Long Sentence Poems
Long Sentence Poems. Below are the most popular long Sentence by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sentence poems by poem length and keyword.
Now the public library in our town contains the knowledge for mankind,
and there’s not much happening ‘round the world, that I cannot find.
I can think of any subject that I like and tell Jenny what I’m after,
and she can find a stack of books that darn near touch the rafter.
The library’s helped me countless times from days when I’m at school,
and I’ve become a handy man with books my back up tool,
but aside from books on lifestyle needs, on fiction some are geared,
and some authors write for little kids, and some write on the weird.
I’ve hired books about our history and read about some shocking wars.
Our garden is designed from books, and I’m obsessed with reading ‘Jaws’.
But crime became my new desire with cases filed from years gone by,
where Capital Punishment was handed down and why some had to die.
Description of the victims sent a chill right through my bones,
right to the guilty on death row with all their over-tones.
I read about their last few weeks, with how and why and where,
before they took their final walk to the electric chair.
One story written by a Warder based in a Southern US gaol,
is penned about a chilling case that for you I will unveil …
Leroy murdered seven folk; the warder wrote down in this book.
For twenty years appeals were held then Leroy’s goose was cooked.
When you’re with someone for twenty years, no matter what they’ve done,
you can form a slight attachment even if a fragile one.
So one week before that final stroll Leroy was asked by Warder Black,
if there’s something special that he’d like, and Leroy answered back.
“There is something I do desire - but it must involve me faithful wife.
“My wish is” Leroy grinned. “Is to eat her meatloaf now for life”.
Well Leroy’s wish was granted and for three meals every day,
he ate the meatloaf that he begged for while the hours ticked away.
On the eve of Leroy’s execution there was tension being shown.
The corridors were creepy now with a ghostly eerie tone.
Forgotten were the seven victims - in the morning there’s one more.
Leroy must face ‘old sparky’ waiting down that corridor.
His final meal of meatloaf was brought before him on a plate.
Said Warder Black with teary eyes “You don’t look worried mate!”
Leroy laughed “I’m not my friend, that chair won’t kill me man.
If this meatloaf couldn’t do me in - I know that nothing can!”
“Thick Skinned – What it Feels Like for a Girl”
When you speak
it’s as if stars cascade
out of your mouth
galaxies you produce
musical incantations
that I listen religiously to
I watch your lips
form glistening cupids’ bows
they spread wide open
like the subtle legs
of a forgotten nun
whispering vesper wishes
before priestly sermons
and John Donne
your hushed and salient
remonstrations, you now
plant me in your
sentence,
no, that this should
never have occurred at all
we are irreverent
in our choices
forming new begottens
you usher from the
pulpit of your world
eloquent reasons
to justify wrong from right
right from wrong
as if your internal fortitude
consists within a
mirror universe
deep and soulful
it promises
more than heaven
those curves
and waivers
contracts we signed
some time ago
souls sunk in a
bad marriage
and hushed assurances
of ‘til death do us part weatherin’
kissing the skin
against my throat
the very place
my comeback is primed
to be launched, yours
deliver that kind of
loose compensation
lathered in snake oil
and a clear path
to redemption
that tie my hands
make me mute
I was launched long ago
from safe harbour,
now
off sure
to lay down all my
naked vicious antigens
I have grown in
the petri dish of my
muddy life to fight your
viral love
like diamonds
your words
they sharpen and glisten
cut through
the thick tempered
glass of me,
through the epidermis
of a close-packed woman
you laser your refined tongue
eyes viscerally undressing
you address the wide open
tableau of me, knowing
you adroitly twist your points
penetrating through
to the now
all too familiar
subcutaneous
safe base chakra of me
within a short space of time
I am sold
into
your chicanery
wanting little of the
life that was before
the unfortunate
taming of me
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"What it Feels Like for a Girl"/ Madonna , Paul Oakenfold (Remix)
https://youtu.be/tbtt0WTKqnQ
https://www.huffpost.com/entry/8-steps-that-explain-why-_b_9143360
http://www.hiddenhurt.co.uk/domestic_violence_poems_1.html#learned
https://songmeanings.com/songs/view/7940/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/What_It_Feels_Like_for_a_Girl
This Christmas, I am moved by the names in the genealogy of Jesus. I find the Biblical genealogy of Israel and Jesus to be a very fascinating study. There are four named women in the genealogy of Jesus and one name referenced. They are TAMAR, Rahab, Ruth, and Mary: Bathsheba is referenced to as Urias' wife.
