Long Scrawled Poems
Long Scrawled Poems. Below are the most popular long Scrawled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scrawled poems by poem length and keyword.
Because Her Heart Is Tender, for Beth
by Michael R. Burch
She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget”
dove-white on her car’s window (though the wren,
because its heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her). As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget!”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET!”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
(The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when nestlings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
love's reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.)
She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET!”
because her heart is tender with regret.
Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, Nietzsche Twilight, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International
Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.
Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.
Because her heart is tender
Jacob’s Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.
Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!
Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch
The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.
It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.
It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.
Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble,
just like getting sloshed in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.
Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.
(prior to tha ode dee us political stink sans hillary rodham clinton, i scrawled out this poem. her likelihood to grasp to political mantle than considerably greater than fourteen months when another official will help keep america safe and sound from cares and concerns of an uncertain future).
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Bill leave me
Hugh will cause a beloved howel
From him – the divine necromancer with magic dowel
If ambition stirs thee to make presidential bid for we Chelsea
Reverberating throughout terrestrial bowel
Analogous to former reigning supreme ringleader Muhammad Ali!
As an obedient student who crossed his t’s and affixed every “I” with a dot
Although high letter grades this older papa never got
(Undiagnosed anxiety inducing pressure cooker symptoms made me hot)
I recognize brilliance, and thus would immediately cast my lot
From the current secretary of state whose political skills right on spot!
One year hence, this democrat will cast his vote
Without doubt maintaining his party line
No matter campaigners with republican huzzahs will tote
Unable to change opinion of mine
Praying that economic maelstrom she can brazenly smote
If necessary seeking oracle of Delphi for a positive sign
Or devising my own catchy slogan to quote
Common as this generic human dust mote
Whose esprit de corps would to the stratosphere float
Like some over inflated helium filled ballooning goat
Kidding nobody that view from on high depicts sinking American boat!
Please take to heart
From this fellow (among ship of fools)
Who decries special interest groups sway to sabotage and up-end donkey cart
With extreme elephantiasis haunting white house with ghouls
With penchant to undermine sacred constitution with graffiti art!
This Joe schmoe of a lame duck nada so soup per poet
(who idolizes billy eve able applications of a cigar re: monica lewinsky)
would be in awe
And inwardly hee-haw
If this poem affected your name to be on ballot garnering cheers from this paw
And knows that in those random polls made of straw
The former forty second first lady gaga to engender revolutionary thaw!
In the basement of our house
Was a workshop
Of gray tools
And the smell of 3-in-1 oil
There under the steady glare
Of florescent lighting
My father
Worked.
Whenever he called me downstairs
It was to talk
About something important
Or a mistake I made
After every few sentences
He would adjust his glasses
And pause
To make sure I understood every word he said
A habit
He had until the day he died.
Speaking with determination
He told me never to lie
You may think people don't listen
He said
But inside they do
The mind
Works
Like a sponge
It remembers everything
Even when we get tired and forget.
So remember
Nobody likes a liar.
I first saw Susan walking
Down the street
Head held high
Graceful
I tried catching up with her
But she was quicker
Than I was
We met again when she dropped her keys
Picking them up
I told her
She was the most beautiful woman I ever met
A slight exaggeration
An innocent white lie
But a lie nevertheless.
Soon we were together
Clothes on
Clothes off
The new found
Thrill
Of intimacy
Was intoxicating.
In small bits
Day by day
Freedom evaporated
And our lives
Became hopelessly twisted
In an undertow
Of life, money,
Apartment
Problems and future
I wasn't honest with myself
And deep down inside
I never knew
What I was hiding
Or how fragile a relationship could be.
One night she asked if I knew
Anything about roses
I barely stammered a what?
Roses symbolize love, sympathy and
Elegant beauty
She said
But they're one of the most fragile flowers
Ever
They can turn brown and die
From a chill in the air.
I fell asleep on the couch that night
Getting up in the morning
I saw the made up bed
And in the kitchen
Nestled between coffee and sugar
Was an envelope
With my name
Scrawled in clear
Bold handwriting
My hands shook
As I reached for the envelope
The urge
To leave it unread
Was strong
Until suddenly, I tore it open
And read it through
From top to bottom
Over and over again.
Catching my breathe I sat down
Enfolded
In the strange quiet
Of an empty apartment
Wondering how different things might have been
Had I not told white lies.
Allah's Love
In realms where stars ignite with fire,
Where silence throbs with hidden desire,
There dwelt Allah, unbound and free,
A god of flame, of lust’s decree.
