Long Romantical Poems
Long Romantical Poems. Below are the most popular long Romantical by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Romantical poems by poem length and keyword.
Supercalafragalisticexpialadoshus...
A nonsensical, romantical made up word they said.
Umbrella to ground the Lady comes down to check
The handy Voice....
super she said,
a laugh.ing ragalia!
on her head.list of
icepixals, crystals
and dos! gosh! but
hush ... what does
SHE know. She
drives an umbrella...anyway...
I guess you could say
they're nice pix.alls, all
the same.
Properly...
Regalia is Latin plurale tantum for
the privileges and the insignia characteristic of a
Sovereign. ;)
Supercalafragalisticexpialadoshus...
... either that or it means
Super.Gal.leo.has gone in.sane.again...
with her gal.i.Legos...
Let's go with Regalia ...
it would make for a better tale where a girl
might get a price if a frog doesn't eat her leggs off first. :)
~ Just a joke of course.
~ She's got Legos.
Form:
under the moon on a balmy night
I discovered another child who liked to play
our adults were busy, being romantical
so, it was just the two of us
we giggled and laughed about our similarities
and we laughed about our parents
who had “fallen in love”
My mother was always falling in love
The other child told me that his daddy never had.
Maybe once before, but he was not sure
We spent an hour or more under the moon
Listening to the ocean waves, enjoying the warm breeze
As our parents became younger and more giggly
falling in love
Mine for the sixth or seventh time
His daddy maybe for the first time
Cowboyin' seems so romantical as seen in th' pitcher shows.
Ain't a lick uv truth in that as ever' workin' cowpoke knows.
Movie stars is paid big bucks with a fancy saddle fer thar horse,
An' always ride off into th' sunset with a purty gal, uv course!
Real cowpokes don't wear designer jeans er fancy rhinestone suits.
You can tell a real buckaroo by th' looks uv his scruffy boots!
He's rousted out uv his bunk at th' break uv day;
(Seems it wuz jes' an hour er so ago, since he'd hit th' hay!)
He ain't got no time to strum a git'tar an' croon to a purty gal.
You'll usually find him ropin' an' a-sweatin' in a hot corral.
More'n likely them big stars lunch on caviar at th' country club,
While a cowpuncher eats beans an' bacon fer his daily grub!
In them western movies, handsome dudes ride tall in th' saddle.
A cowpoke has bowlegs frum years ridin' his cayuse astraddle.
Stunt men are handy to take th' falls fer fragile movie stars,
But a cowboy has to rough it an' can prove it by his scars!
When day is done th' movie cowboy goes home to his plush chalet.
A workin' cowboy goes to his humble bunkhouse at th' end uv day.
Cowpokes wonder why they cowboy - it shore ain't fer th' pay,
But they'll keep on a-ropin' and a-ridin' til they're old an' gray!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Pardon me Mistress Satin Sue I said, but a baby pup is on your head.
She gave me an aloof look that most distinctly and clearly said,
“Leave me alone, you ingrate. Shovel yourself under the garden shed.”
I was intrigued and excited, for she is notoriously fine, quite well-bred.
Her satin gowns are a luxurious shade, rich in shadows, elegant too.
Haughty like her, expensive for sure. I stood downhill and gave a coo.
Fine, this woman of means, holding a rose under springtime dew.
Put into my place by her arrogant look. She is elegant, Miss Satin Sue.
She moved in a manner that swept romantical notions into the air.
Her formidable spirit showed she had no worries, not a single care.
Her bouffant hair was her pup, snoring in her pretty hair.
She gave me an obvious stuck-up, condescending stare.
Her pup began to stir, and she gave me a half ass smile.
So maybe her mother side dials her haughty back on the dial.
Could we ever become friends, this Virtue of Stuck Up-ness and me?
Frankly, this is not a scenario that I can ever truly see.
Glorious words,
romantic missives,
Unused obscure
edifying words
created, or
used in fantastically
beautiful ways
by
lexiconic guru,
and vocabulary maestro.
Intimidating
most of us.
Me anyway.
I do not know these fancy words.
Never thought I would need them.
Not sure I even write poetry.
I pour my feelings onto a page
Only using
simple every day
common words
These words I recognize
quickly and with feeling
Street-friendly words
make sense to me.
There might be
thousands of
better words I could use.
Gloriously, edifying
romantical type words,
But for me,
I have to use
Simple, every day
words I am comfortable
using.
Because my eyes
are so over-used
already, I do not
think they can
take any more
romantical, edifying,
glorifying, fancy-dancy words.
Not today anyway.
there is a feeling of quietude about the coast
I wonder about the sea, a lingering kind of ghost
romantical and soothing, she brings me to myself
I ponder her inflections, admiring her shelf.
the line is asymmetrical, which appeals to my artistic side.
the lapping water at her edges are dainty in the tide.
she has a unique feeling, that inspires me to want to write.
I feel inspired by this place, she makes my heart feel light.
A pen in hand, my readiness has quintessential power.
tiny glimpses of the horizon show me a potential shower
the coast is as meditative as any natural place can be
I marvel at her beauty, she brings me to the sea.
I will write the funniest poem of all time.
Sorry. It has already been done.
I will write the most romantical poem of all time.
Ditto.
I will write the craziest poem of all time.
Have you ever heard of Shel Silverstein?
I will write the rhyme-iest poem of all time.
Dr. Seuss?
I will write what I know.
And it will not have to be an “ist” at all.
It will not have to be the most, the funniest, the sorriest, the saddest, the sweetest.
It can just be what it is.
And it does not have to become famous.
It does not have to be understood.
It does not have to be appreciated.
But it will have to be my own.
Because it has to be the poem
That only I can write.
I sit and stare at the
Paper, overwhelmed.
Excited, expectant,
Waiting for her birth.
Wondering where she will take me.
I pick up the pen and begin. Knowing nothing about what is about to happen.
Poetry is something I do not understand
Words my soul reads and instantly recognizes,
Leaping about in joy, yelling "let's try to do that!"
words tossed in a way I never could
romantical and metaphoric
charming, delightful, or frightful
Poetry is not something I do,
it is something I aspire to learn
as I write verse
I write verse
Pretending it is poetry
hoping no one will call me out.
Sometimes I throw in end rhymes
Hoping to fool those who do not see what I do
That poetry is impossible for most of us
who smoke and mirror our way through,
being the greatest pretenders of all.
Music to my ears, so mellifluous
is the nightingale's song, ambiguous,
Give ear to her notes, they float on the breeze,
swirling through the air, they're tuned to appease;
I dance to her song, so mellifluous,
She's sitting somewhere, inconspicuous,
Her aria drifts down and I’m entranced,
In the stillness, her whistling sounds enhanced;
I hear her melody, mellifluous,
and I forget all my cares, strenuous,
Lost in her lilt, feeling romantical,
All I needed was Nature's canticle;
Such mellifluous strains, simply classic,
I hear the voice of God in her music.
09.18.2021
For Constance La France's ""M" contest, new poems only"
Soulmate oak trees with curly branches
grew next to each other, in the Kentucky meadow.
Communicating through squirrel squeaks
Bird beeps, and the whistle of the wind
through their well-formed branches.
They uplifted each other
enjoying their golden moments
as well as their unique love story.
The optimistic meadow rejoiced with them
in the fall spinning around them in ambers and oranges
announcing the forthcoming coolness of winter
when Jack Frost would surround them in sparkly, shiny diamond whites.
A romantical, yearning, young cattail revered the soulmate oaks
I wish I had a love like those two, she said with a long drawn out sigh.
The equally romantic cattail to her left gave her a gentle kiss.
You do now, he assured her, you do now.