Long Shaped Poems
Long Shaped Poems. Below are the most popular long Shaped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shaped poems by poem length and keyword.
Neck a smooth, cylindrical mold
As sheathe with fibers carefully rolled
Pale, satin sheen artfully scrolled
Grace on soft, silky strands doled
In light, silted hologram to behold
Calamus breathes through each fold
Herbal essence from tight pores cajoled
Swabbed cheeks cloud high cheek bone
Naturally brushed with light coppertone
Puffy mounds rise from savory scone
Cherry gum drops brim o'er mascarpone
Cherubic glow of a polished sandstone
Exuding savory Rose scent laced with pheromone
Nature's stimulants, a nurtured love to hone
Bosom, gilded vines on terraced grove
Sprouting cherries, fertile arrow of Jove
Dangling from chest sealing frothy trove
Coarse sifted mounds, plump kneaded loaves
Descending into a deep, musky cove
U-shaped funnel vents steaming stove
Releasing mellow aroma of a sweet clove
She tells the story with tears in her eyes: Her family's farm, largest farm in the county;
Land-granted, debt-free paradise; all they needed pay were quarterly taxes;
She tells of how one hot summer day, the wind began to blow,
Blowing away moisture-filled clouds, drying the ground into crackled layers.
She tells of bitter winter days, snow blowing back into the clouds,
Pastures dry-freezing, blasted by cold winds from the northwest.
She tells of hot winds scorching pastures; starving cattle choking on thistles;
Government agencies purchasing the remaining cow-shaped, walking skeletons;
She tells of beloved horses loaded into rail cars bound for St. Paul stock yards,
Purchased by the army for $3 a head -- 75 cents per glue-filled hoof;
She tells of scraping grit from the butter dish; scraping mud from the ice box;
Of lifting dusty scum from the milk bottles; rinsing dusty scum from mouth rags.
She tells of two years with no crops, two years of blowing dirt;
Two years with no rain, no snow; two years of diffused sunlight, beautiful sunsets;
She tells of so much electricity in the air, in the ground, running from roof to wire,
Men would wrap their hands in pieces of cloth before they touched
The handles of their cars, lest they be thrown to the ground from the static.
Her voice lowers as she tells of the day the wind finally faltered, then died away.
She tells of the day her grandfather stood on his once-proud porch,
Finally able seeing through clean, clear air, the farm he would soon no longer own.
Taxes unpaid, liens placed on farms, on equipment, on promises; 'sheriff's sale' posted;
Her tears fall as she tells of how he was forced to let it go, to give it up;
She tells of her birth, ten years later, in a migrant shack in Washington state;
She says history sealed her desperate legacy before she ever had a chance.
It was a very long day
And a long way from home
Country back roads
Skies of chrome
Tiredness kicks in
I need to stop
A house up ahead
I'll stop and knock
The door opens
Pleasantries in greet
Invited inside
Tired and dead beat
The lady of the house
Offers a drink
A small wine I say
As she replies with a wink
We sit and talk
About our pasts
Sad stories
And past laughs
The evening draws
As I my head starts spinning
I feel elated
Is the evening beginning
Music is played
As I drink more wine
Energetic in dance
As I feel mighty fine
We end up dancing
Our hands in places
Lips touching
And not just faces
Slowly my clothes
Start to fall to the floor
My hands on flesh
I've never seen before
Her body so shaped
Even through hazy eyes
She takes my hand
To her glittering prize
Her hands mould
Around me so
My head like a carousel
In spinning mode
I seem to know what I am doing
But unable to stop
Like I'm on top of the world
And never to drop
The feeling of joy
Surrounds my brain
Elements of ecstasy
Like sparkling champagne
Naked and set
My body flows
In body arousal
Our nakedness shows
The kissing gets frantic
As we sigh and groan
On the floor we writhed
In sporadic moan
As I lie there
I recall the lights
My head in confusion
Now I'm out like a light
I'm awakened early
By a knock at the door
The lady of the house
In breakfast chore
I sit there eating
As my body aches
Scratches and marks
Was I in partake
I have no recollection
Of the evening that's past
I can recall driving up
And that's the last
I say my goodbye's
As I thank my host
She winks as I leave
Looking as white as a ghost
I get in my car
And I head of home
Stopping for gas
No more wandering roam
I speak to the attendant
About the house where I stayed
A lady so kind
How at home I was made
He turns to me
As if I had taken a turn
There's been no one there for years
His face showing concern
I stand in momentary shock
As he tells me the news
The marks on my body
And the bluest of bruise
All the way home
I try to recollect
About the previous night
My thoughts can't project
A Christmas Poem for a Quiet Morning
By Alan J Winters
In the hush before the sunrise, when the world is trimmed in white,
A gentle peace drifts over towns still holding to the light.