The dusk caressed his molten frame,
A god consumed by passion’s flame.
No prayers, no hymns could soothe his ache,
He craved flesh to set the heavens awake.
Beneath the stars, three forms appeared,
His daughters of fame whom all revered:
Al-Lat, the moon with a gaze so sly,
Al-'Uzza, whose hips sang lullabies,
Manat, time’s whisper, her touch a sigh.
They were in heat, their yearning clear,
Their bodies trembling, shedding fear.
Their whispers teased; their mouths invited,
As immortal and divine ignited.
By the lake, where reflections dance,
They embraced together, lost in trance.
Skin met skin, slick and bare,
Heat spilled thick into the air.
Al-Lat’s fingers traced his flame,
Drawing sparks that called his name.
Al-'Uzza arched, her body tight,
A rhythm pulsed deep through the night.
Manat’s lips kissed every curve,
Sparking shivers, testing nerve.
They knelt, they rose, they pressed, they spun,
Four bodies melded into one.
Allah’s hands, both fierce and tender,
Explored their flesh, made souls surrender.
Their cries built storms, their sighs fed seas,
Their bodies writhed in divine ecstasy.
Al-Lat’s breasts, soft peaks of fire,
Burned with the heat of raw desire.
Al-'Uzza’s thighs locked firm and tight,
Demanding Allah’s fullest might.
Manat’s hands pulled him deeper still,
Her voice a prayer, her touch a thrill.
Allah roared, his embers flew,
As the goddesses drank his burning dew.
Each thrust, a comet; each moan, a star,
The heavens shook as they soared afar.
Their union bled galaxies and suns,
A cosmos born from passion’s run.
The night exploded, time stood still,
Bodies spent, their hunger fulfilled.
Al-Lat, Al-'Uzza, and Manat lay bare,
While Allah’s fire still lingered there.
Creation sprung from their fevered cries,
A testament scrawled across the skies.
Their story whispered through the void,
Of love divine, both fierce and unalloyed.
A hymn to lust, unbound, untamed,
A blaze eternal, forever claimed.
When Humanity Cries
Message in my angry pen
Peeps yearning for release
To scrawl on white walls
Venom from a ‘ball’ sting,
Bane in an irate pen
From a daring ken.
I yearn to hug The Hague
With stumps for hands
Which were both chopped
By some idiotic bandit-
He’s on the Court file
I’ve reason to smile!
I’ll murmur woes of war
Into the cockles of its ear
Cut lips the Cross to kiss
Iron taste of cold metal;
Gone past pain of whips
My lip chopped as chips!
I see with my big Heart
Both eyes all gone blind
The sight is that of greed
Where no Civility thrives-
I presume they are stars
O Gosh! They are scars!
Weaklings trampled dead
Line each side of the road
Suppurating in cold dreams
Power of force flying fast,
Right is not so strong
But the strong or wrong.
Modest message peeping
From shadows called Ink
Yearn to release Graphics
Of Humanity crying;
Where Ghandi stood once
His ideals have no chance.
Formation is taking shape
In battle with poetic force
Frenzy poised to pounce
And denounce decadence.
Mother’s loin was torched
As Hiroshima scorched!
My Anger was aroused;
Like tinned fish so packed
And carted away from Home
To work another’s Farm;
Until I learned to read
I loathed this dread!
We cry, cry beloved groin
When another one dies
“He’s taken, taken by AIDS!”
I mourn, I travail, I wish......
Holding a dead child
I cry hoarse and wild!
I whimper like an orphan
Sucking Pen for a thumb
To draw the bitter Ink
And spit to the paedophiles.
Bereaving children fun
Evading his lewd run.
I smoke and sniff this paper
Scrawled this painful writ
That, perchance, putrid lungs
The message will massage.
I yearn for an injection
And not this rejection!
Where then is my mother?
Ah! A Kitchen Girl.......
Father? A Garden Boy
Boy and Girl at their age...?
Now I sleep not a wink
A wretch on the brink....
Ink tears well in my eyes.
I feel I’ve gone shorter
Rolling down the cheek pad
To leave a letter of pain.
I kneel, my sins to bloat
Till knees bald as a goat!
JM
29th Oct’ 2013
He stepped out of his car and rummaged in his pocket for some coins to feed the meter. As he stepped up on the sidewalk, he noticed a penny lying near his feet. He briefly contemplated picking it up before dismissing it. It was just a penny. It's value hardly worth the effort.
