Long Scrawling Poems
Long Scrawling Poems. Below are the most popular long Scrawling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scrawling poems by poem length and keyword.
Got to put writing aside for a bit
Need to get the bookwork done
The taxman is waiting
He wants the numbers
With dollar signs in front
He doesn't care that he's taking me away
From my love of words
He just wants me to be done
By a certain day
So he can take my money....
I usually enjoy doing bookwork
It's a task I don't find dreary
Exercising brain muscles
But my mind can't stay focussed
Stray thoughts meander
Coming between columns of figures
Addition, multiplication, subtraction
Division, percentages and totals
Have flown away to the other side of the universe
Grab the nearest piece of paper
Pen in hand and start writing frantically
...OOPS...
Back to figuring again
Where was I?
Trying to keep my brain on a leash
But like a creek in a downpour
It runs everywhere but where it's meant to
A flash of a word
That's what I was looking for!
A whole new verse scrambles through my brain
Scrawling it onto paper as quick as I can
I WILL get the bookwork done
Eventually...
I'm stealing a few moments from Father Time
to pen my thoughts on parchment pages.
I write of mirth we shared, sweet and sublime,
capturing it in recorded history of us for the ages.
As twilight broaches night, I write by candlelight,
scrawling thoughts that are roaming in my head...
those refusing to remain in my heart.
Though frowns have furrowed our brows
and etched wrinkles and creases on our faces,
we shared many more moments of laughter
that made us cry tears in streams of joy
rather than those wept in sorrow and sadness,
cherished memories of loving embraces.
There are things I could never find voice
to reveal. Perhaps, it's better that they
remained unspoken then. But I feel sure
my eyes told you more than any spoken
words could have made any clearer.
If you could see my eyes as shadows fall,
you'd be aware of more than I could bear
to read the drop of your shoulders,
and the rivulets shining on your cheeks
as moonlight begins peeking in the window.
In reading this, you have my heart's decree
that my love never died, but was magnified
year upon year with great depth of emotions.
And at its end, you'll find teardrop stains
smearing the ink that would never run dry
if I continued writing, but my confession
is long enough. It's in your possession
in this dour darkness without a whisper
I could offer in farewell, or one last embrace.
Amidst the amazing aroma of the angelic sticks
Cheering along the chants of charismatic priests
Promising on the petals of pearly purity
You said, "I LOVE YOU"
During the dreadful dreams of dying waves
Glancing through the glass of dry gloomy grass
Lifting me up into the light of lively land
You said "I LOVE YOU"
Fondling my feathery feet with your fancy fingers
Twisting your tangy thumb into my twirled curls
Scrawling your signature on my splendid smile
You said "I LOVE YOU"
Searching for the sensibility behind the madness of your words
Enjoying the ecstasy of our bond enriched with folly fights
Roistering the roller coaster ride at the royal stage of your vivacity
I solemnly stoop before your solicitude to say,
I LIVE FOR YOU.
Prick up your ears my darling
Open wide your eyes my poppet
Unlock the hatch of your heart my swain
Look into my eyes,
Slide deep into my nerves,
Feel the warmth of my blood
You will realise that
I AM ALL YOURS.
I walk the desert alone
High dense sun
I am the only among
Struggling, but determined
Maneuvering is a hard able
Scrawling on the desert sand
A rush of a desert wind storm
Blowing and swirling
Thirst rushes to my mind
My eyes visualize an oasis
But no quench only imagery found
Sweat pours over my body like a running fountain
Birds circle overhead waiting until I die to feed on my flesh and bones
Drastically trying to survive, but darkness is slowly closing in
Hours seem like days
My moments full of haze
Tears don’t even come down
I don’t know where I will find myself
Man to Sun, let my soul ever be humble, and solitude prevail
I can make it no more
Within the sand I soar.
Them Crazy Circles
What's it mean, do you suppose,
When aliens start writing grafitti
All over your planet?
Quite suddenly,
In Merrie Olde England, Australia,
The U.S. of A.:
Signs have been appearing,
Massive symbols for Something
- God only knows what -
Pressed into the crop fields,
Like seals driven into wax.
Numbering in the hundreds now,
New ones appear each day.
No one's ever been caught creating one,
No one's ever seen one form.
They simply arrive in the night,
Confounding comprehension in the morn.
So what's goin' on here, I wonder;
Is some Intelligence trying to reach us,
Sadly overestimating our skill
With such puzzles;
Or is some one of God's elder children
Going through some adolescent thing,
Scrawling weird stuff on the backwards planets
For the sheer Hell of watching the natives gape?
