Long Scripting Poems
Long Scripting Poems. Below are the most popular long Scripting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scripting poems by poem length and keyword.
Metaphors and similes exude when scripting poetic verse.
Across pale parchment, the poet's pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses like life blood, rushing through his eddied veins
as he ignores cramped fingers while writing echoing refrains.
Each stanza arranged by sequence in the creation of a story.
Sometimes his mysterious muse dances wildly with allegory.
He reins her in when he is focused but totally oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, he sits penning in consummate rhyme.
Thoughts drift like flurries of snowflakes; his passion ignites
as each completed verse lifts his wizardry to greater heights.
In epic form he wanders within a level of verbose amplitude,
composing lyrical sonnets when creating a romantic interlude.
He indites with skill and talent of an accomplished musician,
striving to compose a magnum opus, a worthy composition.
If by chance his poetry is interpreted with eyes of admiration
he'll credit his gypsy muse for offering amorous inspiration.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree—
A belle crooning nature’s glee,
Splendorous as seasons’ glory.
A ballad of resplendent spring
In stanzas cherry-blossom pink
Uplifting moods of lovers
Lost in heart-shaped leaves
Fluttering soft lavender breeze
Arousing romantic appeal
In fuchsia hues of redbud trees.
A verse of feisty summer winds
Swaying beats of majestic oak
Rustling big-leaf maple trees
Hosting dance of perky sparrows
Choreographing mating tempo--
Magnolia’s white blooms evoke.
A lyric of autumn’s aspirations
Scripting chorus in blazing colors,
Red, orange, purple, yellow,
On maple, hickory, birch, sycamore,
Strumming strings of alluring refrains--
Rhythms waltzing fervid meadows.
A cadent song of winter’s chill
Shuddering vibes of barren trees
Yet, charmingly pretty as can be
When snowflakes gently falling
Invoke tunes of season’s greetings
Crowning tips of ornamental twigs
As hearts’ melodies merrily sing.
February 7, 2020
Placed 1st: Famous poetic lines 2 poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
“I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree” by Joyce Kilmer
HM: Strand select H contest by Brian Strand
[ Standard Contest : Write a Beautiful Shadorma
Sponsor: Constance la France
Placing : Second ]
_______________
“Actually, if you don’t dip into the Soup, you might not meet Shakespeare and he won’t be able to taste your verses.” Poet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This soup tastes
like a fancy hat
bewitching
alluring
beauties and beasts swirling heat
pulchritudinous
Slick smooth soup
papyrus inky
taste chuckling
lyrical
luscious sages engaging
scripting evolving
Nourishes
Shakespeare’s ladle dips
readers gape
poets stirring
dramatically press keys
flourish stanzas bold
predicated on verb hose noun sense
with brain matter makes me astute
and this union with the trappings
of virtual reality tub boot
would be akin to heaven
within the domain of this atheist - ole coot
whose purr add ventures scripting verse
sit aisle feeble rhyme with no reason
moost definitely hi yam not terse
aye speculate yar facial reaction
(understandably) would be
toe step from this purse
son i.e. Daff Punk Matthew Scott Harris
when ma time to ride luxuriously
in a plushly jeweled hearse
carrying thigh cremated ash
disagrees with me credo, ethos,
faith no more much less brash
since be yen entombed
in a coffin resistant to crash
vis a vis atoms either
forcibly split (divorced)
or tum marry in a shotgun flash
(fission or fusion respectively)
exhausts precious natural race horses
cruelly whipped
stinging fresh fielded gash
where putrescent hide of Equus resembles hash
sheesh, how in the of Judas Priest
did hie veer off into the least
common denominator,
which absolute value increased
the totally tubular confusion
into a worthless jumbled gobbledygook feast.
Quest
For years long I espoused the bedlam in my beneath
I quest the solitary
The more close I endured; the arouse of ignition was more
This is an unacquainted fervour
I never encountered; neither I will surrender
I owe it to my breathe, my flesh and my wisdom
And I had no grip to iniquities and itches
Like how sand slips from hand
The bedlam denned in myself
If the warmth of love quest the path
Render my longevous throes and miseries
If the incessant gaze of lover quest the pearl
Pierce my heart and reign
If the bravery of combatant quest the combat
History chisel my fearlessness cruor
Is it the hurricane or the tremor; it is uncharted to me
And the tempest in my core,
It does keep bellowing
I don't the know the word
I am not adept in scripting it either
I must apologize for disturbing and disbalancing my vehemence
And awakening the equilibrium
Endowing justice to my robust turmoil
Whether it is a bedlam or a quest...
In the echoes of Ukraine’s broken streets,
The cries of mothers replace the lullabies.
Children learn war before they know peace,
And rubble replaces their dreams of skies.
A theater of power, painted in blood,
Where egos clash and empires pretend.
Yet not one soldier, not one soul,
Asked for this play that may never end.
Zelenskyy, the people's hope, now dim,
Your laughter cannot drown out the cries.
You play a role for nations to cheer—
But your stage is built on shattered lives.