As he stood there, he heard a voice say “Sir, could you spare some change to help me out?”. He turned to see an unkempt man, languishing on the stoop of a vacant store. He held a cardboard sign on which was scrawled “Homeless, Can You Help, God Bless You” . He looked bad, and, as the man walked closer, he noted he emitted an unpleasant odor as well. His first thought was just to walk away, reasoning that if he gave him anything, he would probably just buy some liquor and drink himself to sleep. But he did not. There was something about the man that held his gaze. Instead he spoke to the man saying “the uniform jacket you're wearing says Walker over the pocket. Is that you?” “Yes” the man replied. “That's me”. “Are you a vet Walker” the man asked. Again the man answered “yes sir”. “How did you end up here” the man questioned. Walker dropped his head, then looking up he said “I got some things I can't forget. They drive me crazy sometimes and I do stupid things. Caused me to lose everything. It's my fault, but that doesn't change anything, they are just as gone.” The man reached in his pocket and withdrew a twenty dollar bill. As he offered it to Walker he asked “Will this help soldier?”. “Oh yes sir, thank you sir, and God bless you” he replied.
The man turned to walk away, and as he did, he thought about how, in just a matter of minutes, his opinion of the man had changed from one of disdain to one of compassion. That was a real person sitting there, perhaps even a hero. He had a name. He had an identity. Under different circumstances, each could have walked in the others shoes.
He had no idea what Walker would do with the money, but it didn't matter now. In his mind he knew he had found another penny on the sidewalk. But this time, without regard for value, he had stopped and picked it up.
We Danced written by Poet John Heck
I penned a couplet for you today.
Rather, a quill manipulated
my hand and scrawled mendacity.
The misanthrope's who read the ode
applauded with flippers on.
Such insight. Such depth.
Mussolini meets Monet and
the Mephistopheles Mambo mounts.
Call me a scribe and I murder myself.
Call me a liar and I impregnate your charm.
I purposely dislocated my arm today.
Rather, your tongue severed bone
and flesh was torn from my shoulder;
a needed braised boomerang
to stimulate my poetic prowess.
Such clarity. Such wisdom.
Lenin leads Lichtenstein and
the Lucifer Lindy is launched.
Call me a poet and I gnarl my fingers.
Call me a fabulist and I bow to a crooked smile.
A jellyfish swam through my veins today.
Rather, the tentacles of a tyrant
triggered a fabricated Tanka.
Maudlin stumbles when I laugh alone -
more comedic when we cackle together.
Such simplicity. Such compassion.
Bundy befriends Berchtold and
the Beelzebub Bossa Nova begins.
Call me a dramatist and I gag upon reflection.
Call me a simpleton and your wishes are granted.
I solemnly yearn to expire today.
Rather, a fool fires in a fury
and a mannequin lies in his casket.
The curse you've driven towards me -
a combination menu
when a lone Woolf inconspicously
devours a battered Browning.
Such diversity. Such nothingness.
Stalin seduces Seurat and
the Satanic Samba softly swoons.
Call me a parodist and I choke upon perfection.
Call me a realist when I'm sleeping on nails.
Disclaimer:" We Danced" poem written in the year 2009
by Mr.John Heck,a wonderful poet to be known who is no longer in our P.S family.
Being new to this site ,very sad to know few of them
have already demised.
Let's explore the treasure box by reading their works.
I am sure we can gain lots of knowledge and in fact
improve our writing skills too.
May the demised soul's RIP.
We can keep them alive through posting
and re-reading their dedications.
1-7-2020
Note: Submitting in "The Uncontest" Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco.
Your lover’s drawing straws without you, better bid farewell;
he’d never time for rhyme or reason, so it’s just as well.
Slip out the curtained window quick, the future winks and calls,
ignoring paths of pagan gods, where faulty footsteps fall.
Identify faint flashbacks, cloaked and clustered in a heap
and sort out those you treasure most, you need or long to keep;
Forget about the epoch past, which wasn’t what you’d sought,
pursue instead remaining dreams before they come to naught.
Reflect no more on what it was he’d meant for you,
strike out ahead where something waits, has sent for you.
The graveyard night is haunted still, it hovers where you sleep
recalling souvenirs amassed, the ones that made you weep.
The poets poised in dungeon vaults, now growing old and bald,
retrace their palsied pleas in dust, like those that you once scrawled.
