Long Readers Poems
Long Readers Poems. Below are the most popular long Readers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Readers poems by poem length and keyword.
I changed the words up because the original is too disturbing for readers on here. Still, read with caution - there are some words that are unsettling. Thanks for choosing this poem to read.
Reminds
Me of
Fun times…
Memories…
Never
Happened…
Clock chimes…
2:22 AM…
I'm gay
Yet bi…
Confused…
But, I'm seeing things in black and white
I was at his door, 222
I check the clock like I always do -
It's 2:22 AM...who knew…
Don't you hurt
Me again…
I was just
8 during
That time you
Scarred me good…
Raped in rue…
Wrapped up in
Solitude
Reminds
Me of
Screwed up…
Times when
I got
Molested...
8 years
Old...it's
Enough
To hurt…
Rough pain
Words hurt
Blades are
Aflame -
Cut me
He scared
Me…so,
Bro, please…
Don't you hurt
Me again…
I was just
8 during
That time you
Scarred me good…
Raped in rue…
Wrapped up in
Solitude
Reminders
Of the past
Bleed through me…
Kill the grief
Inside me
Never...free…
I admit -
I'm human
I like men…
(Yet I like women at the same time)
I was at his door, 222
I check the clock like I always do -
It's 2:22 AM...who knew…
I was at his door, 222
I check the exit sign, for I'm through
With his bull of bittersweet rue
Don't you hurt
Me again…
I was just
8 during
That time I'm
Cruelly scarred…
Raped in rue…
Wrapped up in
Solitude
But, I will
Forgive him
For what he's
Done, but still…
It hurts me
To say this -
I love you…
I love you…
Bro, I do..
I was at his door, 222
I knew it was wrong, but it felt right -
It's now 2:22 AM…(I regret everything)
Reminds me -
Be my remedy please
Remind me -
Of good times spent at ease
Reminds me -
Never trust guys or girls
Remind me -
Shine like emerald pearls
300 nights I’ve been here a-pacin’,
I’ve got clothes, all shiny and new!
This whole year, my time’s been a-wastin',
someday this endless virus will be through.
On the news, they say there’s a serum,
soon I’ll have to take one or two.
Crowded clubs, where music’s a-playin’,
I bet I can get into one or two.
There are boys, out there just for kissin',
and someday, I’ll kiss one or two.
I’ll find out, just what I’ve been missin',
I’ll bet I won’t get home `til one or two.
There are guys, of nineteen or twenty,
and they know, just what to do.
Shiny toys, just waitin’ for choosin’,
maybe I’ll pick one... or two!
.
.
.
.
ok, funny note. I post my poems on several websites and on Quora, several of my readers lobbied me to change the last line of this poem - to follow the "one or two" theme. So, in a way, the last line is "crowd sourced" - and I must say also much improved =]
Thanks guys!
Tom Cunningham Tribute— Repost
This acrostic is published in Poetry Soup’s very first Anthology!
Many of you do know Tom… but have not read the tribute .You readers of Tom are familar with his smiling, welcoming face,and warm heart!
Here is Tom, on Saint Patrick’s Day, in a parade carrying the flag, he is so proud of!! The equally handsome gentleman to the left, is Tom’s brother, bearing the under end of the flag!
T_tendernesss and tolerance are his territory.
O_openness to all poets, too!
M_magnanimity and modesty, shine in this friend of mine!
C_compasstion and consideration, so outstanding.
U_understanding of the human soul he sees.
N_nice to all, marks his poetic gentility.
N_nobility glows in his poetry.
I_intelligence sparkles in all his works.
N_naturalness, nothing forced.
G_goodwill and graciousness he shows to all
H_humor and honesty,exceptional qualities.
A_amiability in comments to all
M_magnanimity he has, a virtue, esteemed.
3/24/2024
Write Right
I have written inside the box,
worked under the pain of the
literary lashers, choked back the
crimson ink of penned passion.
Occasionally, a blot of defiance,
a subtle innuendo, a more
obvious double entendre,
would escape the “Proof”
readers. As if there is some
proof needed to justify
the roots of my passion,
the depth of my meanings. Then,
by happenstance of brief encounter,
a mentor said: “Just write it kid.
Let them figure it out.” Thereby,
I was set free to love the challenge,
embrace the barren landscape,
ski words on the fresh fallen powder
of the unsullied page. And so I write
not seeking to produce a masterpiece
but to become the master of the piece.
Holding edges on the sharpened
turns of life, enduring the moguls
pounding thoughts, peering into
whiteness streaking past,
and laughing at the thrill
of freedoms fear.
I write – that I may write,
that poetry might have my voice,
share my voice, be my voice.
From outside the box I shout
that there is a freedom in the
harnesses of forms when we write
with the fury of our storms.
8/10/2014
For Regina Riddle
contest - Writing
A Telegram from the Queen
An interview with Maisie Widdop,
On her very special day.
Her telegram from the queen has arrived,
and has something, she wants to say.
Maisie please tell our readers,
This most wonderful story of yours,
When you were but a small child,
A new world, was opening its doors.
"We are going on an adventure,
My Mother would frequently say to me.
A brand new life for all of us,
It will be marvellous, you wait and see.
Travelling in luxury and elegance,
Splendour, Grandeur will know no bounds,
Seven days of fun filled decadence,
Our feet won't touch the ground,
Nothing but the best for us,
Clever Daddy has taken good care.
You and me will want for nothing,
On his life he'd promise and swear.
We are sailing on the Tenth my love,
So we really must look our best,
Just in case the Captain invites us,
To his table, as special guests
I was just a Baby at the time,
My Father was taking us oversea.
