life
vermilion, violet ready to burst
asunder from Gaia's girth
dramatically altering landscape
with expectant birth
of animal and plant species distilled
within crucible, sans terra firma hearth
quite a contrast, when
polar vortex wrought dearth
whence Spring begets plenti
kindling, snapchatting, and twittering mirth.
Also uniquely designed hue man
denizens of every stripe nurse
tender affection expressing
amorous poetry and verse
rejoicing, the dead of winter,
and attendant frostbite curse
frozen folks felled, thence carried
away in horse drawn hearse,
where heavy grief ameliorated
as natural holistic
narcotic brings pacific
balm, calm, and psalm snapping,
crackling, and popping
wide web with electric
ambient ancient, yet contemporary music
punctuating the air with lulling lyric
since time immemorial
recognized as greatest soporific
equally savored, whether
devout or atheistic
nonpareil eclectic dreamy
harmonic melange cathartic
aural, diurnal, integral
quintessentially converging harmonic,
democratic, and anthemic
congregation replete with fantastic
incorporation, viz diversity galactic!
I have been chanting five minutes when soft whispers of the forest surround my soul;
A tiny white fluff of a feather floats past my face, bringing me enormous peace.
I sit down on a waiting chair, listening to the birds, singing their helplessness.
Twilight happens as I sit, waiting, watching, pondering what used to be.
Rustling leaves bring my attention to the dog and cat, who have sneaked up to join in the quiet.
We three sit in soft anticipation for a few minutes until an airplane trills past, breaking the silence.
In the distance I hear my neighbor yell at her daughter.
Her voice is quite shrill, but her personality is kind.
Vi is in the beginning stages of dementia,
A travesty to a life well-lived,
A heartache for her seven children.
A truck thunders down the road.
The dog barks angrily.
This is the kind of
Place we live in.
A place where
Trucks breaking
The peace
Makes us bark.
I hear them through the window when
I try to sleep, but rarely can;
owls calling, echoing through the night.
only two species will appear,
at least those are the ones I hear,
the Barred and Great Horn, hidden from my sight.
The Barred cried out, “Who cooks for you?!”
as if on a musical que,
a refrain it sings safe within the dark.
I sometimes see them in the day,
their dish-shaped faces strange and gray,
blend with the trees as if they were a part.
The Great Horn hoots, lower, heavy,
sounds almost hypnotic to me,
brings gravitas quite fitting to its size.
With tufted crown, a tree monarch,
their louder calls gives me a start,
sadly, so far, I’ve never seen one fly.
There are others, the books do preach,
the Barn, the Grey, the tiny Screech,
but so far they’ve not come around my house.
Hollywood uses them for fright,
yet somehow I don’t think that’s right,
and realize every time I heard them 'round
that all the darkness people fear,
that we hide from when it draws near,
are just the norm for the owls aloft,
a time to make their bellies full,
the dark nothing you can’t handle,
and that, I find, is a comforting thought.
We'll miss your presence, Connie dear
the special kindness you have shown-
and now we're feeling quite alone.
We'll miss your poems, that is clear-
the time you took to reading ours-
your comments rating full five stars!
Your thoughtful words were so sincere,
and full of hope in your sweet way-
for us a gracious word bouquet.
Too soon, such sad news did appear!
Your husband, son- from life did pass.
Though crushed, your courage did amass.
Now, of your passing, we must hear!
Your restored health took a bad turn-
such unexpected news to learn!
We'll miss your presence, Connie, dear-
We'll miss your poems, that is clear.
Your thoughtful words were so sincere.
Too soon, such sad news did appear!
Now, of your passing, we must hear!
September 14, 2022
Form: "Constanza", invented by Connie Marcum-Wong
My "FAKE" Genealogical Knighthood
Unbeknownst to me if royal
gilded crests comprised
my rusty dust caked coat of arms
hence, I take liberty successfully farms
productive crop to contrive fictitious
Medieval Age forebears
with favorable charms
strong agile hands
hurling crude accouterments
centuries prior to invention of firearms,
which weapons (of mass sieve construction)
privy to proto gendarmes,
this inventiveness of mine conjures
courageous knights in shining armor,
perhaps monogrammed,
hammered chain metal,
nonetheless such endeavor quite a chore
where love's labors not lost,
viz hub bully accepting, condoning,
and employing embellishments extempore,
whereby solar rays alight,
flickr, and glint glore
re: us astral motifs, the stellar
craftsmanship one (even a poor,
indigent destitute beggar
like yours truly)
could not ignore
exquisite baldric, exotic, and heraldic
trappings incorporating magical lore
aesthetically pleasing
fascinating, and appealing to one poor
uneducated disheveled rhapsodic bohemian
incumbent jibber jabbering, hallucinating,
and fancying deplorable basket case to restore
himself, the legitimate true heir,
who could double as
courtly jesting troubadour,
whose slain grand papa Aaron Harris
violently ousted during Uber Vodafone War
constitutes dreamy gotcha your
attention fabricated and
facilitated to Zoar,
an actual ancient city
anachronistically inserted here
thanks to Lot, whose Biblical reference
Google made me aware,
which ye probably care
nary a fig about, but
placename linkedin mere
to allow, enable and provide bare,
lee tenuous appeal dare
ring me to trump
poetic formality near
rolly returning full circle (one tough Job)
manufacturing prevarication
recounting "FAKE" heir
essentially envisioning, imagining,
and jimmying gallant
high in the saddle career
timeless lifeline chess piece
of centuries gone by
enshrouded with reverence by this air
rent considerably less provocative
then missives by Baudelaire.