When one reads TAMAR's story*, there is the feeling that what she did about her situation was over the top, out of culture, way out of line, and out of the realm of Godliness. By the same token, if we put our feet in her shoes, during her time, we might feel the same as she did regarding her plight and how to remedy the situation. Her patience ran completely out, and she felt that her father-in-law Judah was not living up to his responsibility. However, she did not bother to appeal to a greater earthly authority, nor did she bother to consult with The Lord. She took matters into her own hands, and although her approach was deceitful, her outcome was acceptable to her.
Judah's verdict against her, by current human standards, seemed judgmental and harsh. But Tamar forced him to face the truth and to commute her sentence of death. TAMAR proved to be a force to be reckoned with.
Judah speaks to all of us who spend our lives seeking self-gratification and running rampantly in our reckless self-righteousness. TAMAR speaks volumes about taking matters into our own hands, seeking desperately to find a fix for what ails us. More often than not, such fantasy fixes end in failures, and we live with the consequences. Self-righteousness is often very subtle and is capable of wrapping itself around the best of us. It's the type that says, "If I was writing a Holy Book, there would not be space on my Holy pages for the likes of Judah and Tamar". As a human filled with flaws, flops, and failures of my own, I am most grateful for the grace of God that has been extended to me. Both Judah and TAMAR, by no goodness of their own, found themselves in the genealogy of 'The Christ" who presents Himself as the Savior of the whole world. That includes Judah, TAMAR, you, and me.
12042017PoSoupContest, Favourite Poem From December 2017, Julia Ward
*Genesis 38
"Do you really think I am that heartless to just leave my parents in danger without any shame? Guilt? I felt all of that. Many times in my journey I almost turned back, but I could not win against my heart's desires. I could not avoid the fate the gods had laid out for me. I too am a victim." At this point, Princess Layla was bawling her eyes out. She knew she had the Lady of the Gods eating out of her hands, when the old woman bent down and hugged her tightly whilst also crying.
"It's okay, my child. Your parents are alive. The king did not sentence them to death, because the empress bore a son resulting in the pardon of everyone who had committed a crime.Thank the merciful gods." The news of her parents survival did nothing for Princess Layla as they too had sacrificed her to the king , but she was glad her escape had not caused any bloodshed.
In the moment of distraction, the old witch raised a dagger and mercilessly stabbed Princess Layla in the back. "Wh..y", the princess inquired as color drained from her rosy cheeks. The old witch stood and left but as her silhoutte faded to a black shadow, her final words rang loud in dying ears. "A princess who betrays her nation deserves nothing less than death."
"Outrageous! What kind of play has such a... a stupid end?" That's all Princess Jasmine could think of as she watched the princess take her final breath on stage. She finally understood why her mom insisted she see the play. It was a warning, a friendly warning. As the truthness of it all hit her, Princess Jasmine was ever so thankful to be sitted. Her insides felt queasy as fear gripped her. She could suddenly feel a cold blade on her warm skin. No. No. No! She had to get out of here. Tell Robert that they couldn't run away together. Tell him she loved him but had to marry the king. How could she betray her kingdom? Granted she hadn't done anything but she'd thought of it and mother knew. Oh, no! Mother knows. Is Robert okay? She wouldn't do anything to him, would she? Oh, no! No. NO. As her thoughts spiraled out of control, Princess Jasmine stumbled out of the suffocating theater like a drunkard. In her hurried, haphazard exit, she bumped into a dark figure. For a moment, a handsome smile invaded her line of vision. When she tried a sorry, she really regretted scoffing down all the those cakes they gave out during the cursed play.
