Long Scribblings Poems
Long Scribblings Poems. Below are the most popular long Scribblings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scribblings poems by poem length and keyword.
In the end
it was too slow, afflicted
by either age or illness
or simply distracted,
flew head first
into the eye of a headlight.
Flung contorted, neck bent
back, snapped of life,
it died
clumped on a verge.
Rewound to its first flight,
its brief existence traced
untold scribblings
across time and the space
stretched between
these tall trees.
No record remains.
A full stop is placed
here on this muddy shoulder,
the end to something
which, only a moment ago,
flickered through the circuits
of a living brain.
It leaves nothing
but a small hole
and progeny
ignorant of history.
Whatever flowering form
that bloomed here
grew in the blind reaches
beyond knowing, no more
than a short awakening
programmed by its kind,
an expendable part fed
into the machinery
through which all life churns.
Chance had my way
intersect this point
and dab thought upon thought
to stem the bleed.
No balm soothes
the wounds
of this crumpled mess.
Cement trucks rumble by
moved by the need
to fill an empty space,
as these words try to do.
I've felt your love within my soul,
fanning passion's flame in my heart.
And like I'd stepped into a hole,
I fell in love right from the start.
Destiny can't keep us apart,
for fate is in complete control.
And since all my walls fell apart,
I've felt your love within my soul.
In my daunting days, dark as coal,
you were my guiding light, sweetheart.
I was broken; you made me whole,
fanning passion's flame in my heart.
You didn't hit pause or press restart,
unlike others playing a role.
Offering my heart a jumpstart,
I've felt your love within my soul.
It seemed an impossible goal,
fanning passion's flame in my heart.
Yet, amidst life's rigamarole,
my heart found my soul's counterpart.
Knowing love's real, doubts depart,
freeing us to laugh and cajole.
My scribblings, to your eye, are art,
holding hands on a moonlight stroll;
I've felt your love.
I've roamed the halls of Poetry Soup for nearly nine years
and had lots of ups and downs, cried happy and sad tears
Some poets are super duper people that I call my 'friends'
There are some snoopers who have need to make amends
Soupers are a varied lot from different backgrounds in life
But never should there be reason for enmity, vitriol or strife
I've laughed at humorous scribblings of many bawdy limericks
Shook my head at rude comments that have caused conflicts
Those few are in the ranks of poets I call 'the party poopers'
And there are some who enjoy interfering ~ 'the bloopers'
They spread rumors that cause chaos in the soup kitchen
The site would be much better if they would stop b****in'
I cannot claim my innocence for I've battled a time or thrice
When bullies and trolls have said things that weren't very nice
I've been called a 'mean girl' but it's a name I take in stride
Bet money on it being said again and I'll say, "Let it Ride!"
I've written for other poetry sites, but I remain in the Soup
and if you question why I've returned, well, here's the scoop...
There are fantastic men and women here that I have met
who are sincerely kindhearted. I owe them gratitude as a debt
I prefer to ignore those who cast aspersions with a snicker
But like most kinfolk, there will be times when we bicker
As a community of artists, we are writers of poetic verse
with a common interest shared across the entire universe
We should strive to be united with the same goal in mind
'Respect each other as Poetry Soupers and remain aligned'
Positive comments are encouraging. Ladle them and you'll see
That supporting Super Soupers will keep the site hassle free
We all start life in the arts, a virtual blank slate if you will,
looking for just a little truth and maybe some fresh ink to spill.
Some will share their own story with a sonnet, haiku or a rhyme,
if each artist is properly nurtured, we all will get there in time.
We may hail from all over this world, different colors and different creed,
but we all have one thing in common, it’s the words and ink that we bleed.
Most will leave you, their comments, some more and some a little less,
there are those who have no religion, but you’ll see a few that end with God Bless.
You might live and dwell in the city or in the country and known as a hick,
but we all look for special words and phrases, it’s the magic that we all try to stick.
We will spend many years writing poems, a poetic battle with our pens to the wall,
everyone will experience some success, along with a trip or a fall.
If we offer each other our support with positivity and comments in kind,
our beauty will always shine forth and will be there for the future to find.
I have no delusions of grandeur, my scribblings will never be great,
but I still love to share and write poetry, and I’m no longer just a blank slate.