A brave new world across the Pond,
He said, that's where work will be.
We were due to leave early April,
But I got a fever and couldn't sail.
Mother told Father "you go on ahead"
and we would follow soon, without fail.
Poor Father never reached New York,
On that fateful sailing ship.
So, we remained forever in England,
Never wanting to make the trip.
A twist of fate and I'm still here,
One hundred years old today.
Mother died back in Eighty-Three,
Ninety-Two when she passed away.
She told me this same heartfelt story,
From my birth, until the day she died.
Third class, sounded grand to her
But she knew; thought of Father and cried"
Who
writes with emotion, imagery, compassion, and depth
and reaches out to readers of poetry
with verses, rhymes, and forms . . .
leaving tears on pages written, words that fly, and truths
and fears of the unknown, and love of the unknown- with a reality
that poems written- will turn to tattered yellow pages decaying . . .
yet, still paints pictures with words, stills sends words on wings. Asking
who am I ?
why am I ?
_______________________________
December 8, 2019
Poetry/Bio/Who
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1206-172-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
FGI Blog Series 25 - bio
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
Where have all the poets gone,
give up rhyming every one,
rhythm joined with rhyme well done
was once the way that classics run.
Alas, now no one reads the verse
of rhyming poets, and what worse
as they die off no more will come
to keep alive our wordsmith fun.
Is it now that minds depart
from seeing beauty in this art
or maybe none can see the need
to weave a web with literary seed.
If pen on paper flows with ink
then wouldn't I be right to think
that words, as well, should flow along
and fall on ears as poet's song.
Where have all the poets gone
that write, when all is said and done,
their words to gently roll and run
to give their readers much more fun.
Ivor G Davies
I have no theme, no muse, no just cause or aim.
Untouched by reason, no spark nor any flame.
Yet still the words flow, kindled all the same,
By the sheer love of words and the games they play.
My poet's head is full of words churning within,
With magnetic attraction for their next of kin,
Words that describe images, thoughts, sounds therein,
It's a noble cause, just because a story must begin.
It's not just the lovey-dovey smoochy stuff,
But words that clash, jog and jangle, huff and puff,
Words that trawl up memories and a serendipitous bluff,
Words that inspire a just cause in readers is just enough.
I wash, rinse, and recycle what pops into my head,
Creating a riddle, jingle, jangle and rhyme bedspread,
That's washed, spun, and hung out to dry once it's said,
To flap, taunt and jangle readers passing-by my spread.
Hey!
Who?
Me?
Yes!
Do you remember back
when you were reading The Human Comedy
and thinking you would always live on a planet
where a few great writers
lived royally and with vast wealth
comfortably above yet among the huddled hungry masses
just waiting to buy your supremely great literature words
of eternal wisdom
and Pulitzer Poetry Prizes?
If you mean
Do I remember when most people did not daily,
or even monthly, write,
much less self-publish,
while only a select few
were gainfully employed as full-time writers
of scripts
and screenplays
and contracts
and constitutions
and poetry
and stories
and parables
and even designs
for polycultural healthy outcomes--
Yes, I do,
or did,
or whatever it was we both noticed
about ratios of democratic readers
to plutocratic writers.
Well,
I went on WordPress
this morning,
thinking I would read the democratic plutocrats first,
then probably add my own commentary
on my blogsite
when done with reading others.
And you can't read that fast,
can you?
Exactly.
Now all the democrats are writing
and cooperatively self-publishing
and my dreams of becoming a plutocratic writer
have drowned in a sea of voices
in which there is no longer sufficient time
to hear each other out
before also entering something in.
So what's your big take away
for this revolutionary turnaround
in now democratically growing co-investments
in broadcast writing
and emerging plutocratic readers?
Would-be writers
but we no longer live
in or on a RealTime 4D publish or perish world.
Right.
Now its publish,
no one bothers to read,
and perish
while still cloud-published
perhaps eternally, somehow,
with no one bothering to open
a closed for self-publishing mind.
Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
The night is full of stars. Which still exist?
Before time ends, perhaps one day we’ll know.
For now I hold your fingers to my lips
and feel their pulse ... warm, palpable and slow ...
once slow to match this reckless spark in me,
this moon in ceaseless orbit I became,
compelled by wilder gravity to flee
night’s universe of suns, for one pale flame ...
for one pale flame that seemed to signify
the Zodiac of all, the meaning of
Love’s wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie
in dawning recognition is enough ...
enough each night to bask in you, to know
the face of love ... eyes closed ... its afterglow.
The Insurrection of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch
She was my Shiloh, my Gethsemane;
she nestled my head to her breast
and breathed upon my insensate lips
the fierce benedictions of her ubiquitous sighs,
the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears . . .
Many years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . .
She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed;
she undressed with delight for her ministrations
when all I needed was a good night’s rest . . .
She anointed my lips with her soft lips’ dews;
the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel.
I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew:
the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh.
The sun in retreat left her victor and all was Night.
The last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard.
Star Crossed
by Michael R. Burch
Remember—
night is not like day;
the stars are closer than they seem ...
now, bending near, they seem to say
the morning sun was merely a dream
ember.
The State of the Art (?)
by Michael R. Burch
Has rhyme lost all its reason
and rhythm, renascence?
Are sonnets out of season
and poems but poor pretense?
Are poets lacking fire,
their words too trite and forced?
What happened to desire?
Has passion been coerced?
Shall poetry fade slowly,
like Latin, to past tense?
Are the bards too high and holy,
or their readers merely dense?