Long Reams Poems
Long Reams Poems. Below are the most popular long Reams by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reams poems by poem length and keyword.
Snow plows rumble in the night. I wake up
for tomorrow already applauding the sunrise.
Sol is turning slushy ice to diamonds
while unknown workers dig the world out again.
Even before the light
dances around the corners of eyelids
paw marks kick-up, blue-chipped coruscations,
bullet points on a surfacing whiteness
highlighting what should be shown now
in a natural order of revealing.
For a while, the land is shoveled up,
cleaned and rolled into paper-light reams.
Whether the earth melts to mud
or grows glaciers in backyards
let us be grateful for the next round,
of the laws of subsequent happenstance.
The winter will be helped along
with the steamy breath of labor
and the prayers of those who only watch.
We are cleaning up the dead spaces,
constructing viewing platforms
for the fur-fluffed and the wingers
who survive
for more new Lazarus moments
still buried beneath tomorrow.
The Artist’s Tower
In a tower a lonely poet sits
Memories of his past life elude his thoughts
The stifled scent of burnt paraffin clouds his thoughts
There is the light from candles which lit thousands of works
Flickering against paintings stored by unknown artists
The beauty of an eighteenth century meadow
The stark reality of people starving in a depression
All tell a story through an unspoken language
Reams of paper piled against the wall
Stories and poems long forgotten by those who created them
Did anyone ever read even one of them?
The poet sits, thinks and fantasizes in his own prison
Isolation to help him find the right words
The candle fades and grey smoke fills the air
As the light of the North Star filters through a dirty glass window
The poet writes the last word to his newest piece
It too ends up on the piles of discarded work
Because the piece is finished the poet rests
The candle waits for the next artist
There is always another artist who will hide in the tower
There always will be another story, poem or painting
All hidden, unseen in the tower
Inside my gnawing self
a realm spills down through the meadows,
wild garlands reached by fingers from afar…
the hues, soft pastel
brushing across winds on floats so stunning
I could taste the stamen in my wet mouth
and there, a primitive choir of animals
chants of radiant praise for a season
as my palms ripple upon the glass of another earth,
the mist of day nibbling the flakes from my eyes
light turning red, night fading white
licking stems of twilight dew,
as if the shadows of all constellations rise
like giant stones, beautiful and silent,
piled up in a row lining into heaven...
I walk inside my realm, nestled
inside my quiet, contained self
©
PEACE
*During an artists’ fellowship last weekend, I printed this
piece on 45 reams of art paper and distributed it to my colleagues
in the form of scrolls. Our discussion on embracing
peace in a world riddled with hostility allowed me to
share my thoughts,"let peace begin with me..."
, ,,,,,,,,,,
for Cyndi MacMillan’s Great Soup Poetry Extravaganza
by nette onclaud
I stood in the doorway frozen in fear,
Your coffin was within;
The room was empty of sound and of life,
I could see you resting.
In peace, your pain was gone,
But mine was beginning;
Wanting to scream, I fled, I ran away,
Down the dark street weeping.
I ran away from you,
Like a pigeon who has flown the coop;
I went back to that room,
Be strong was your whisper.
Proudly, standing at your coffin smiling,
Remembering fun you;
And visitors telling,
And we were all laughing.
Like the time you put the wallpaper,
Upside down and Mom yelling;
And the phone call one day,
Dad is hanging on roof.
And how can I forget the chainsaw time,
When you cut down the trees;
And trees, until you were stopped,
Rest in peace, until I join you in the above.
________________________
April 20, 2015
Poetry/Verse/I Ran Away From You
Copyright Protected, ID 04-665-504-20
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the contest, The Pigeon Who Flew The Coop,
sponsor, Tammy Reams, Judged 05/2015
First Place
_________________________
Note Regarding This Poem: I wanted to show how my Dad's funeral
was full of happy stories of his antics, he was quite the character and
everyone who attended had a story to tell. There was so much laughter.
It was sadness and funny mixed together, an odd combination.
For COLOUR Contest by Tammy Reams
PINK lips
KISSABLE pillows of comforting texture with RED devil allure
WHISPERING words of love from your SILVERY tongue
The AROMA of romance paints the room with PURPLE hues
SWEET caresses so passionate, turns my heart GOLDEN
The WARMNESS of your embrace intensifies the bright ORANGE fire burning in my soul
PINK lips
Your PINK KISSABLE lips
My blood RED heart beats
WHISPERING to my hips
Your SILVERY tongue meets
With mine as teeth nip
Your AROMA drives me
Into a PURPLE haze
So SWEET I’m on my knees
GOLDEN stars I gaze
WARMNESS I do see
Your heart an ORANGE blaze
PASSION
"The Wormwood Portfolio"
Reams of stories
riddled with worms
wood for burning
all the children
cover their eyes
tears smoked
into the lungs
gender fluid
propheticising
bitter water
electric brains
chipped like
fine-boned China
downloading
overloads
dumps are
damp
the fuse
sizzles and
stops
green as absinthe
gauche ghosts
gone all grey skinned
scales of merit
charred unweighted
vacant and vacating
like dandelions
scattering over
the barren wombs
of the childless landscape
dreaming of biblical babies
suckling the wanton breasts
of Desdemona’s structural points,
a sharp essay, feeding insouciance
mistaken identities and confusion
side-blinded by the light
of the tempestuous kill shot
burnt and scarred
beeseeching open handed
faces turning like time dials
towards two suns
gold gone all black holed
dead verdant plants
hot feet blistering
make no more demands
skipping, games of patter-cake
powdered ochre yellow
here's the church and here's the steeple
open your hands where are the people
like viruses, germinating
no more prayers to enchant
daughters of eve
sons of man
when the Word finally speaks
there is hearing damage
Reams of stories
riddled with worms
wood for burning
all the children
cover their eyes
;
the ides of march
recant.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"A tear in the brain
allows the voices in
they wanna push you off the path
with their low-frequency wires..."