2-17-2023
This or That, Vol 16 Poetry Contest
Blank Slate
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Fifty nine inch tall wife
once willowy wisp
postmenopausal galloping gourmandiser
playboy centerfold girly
figure ain't no mo,'
which superfluous weight deterrent,
love life yours truly
took Kamikaze nosedive
arousing, exciting, stimulating...
as romancing the stone statue,
but seen thru Tom
gobbler beady eyes
butterball babe resembles hottie
female turkey on steroids without feathers,
spouse already qualifies as Hen pecker
not admirable characteristic
to encourage physical intimacy
whew, which allows this husband
to redirect pro creative pursuits
where English language
beak homes muse,
which amateur philologist
attests to literary penchant
most likely garnering posthumous fame
revving up avast surge
necessitating Barry yore
to deter den of thieves
against stealing precious
documents - sold at auction
avid fans snapping up
bajillion tattered staind scribblings
indistinguishable from chicken scratch
interlaced with gobbledygook
(unbeknownst to John Doe
who faintly resembled me dead
drunken grizzled shabby skidrow
anonymous deceased wordsmith),
mortuary performed makeover
courtesy same Joseph and the
amazing technicolor dreamcoat
academy award winners
unexpected set couture club craze
suddenly everybody and their ilk
including grandmother goose, pink panther,
porky pig, Scoobie doobie do, ugly duckling...
triggered feverish buzz feeding frenzy
even cosmetic surgeons experienced
boomtimes, cuz ma
eternally sleeping pose
inspired cottage (cheesy) industry,
the global economy witnessed
unprecedented unsurge
ending world wide poverty.
Inside a library of things uncountable,
clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets
gather words out of nothing.
Mind dust wafts.
A woman approaches with an armful
of my early, roughly cobbled poems.
behind her, unwritten books
begin to fall off bookless shelve.
“Don’t worry” she says,
she is Scottish and actually says:
“dinna fash yersel.”
An old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes.
The enormity of everything
overcomes the moment.
She places the fragmented scribblings
in an untidy pile upon a small reading table.
The thought of a ‘reading table’
amuses me;
she smiles while the rest of her vanishes.
After reading all the table had to offer,
I leave the building empty-handed.
Outside, a mackerel sky
begins to rewrite some passing clouds,
Like myself,
it is constantly editing and revising
its reality
the way a bowl fish does
when it swims full circle.
"I am a writer. Therefore. I am not sane." - Edgar Allan Poe
We all go a little mad sometimes
... In the middle of the night,
Our minds raving words and rhymes
Hands compelled to write and write
In the middle of the night ...
Wide awake with a troubled brain,
Hands compelled to write and write
Soothes the self gone near sane
Wide awake, with a troubled brain
Crazed scribblings and a fury of ink,
Soothes the self gone near sane
'Til dawn turns black skies to pink
Crazed scribblings and a fury of ink
Nothing else matters, right this second,
'Til dawn turns black skies to pink
When the notion, so nearly beckoned
Nothing else matters, right this second
Lest lines be forgotten by then ...
When the notion so nearly beckoned
Grasping for lamplight, paper and pen
... Lest lines be forgotten by then
Our minds raving, words and rhymes,
Grasping for lamplight, paper and pen
We all go a little mad sometimes ...
Feeling Secured
when I feel you around
Feeling healed
with your blessings abound
Feeling dolesome
while seeing your empty cot
Feeling wholesome
for the grace we have got
Happiness, sadness, madness and what not
Feelings for you will always remain
As your memories whirl forever in our mind
Thinking of you
Every now and then
Thinking like you
While confronting blues
Writing for you
As you like my scribblings
Writing about you
As I found solace in those writings
When I couldn't share my happiness with you
When I couldn't share what it feels like
All I do is write about it
And I know you will read it and beam
When I don't grab right words to vent my thoughts
Whenever I experience writer's block
I close my eyes and think about you
Like a saviour you arrive and trapped words you unlock
Your never ending love for writing and reading
Like the perfume
unfurled from our garden flowers... it's spreading
Now, I promise you that I will read
and keep on writing
through all the changing scenes of my life
As I could feel your aura beside me whenever I sit to write
That way, I will be with you always
WHIMSICALITY
nonsense
verse
& limerick
in
extraordinary
visual
sketchesin
a
diary
of
requited
jottings
down
&
visiting
images
the
pictorial
aide-memoire
of
observations
&
evocative
sequenced
slices
of time
changing
drifting down
notations
revealing
singled out
spectacular
images
of
the silly the
surreptitious
private
joke
in
cartoon-like
scribblings
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
The malicious windings of your hasty pace
That erase sweet memories and their trace
Waste things that breathes and ones mute;
Pitiless Time, you are such a ruthless brute!
If you only aged men who your dials mess,
Or only blighted the cute ignorant mistress
Who thinks that your clocks tick for naught;
Then yours would be a war honestly fought.
But in your cruel rounds of unjustified rage
You smite the harmless poet with old age,
And thus anon halt scribblings of their pen,
And dull his wits beyond their laudable ken.
Perhaps no one has rebuked your wanton brutality,
And maybe you'd grant a poet's pursuit for eternity –
But if in your undue use of force you snuff my breath,
Then at least leave this humble verse in intact health.