This is the house built “right”.
This is the greed bred in the seed
of the foundation of the house built “right”.
This is the arrogant and pervasively resonant
that's born of the greed bred in the seed
of the foundation of the house built “right”.
This is supremacy abiding acceptably
that stinks of the arrogant and pervasively resonant
that's born of the greed bred in the seed
of the foundation of the house built “right”.
This is the racism staining the light prism
casting a blight in its favor of white
that shines with supremacy abiding acceptably
that stinks of the arrogant and pervasively resonant
that's born of the greed bred in the seed
of the foundation of the house built “right”.
This is the ignorance piping the dissonance
and chanting the tune of the morally immune
that fosters the racism staining the light prism
casting a blight in its favor of white
that shines with supremacy abiding acceptably
that stinks of the arrogant and pervasively resonant
that's born of the greed bred in the seed
of the foundation of the house built “right”.
This is the lie as diseased as a fly
that's spreading the ignorance piping the dissonance
and chanting the tune of the morally immune
that fosters the racism staining the light prism
casting a blight in its favor of white
that shines with supremacy abiding acceptably
that stinks of the arrogant and pervasively resonant
that's born of the greed bred in the seed
of the foundation of the house built “right”.
This is the consequence empowered incompetence
brings as a penance we serve as our sentence
for trusting the lie as diseased as a fly
that's spreading the ignorance piping the dissonance
and chanting the tune of the morally immune
that fosters the racism staining the light prism
casting a blight in its favor of white
that shines with supremacy abiding acceptably
that stinks of the arrogant and pervasively resonant
that's born of the greed bred in the seed
of the foundation of the house built “right”.
The oh so "right" have bullyjacked our American Dignity!
WE HAVE THE CURE TO THIS CANCER, THIS HOUSE SHOULD BE CONDEMNED!
-Everyone "left" whom cares enough to speak out against the greatest threat democracy has ever faced and are increasingly aware of the dangerous trajectory America is hurling towards.
Robert Lloyd Sherriff - Australian Poet, Author, Actor, and Model: American Historian.
Robert Lloyd Sherriff - Australian Poet (Born: 8th July 1954)
Robert Lloyd Sherriff - Follow if you want to be a better poet
An Ode to the Unbridled Spirit of Creation
In the quiet twilight of creation, where thoughts whisper to the soul, an untamed wildness is yearning to be set free. Deep within the heart, soul, and mind, the seeds of expression find their nurturing ground in this hallowed space, waiting to bloom into various colours, sounds, and words.
In the limitless expanse of the imagination, every heartbeat plays out like favourite melodies tinkling away on ivories under practised fingers. Music that not just echoes in chambers of the self but resonates through the ages, carrying with it the essence of its creator.
And oh, to paint the sky—a vast and undiscriminating canvas! With bold and gentle strokes, we call upon the palette of our emotions, blending hues in ways so profound that they leave even the divine in awe. Each colour is a word; each brushstroke is a sentence in the universe's grand narrative, celebrating the spectrum of human experience.
In the dance of words, written with enthusiasm uncontained, the pen becomes an extension of our deepest selves. Each phrase is a footprint left for eternity; every piece is a potential masterpiece that whispers secrets to those willing to listen even three centuries hence. What are words, if not vessels of our truths, dreams, and fears, cast across the temporal sea in hopes of reaching kindred spirits?
The beauty of creation lies not merely in coherence but in the chaotic symphony of expressing everything and nothing all at once. In the liberation of thoughts, unburdened by the constraints of conventionality, we genuinely connect — heart to heart, soul to soul. The essence of our being unfolds, touching others, enriching well-being, and bridging realms between the inner world and the outer universe.
As a poet, this is my plea—an invocation to all who dare to dream, to feel deeply, and to share unreservedly—serves as a beacon for the weary, the dreamers, the lovers, and the seekers. Your poetry, art, and song aren’t merely a reflection of your life or a tribute to those you love; they celebrate existence itself, connecting threads in the intricate web of human experience.