Except for runic proverbs carved on stone walls ill defined,
assumptions will not dog you that you dare to leave behind.
The fortune-tellers waiting at the moat for you
read tarot cards while setting sail a boat for you.
The road behind is empty now, the sky is painted black
so gather all the wisdom gained, no time for looking back.
Forego the prophets’ prophecies, so tempting to pursue -
although they might be asked advice, they seldom have a clue.
Reject the secrets they reveal, enveloped in their guile,
which be betrayed between the tombs in ruins of their smile.
They’re waiting with a fractured rule of thumb for you
while beating on a perforated drum for you.
A sand-glass dribbles distant dunes, the sun dial’s shadow’s late,
so now’s the time for slipping through the open swinging gate.
A joker wild defies the fools to read between the lines
in search of cryptic radiance the future world enshrines -
“the days ahead will wake again like waves before the dawn
when picking up the pieces left behind a passing pawn.”
A noble knight awaits to clear the board for you
when, soon, a cup of nectar wine is poured for you.
In shattered glass you live with malice and rejection.
With skin soft as silk you reach out with a violent urge for affection.
Papers thrown on to the street with lack of attention.
They wove this web over your tarnished scythe.
The blade's poison seeping through, sharp as a knife.
The Spider Of Our Life.
I wove this web over your tarnished scythe.
The blade's poison seeping through, sharp as a knife.
The Spider Of Our Life.
Nothing quite campares to the way you self-indulge in your isolation.
Lying there, locked away in your virtuous perfection.
As you sort this reality from your fiction,
you realize your fantasies are a dangerous distraction.
These hateful words become all you swallow.
With mirrors and mascara you wallow.
A used body for the bombshell of your sorrow.
They wove this web over your tarnished scythe.
The blade's poison seeping through, sharp as a knife.
The Spider Of Our Life.
I wove this web over your tarnished scythe.
The blade's poison seeping through, sharp as a knife.
The Spider Of Our Life.
Nothing quite campares to the way you self-indulge in your isolation.
Lying there, locked away in your virtuous perfection.
As you sort this reality from your fiction,
you realize your fantasies are a dangerous distraction.
In the past you always live.
Keeping secrets you feel that no one can forgive.
Tokens of lost love and forgotten religion scrawled across the floor of your bedroom.
Living without precious moments and dying all alone, this is your seemingly inescapable doom.
Here's to the gifts I've given myself, a piece of knowledge for all to see.
I am "you" and "you" are me.
They wove this web over your tarnished scythe.
The blade's poison seeping through, sharp as a knife.
The Spider Of Our Life.
I wove this web over your tarnished scythe.
The blade's poison seeping through, sharp as a knife.
The Spider Of Our Life.
Nothing quite campares to the way you self-indulge in your isolation.
Lying there, locked away in your virtuous perfection.
As you sort this reality from your fiction,
you realize your fantasies are a dangerous distraction.
I pace alone in a place for the dead…Over come by woe… Yet here I’ve grown so fond of
dread that I swear its heaven… Oh my sweet May dressed in grief Don’t cry in front of his
stone with his name scrawled in a severed hand I look at you through tired eyes and see
tears fall like shards of glass that bond In rivers like sinners thoughts weep with me to join
the damned A darkened sky the day that laughter died fell swiftly into night and stayed
within her sight I set staring at the knife oh god how easy now the sacrifice of my life but let
her be with me He’s bid Farwell to distant thunder those inept stars we worshiped under
falling friends falling father lie in wait in flames below whilst my love a blood red flower falls
calls to me from verdant bowers graveside I cry please save us from the hell you’ve known
A darkened sky the day that laughter died fell swiftly into night and stayed within her sight I
set staring at the knife oh god how easy now the sacrifice of my life but let her be with me
An eye for an eye espied in the bible my faith is lost to burning idols one less cross to press
upon the survival of this lorded agony and I as much as I have tried to bury him from my
mind fates tourniquet was tied when he died lithe arms around his throat like pinning swans
entwined his foot falls always like night fall next to mine Suicide is a tried and tested formula
for release He snatched her whisper like the wind through cascades see her face in every
natural feature midst the mist and sleepy hollows of forever with glee deceiving he Suicide is
a tried and tested formula for release I hear his voice from where the grave defines him
siren song to sing alone no finer suicidal notes harmonized in a minor strike the cords with
misery memories let us be let his soul rest in peace
(Together we cry)
In memory of those lost Written by Casper
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