recant. v.
Wormwood.
Ides of March.
I’m a limited edition, when all is said and done
Nothing special, only unique in a maze of humdrum
Kill spiders for a pastime, coz I hate their beady eyes
Watching me try to sleep, as they paralyse butterflies
I’m a limited edition, pulling cobwebs from beams
In great physical shape, yet mentally challenged it seems
Guilty of every known sin, with mitigation of course
They are all in my head, except when I use fatal force
I’m a limited edition, preprogrammed to survive
From one day to another, til next time I’m not revived
Still it’s great to be alive, from a dead man’s point of view
I certainly possess one, in a preserve this mind grew
I’m a limited edition, my pets couldn’t care less
Well possibly they do, but look up to me nonetheless
Take me as you find me on any given occasion
Whisper sweet nothings, I’m a sucker to soft persuasion
I’m a limited edition, light Cola makes me cringe
And hate drinking alcohol, unless going on a binge
Alas I cannot find god, he’s hidden away in reams
Leaving himself subjective, to idealistic extremes
I’m a limited edition, playing Russian roulette
Will even up the ante, fill the chamber, rig the bet
It’s a no brainer, literally speaking anyway
With just sawdust to lose, all so easy to blow away
By
David Kavanagh
I have never met the man with hazel eyes
But a supporter he has been to my surprise
We have laughed together in verse
But maybe it was just a rehearse
He has to leave and we know why
We will miss him and we will sigh
But he knows, I told him so
That we all love him so
His problems we cannot take on
But he knows our all our feelings on…
We give him the respect and love
And we all know who I am talking of
To you our dear friend David, we send our love
From all you supporters don’t think of
Sending any message here
Because we all hear loud and clear
Our love is sent in more than reams
And we all pray for all your dreams.
Pray that you and your family stand firm
And the prayers you pray you will earn.
i know you like me to dress to the left
© From a friend to a friend 24/08/2012
Let me tell you a story about my Christmas, past, present and future.
(All nice, yes sad, but no naughty in sight)
____________________
It was midnight when I turned off the Christmas lights,
Me and my cats had snuggled in bed, all cozy;
Then there was a knock in the middle of the night.
A knock on my door and there was a girl quite lovely,
The pain reflected in her eyes was soul shattering;
Me and my cats had snuggled in bed. All cozy.
She told me she was my Christmas past weeping,
We held each other remembering all the past sorrow;
The pain reflected in her eyes was soul-shattering.
She left saying there would be other knocks to follow,
I answered and it was a young woman, who was me;
We held each other, remembering, all the past sorrow.
She was beautiful but her soul was a dreadful broken plea,
Old the woman who came next, but with a soul at peace;
I answered the knock- and it was a young woman, who was me.
She was beautiful, but her soul was a dreadful broken-plea,
Me and my cats, had snuggled in bed, all cozy;
Old, the woman, who came next, but with a soul at peace,
Then, there was a knock- in the middle of the night.
___________________________
Who is knocking on my door, now? Could that be death!
(Well, I am not answering)
_______________________________
December 16, 2015
Terzanelle
For the contest, Who Is Knocking On My Door
Sponsor, Tammy Reams
First Place
Snow plows rumble in the night. I wake up
for tomorrow already applauding the sunrise.
Sol is turning slushy ice to diamonds
while unknown workers dig the world out again.
Even before the light
dances around the corners of eyelids
paw marks kick-up, blue-chipped coruscations,
bullet points on a surfacing whiteness
highlighting what should be shown now
in a natural order of revealing.
For a while, the land is shoveled up,
cleaned and rolled into paper-light reams.
Whether the earth melts to mud
or grows glaciers in backyards
let us be grateful for the next round,
of the laws of subsequent happenstance.
The winter will be helped along
with the steamy breath of labor
and the prayers of those who only watch.
We are cleaning up the dead spaces,
constructing viewing platforms
for the fur-fluffed and the wingers
who survive
for more new Lazarus moments
still buried beneath tomorrow.