Putin, your shadow stretches far,
But it cannot cover the truth with fear.
Withdraw your iron, lay down your pride,
And let the dawn of peace draw near.
NATO, UN — where are your hands?
Are they tied with threads of gain?
While cities crumble, and fathers fall,
You measure loss in numbers, not pain.
To Europe — stop scripting this war,
For every cannon you feed with fire,
Another soul is lost to the dark,
Another field becomes a pyre.
Let the people rise — both black and white,
No more division in skin or creed.
We are the seeds of a better world,
Not pawns in a tyrant’s selfish need.
For how long shall the innocent bleed?
For how long shall the silence scream?
Awake, humanity! Tear down the lies —
And give the world back its dream.
Written By: D. Collins 9/20/19
I'm just ripping and scripting all of this out.
Imagining if I was out there in the crowd.
This poem is written with a little "Bootsy" in it.
A baseline that turns it into a clinic.
"Wayman Tisdale" definitely was nowhere near scrub.
Some bad Mamma-Jammas that I am speaking of.
Hold it right there! I ain't quite finished, yet.
If you heard "Flea" you'd see what I'm getting at.
I'm talking the best in the biz. "The Cream of the Crop."
My man from "Limp Biscuit" certainly ain't no prop.
Ramming "George Clinton" funk all down your throat.
The best of the best. Known all over the globe.
There ain't nothing better than a "Beast Bass Man."
One that can carry us to that "Promised Land."
They can start at the bottom, and go way, out front.
And, when they finally get there, it ain't nothing but funk.
Good day my fellow soupers, I hope you all are doing well.
Another moment has arrived, for our poetry show and tell.
We are a diverse group; a common quest keeps us sustained.
This disruption from reality, empowers rest when feeling drained.
We share our thoughts in group, an expression of how we feel.
Some words we share are dark and some, for curb appeal.
Whatever the case may be, we all leave our hearts exposed.
Be mindful of how you judge, it can leave others indisposed.
Some scholars will write for contests, hoping their work will place.
When you’re scripting for recognition, it’s hard to keep up the pace.
Poets have differed taste, we’re all just human after all.
Try not to get discouraged when you miss that curtain call.
On any given day, you’ll pen some rhymes that come out great.
Don’t let a biased judge, determine your poetry fate.
Each one of you are special, foster your talent both day and night.
Legends are made not born, now grab your pens and write!
How earnestly, dear, you enchant my dream
Blooming heart’s wishes in amorous theme
Lifting me to your realm of astral mysteries
Buoying my longings on wings of your spirits
Rowing leisurely to paradise of ethereal bliss,
Surfing azure winds, navigating stellar seas.
Traversing through empire of eternal revelry,
Dazzling me with allure of inflamed intimacy
You lured me to magical palace of fantasy,
Way beyond kingdom of nebulae, galaxies,
Through reign of Venus~ the goddess of beauty,
And mythical territory of monarchy moonlit.
Mesmerizing dawn, scripting tale of romance,
You touched my soul, conquering my heart,
As purple tints engraved arc of ebullient morn
Honoring love, when hastily you were gone,
Leaving behind memories, wallowing in awe,
Of your passion esoteric, blazing on and on.
February 11, 2023
Placed 7th: Wave of Fantasy Premium Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Metaphors and similes flow freely from my pen
when I am scripting and scribing in poetic verse.
Across the width of pale parchment pages
the nib of my feathered pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses fathoms deep within me like life blood,
rushing through the eddied channels of my veins.
I struggle to ignore the cramping in my fingers.
There's no hesitation when writing echoing refrains
when I imprison myself in poetry.
Each stanza I carefully arrange in proper sequence
as if it's a bairn born for the creation of my story.
Sometimes my gypsy muse joins me in the dance
when I write with abandonment in wild allegory.
I never try to rein her in when we're both focused
and driven to complete a poem, oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, romantic sonnets are birthed
as I sit penning line after line in consummate rhyme,
incarcerated at my desk until I've written the last line.
My thoughts tumble like flurries of pristine snowflakes.
With a single spark of romance my passion ignites
as each completed verse falls perfectly into place, it lifts
my need to write compositions of love to greater heights.
Day and night, I find myself a wanderer, lost in reveries
where I journey in a private kingdom of verbose amplitude.
Around each curve in the road is a new challenge to be met,
and yet, none thwart me when trysting in romantic interlude.
Rude would be the one who would disturb me
when I'm handcuffed to a work in progress.
I try to indite with some semblance, dare I call it skill or talent?
By no means am I an accomplished laureate by my admission.
As a mere poet, I do not strive to compose a magnum opus,
but a meaningful collection of verses as a worthy composition.
If by chance, my poetry is interpreted and appreciated by some
who view my emotional imagery with soulful eyes of admiration,
I will credit my gypsy muse with her conspiratorial whispers
and amorous experiences as the impetus for my inspiration.
I hold the key to unlock my self-inflicted prison door,
and used when at last my pen has been laid to rest.