The sky sneers at me through the curtain of clouds
I strain in vain to see if a star is flickering
The night stands stripped of all munificence
As I turn and twist on my bed,
I know for sure insomnia stubbornly
Keeps her reins on my poor self
As I lie sleepless with my torso weighing a ton,
Whispering my anguish onto my pillow
With darts of pain stinging out from my swollen eyes
I know I have lost sense of every passing hour,
But intensely feel every moment….
My ear drums are slit by the sirens of ambulances
Their blinking lights flashing in darkness
And scrawling strange graffiti on the walls
Down in the patio, I hear the swish
Of paper flung by the paper boy
Thank God! The night has ended.
But is it not for another night’s painful litany?
Yet I dream of a bright dawn
At the end of every night of distress!
sipping cider, and pumpkin spice
nurturing joy, autumn’s sweet price
blessing my heart, leaves keep falling
raining grace on my life’s calling
warm thoughts caress my soul’s intent
these blessings are why I was sent
autumn’s rhythms are gently stalling
raining grace on my life’s calling
jumping in the leaves, such wonder
my heart is beating like thunder
autumn’s gasping winds keep squalling
raining grace on my life’s calling
roaring fires and the crunch of leaves
reminds me that my heart believes
autumn’s ink, soundlessly scrawling
raining grace on my life’s calling
aching verses shed silent fears
singing God’s peace through gentling tears
merry skies steal hearts, recalling
raining grace on my life’s calling
was the whiskey and the jazz playing
On too many black nights with too
Many lonely women and not a poem
Between them
How many times can you run
From the shadow of the voices that
Surround you
Beating like drums in the darkness
Tasting more of your flesh each time
Not leaving enough for a man to breathe
No way for a man to live
How could the hep-cat jive survive
When my voice can only spit silence
Wasn't a dream left to filter thru
The night worn inside and out and
Bled dry a bottle singing the page blank and life in the hands of
the haves laughing at the broken shadows of the have-nots
There was a club on 34th and Second Ave where the jazzman
swung
All night long beat poets recited Tuesdays' nights and Jack was
always drunk in the third booth
Scrawling poems on paper bags and notebooks
Taking life hard on the chin and after a while not fighting back
anymore
Ain't the road thzt donev Jack in
My electronic pen as drunk as a blind bat rattles along the virtual pages of my computer trying to make sense of its staggering direction,
Not knowing which word will next come out of its nib, mainly keeping a balance, endeavoring not to topple over, or to make scrawling blotches on its whitened board.
It is interesting that one can surmise the demise of a pen, by checking the balance of ink life that remains. However if the pen is drunk it will display uneven levels of ink life as it rocks and staggers across fallen white leafs destined to change color.
Many a writer has become an idea dwarf. Hence, what is called writer’s block, sets in. I have found myself down that street a few times and have exercised my drunken pen’s syndrome option to its fullest.
Nothing quite like it though, as this form of writing makes no sense to the closed minded reader, but a satisfactory opt out when the writer’s mind is blocked, to resort to using their drunken pen.
This is a rewrite, because I am firing blanks and this says it all.
Far from the din of madding crowd,
Away from the bustle of city life
I withdrew into a solitary spot,
To turn my thoughts into dazzling verse.
Shelley and Shakespeare came in view,
Emily and Eliot fell in line,
Their verses ringing loud and clear,
Their energy fanning fire within
I dreamt of putting proper words,
To clothe my thoughts in striking lines,
Longed to pour my loaded heart,
In powerful verse to move the hearts
But as I started scrawling down,
All that I had stored in hoards –
Ebbed out into mere froth and foam,
Leaving only broken thoughts
Will my Muse be here once again?
Or is it better to leave my thoughts unspoken?
However, I strained hard to give them life,
And labored in vain to make them rhyme,
‘The Blazing Sun’ and ‘Brilliant Stars’,
All faded out with no trace of glow.
I envisioned before me the Sacred Mount,
To drink from the fountain gushing down,
Alas! Only hot lava spurted out,
And the wings of fancy burnt outright!
Sad, my Muse didn’t appear to enliven me,
Nor my fantasy lingered long,
I stared blank into the scroll in front,
Unable to scribble even a moving thought.
Like a soldier vanquished in war,
I put away my pen for the time being,
Hoping my Muse would come down soon,
To inspire and help me script immortal verse!
Jan.4.2023
My Muse Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Regina McIntosh