Tell all the worlds about the treasures found
Renaissance trace spellbound in the ancient form,
Tender and haunting; an era of time curves around
Past the present to a future beset with tech charm.
Historical pages cling romantically to our eyes,
Each epoch defines a sparkling gem of surprise,
Their fluttered rebirth is like stars changing sizes
Release by time flown from the damp demise.
That dip their limbs to bow unto gloss modernity
Like the artist and sculpture, they paint a world.
Of aesthetic peculiarities and lofty discovery,
Longing to find a place soaring free in the soul.
A vault of citadels says much; then said no more
Deep within, ancient wonders rise from the ashes
Talented beauty weaves from centuries we adore,
The time and place asleep in a waste wilderness.
The plague of colors survives in medieval triumph,
England, a literary monument of architect literature.
Finds the noble heart to express cherished breath
Creating the etiquette claimed by French culture.
Such dept alone could not be paid by metamorphism
Humanism fading in a mist has its place in society,
Heightened with extreme lust and erotic mannerism,
Italy removes the conscious veil from bizarre reality.
Ceiling significant through music strings serenade,
Renaissance dazed; allusion lay dreaming half awake
The inquisition of fate went on pilgrimage made,
German sentence commute through the classical gate.
The Netherlands explore and navigate all the distances
Byzantine adherence goes beyond impregnable walls,
depict faces of the Tsars persist in the military hypothesis,
And labyrinths take refuge in Russian banqueting halls.
The richest measured proportion of distilled beverage,
Vodka values more than all the dull limited senses,
Spanish religion repository of the myths and rage
Set the path where new western experience commences.
Portugal selfie, the pinnacle piece that thirsts for commerce
Lisbon flourished paints and medicines with Flemish.
Poland concept and conflict gain border land dominance,
Spice trade rises high and makes indiscreet allusion flourish.
We travel far beyond renaissance to the greatest monument,
When the transition of culture from the middle age evolved
Mesmerized art is a rediscovery of an enduring cultural movement,
The monarch of the Roman Empire renaissance man inspired.
What did she say when you told her you still loved me?
Did she turn away or try to disagree
Did you think about her or how she would be?
No you were only thinking about me.
She stands there now, all alone
Facing her fears of the unknown
Turning her head on what she's once known
Realizing now, she's on her own
With no one around to help her choose
She stands her ground, not ready to lose
Her head held high while hearing the news
To accept her fate, she must refuse
She tries and tires with all her might
To win you back every night
She has no plans to give up the fight
Any hope is out of sight
Her heart is now filled with hatred
Will all the love that you desecrated
With just that one sentence that you stated
Her entire life is now dated
Did you ever stop and try to think,
Just how far she would sink?
How close she was to the brink?
Or how it could all end with just one drink?
Just one drink to end all the pain
Just one little sip to break the chain
Just one to do the job, to her disdain
Just one and she will die in vain.
You don't even care to attend her funeral
To you she was just a girl that you could treat cruel
How could you be such a fool?
You don't even know of the fire you've fueled.
You come to my door and ring the bell
You send thousands of messages to my cell
Repeatedly the words "I LOVE YOU" you yell
But for all I care you can just go right on to hell
I don't want you anymore you Silly boy
I am no longer your stupid little toy
As for the loneliness you feel now, I hope you enjoy
Because you had your chance and my love you destroyed.
I am my own person without you
I no longer rely on your every move
I am no longer clueless on what to do
I know now I can move on to someone new.
As for the girl that you threw aside
I hope you think of her every time you cry
You're the whole reason that she died
If you wanted someone to love, she would have been there by your side.
She would have loved you the way you love me
But you never opened your eyes and seen what there was to see
I'll never love you no matter how hard you plea
So wallow in your self pity, you'll get no remorse from me
I hope you drown in your misery
Thank God that sad little girl is finally free
Thank God I knew it was time to flee
This is goodbye, so don't bother calling me.
A casualty of a personality similarity, apparently,
though it's not apparent to me,
maybe in a parallel reality with unparalleled insanity.
My motto is true individuality breeds pure originality,
I hate monos I do but inconsistency prevents rhyme simplicity.
However, I endeavour to be quite clever,
and mix this rhyme with a talent that only said hello
and let itself be known when I sat all on my own
and met my lowest low and felt all was an unknown.
After I boycotted social events
and my siblings kept a distance
through a transition to clearance
and all was different but for my parents.
When I could of drank and walked around violent
or gone back to cannabis as a daily requirement,
but I vented in silence and sat and wrote a sentence
to then rhyme it in an instant and express a cruel incident,
all done with rational thought and I felt happy with the result.
I found a talent up my sleeve
better than what I ever believed,
assured by my second poem called "Believe",
13 months on there are 400 more to read.
I've covered a whole range of topics,
writes of stupid silly to writes of serious logic,
but lyrical writes enabled
a plastic Eminem wannabe label
as though I'm unable to be a creative individual,
and so slated for not being an original.
It seems that Trim Shady alias will stay with us
and I'll seem ridiculous but the influence
that became the fake appearance will see a disappearance,
I'm Nicholas or Trim I don't initial my title
I'm not trying to be like Marshall whom is unrivalled.
I'll do it my own way with individuality,
knowing that alter ego is the only reason you see a similarity,
but I'll make you see I'm a singularity,
a personality out to become a familiarity.
Though I've balanced my talents over a vast distance using
rhyme to reference these events it makes no difference to opinions,
yet I stay driven because I was influenced by Winston and his words to the wars winning.
Let's be clear Churchill caught my ear like Slim and I listened in awe to him when he said "Never Give In",
so if the world goes silent I'll start to sing,
if you attack me I'll whack you,
if you distract me I'll trap you,
if you perceive me as fake
I'll make you retract that statement with haste.
I'm evolution at play,
changing and adapting,
but I'll always do it my way.
"All animals are equal. But some animals are more equal than others."
—George Orwell
A dozen of chickens and a number of horses, a cat and a raven, a few cows and other hoofed ones—all of which are perfectly silent. Poor wolfie. He can't even find a voice to growl. "Your Honor, if I may request for a short recess," I whisper, humiliatingly like a dying dragon. But my timid voice is drowned by a sly-looking pig's pouring of whisky into Dis Honor's gilded cup.
"Have you no respect or have you no eyes?" Squealing, he deafeningly squeals. He reminds me of that scaled wyvern whose head now sits in my living room. It roared deafeningly loud but breathed no fire. "His Honor is having his brief period of refreshment at the moment!"
With eyes too dry to cry and throat too hoarse to howl, the defendant meekly weeps. But only I hear it; the jury listens to only the silence, loud as a baby serpent's inaudible hiss, of two semi-digested pigs in his gut.
Who on earth build houses with flimsy hays or sticks nowadays anyway? And was it my client's fault that the third genius Doctor Porkchop got killed when some stray earthquake crushed his oh-so-unshakable fort built brick by bloody brick? Just whose brilliant proposal is it again to have Napoleon presiding the trial of the so-called Big Bad Wolf? If only he was a dragon—a pig-dragon at least— I would fain put the beauty that is my sword into good use right now.
Countless charges of premeditated murder, culpable animalicide, et cetera. Of course, do sentence us all to another life. I turn to look at the audience right behind me: a mare, a goat, a donkey. A soft motherly neigh followed by an intelligent baa, then by an astute silence.
"Please, Your Honor," Ridiculous. This stupid courtesy reminds me of tiptoeing past a mother Couatl guarding her eggs. "Shall we resume—"
Slams of gavel.
"Objection! Objection! Objection!" Dis Honor oinks vehemently, his mouth reeking of poorly brewed whisky—and I thought Tiamat's droppings were bad. The way he repeats the slamming of his gavel with every disgustingly pronounced objection gives me a headache as if it was my head he keeps hammering on. For the first time, being hit by the Basilisk's tail doesn't sound so bad at all. "Here you call me 'Your Honor Napoleon' in full," Oh, believe me, the honor is fully mine.