Benson’s streets lie calm and waiting, Montevideo dreams along,
And Dawson hums its winter tune a soft, familiar song.
The coffee warms the hands that built a lifetime out of grit,
The tree glows with the stories every ornament has lit.
Footsteps echo memories of the ones who shaped our days,
And love becomes the lantern that still guides us through the haze.
The star above the stable shines on every weary heart,
Reminding us that hope begins in places torn apart.
So gather close the blessings that this season brings anew
A quiet room, a steady flame, the ones who carry you.
For Christmas isn’t wrapped in gold or found beneath a tree;
It’s in the grace that meets us where we are, and sets us free.
It’s in the hands that mend, the hearts that give, the stories we restore
A promise whispered every year: you’re held, you’re loved, once more.
Form:
This is the tale of a soul reaching out to others,
but receiving a cold shoulder wherever she goes.
Words and phrases
are misconstrued,
meanings attached
which cloud the issues
which she wishes
to address.
A passel
of jaded poets condescending;
who sear and cauterise
synapses
of intellect, and
in the
bud,
it’s
vim.
I
don’t
give
a
rat’s tail anymore.
Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2019
REPOSTED 11 July 2021 with white space added between the lines.
POET'S NOTE: The expression with reference to a rat that I use in my shaped poem, could perhaps be related to a phrase ‘don't give a dead rat’ from Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884).
‘The Mouse’s Tale’ (which was my inspiration for this concrete shape) is a shaped poem by Lewis Carroll which appears in his novel Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Though no formal title for the poem is given in the text, the chapter title refers to ‘A Long Tale’ and the Mouse introduces it by saying, ‘Mine is a long and sad tale!’ As well as the contribution of typography to illustrate the intended pun in this title, artists later made the intention clear as well.
What is appropriate to say about the changes
in your life. At 23 I was confused
about a girl, under the sculpted pines.
Quietly, my friends and I contemplate death.
A subject, until recently, unknown
to us in such a variety of forms. Nuclear flash
to exploding blood vessel in the brain, control
eludes us. Heirs to a society adept with numbers,
we run in the park and eat whole grains,
increasing survival odds.
The city and the mountain are two hard anvils
against which our hot lives are shaped. Love
is the fire, and the need for love. To be shaped
by the lover's warm hands, like clay.
Alive, almost sure of it.
f e e l me
like sonnets of sunrise
infused with
clementine cadence
as I am the golden essence
in your floral skyline
a hazel rose
quenched amidst the quiescence
of dulcet devotion
s t i
r r
i n
g me to an
ardent realm
of singing solstice,
for in citrine warmth
of your poignant passion
laced with
perennial promises
I’m shaped
and crowned with
mosaic sakura,
robed in
fervent f l
a r
e
s
as your touch
i l l u
m i n a
t e s
the blushing blurs
of dawning desires
r u
s h i n
g
beneath
mellifluous meadows
of my
lovestruck skin
so k i s s me like
the sun after
crimson rain~
wrap me in
sage and sandalwood;
be the aroma
r i s i n g from
blades of emeralds
where soul sees no
crestfallen crystals
and heart tastes not
love’s
lament…
in silence, you are
the bronze backdrop
glazed in
cues of compassion
i g n i t i n g
Juliet’s nightfall
with poetry
and petals
a reflection
of timeless twin flames
entwined
in
forget-me-nots
while I stay ~ intoxicated
by the intricate
lips of longing ~
a lethargic silhouette
that sighs ~ tied in stillness ~
p u
l s
e
within the portrait
of pining
p a r a d i s e...
Clutching
The end of my Zebco rod and reel
As the cast of tackle is flung
Like a small knot of costume jewelry
Skimming atop the caramel-colored Grand River
Dragonfly rattling awry
The vibration tingling in the palm of my hand
As if I had cupped an angry bee
Until the swivel hook and sinker
Puckers
The river’s muddy surface
Splash
Swallowed soft and thick
On the river bottom a dozen kernels of corn
Thread on hook
Weighed down by an ounce of lead
Waiting
For a big greedy carp
To come by and fight to the death.
Tim and me we got that bait
From a stolen can of corn that used to sit
In Tim’s mom’s refrigerator.
While we keep our eyes keen
To the taps and shivers
Of the delicate tips of our poles
Balanced in the crux of V-shaped sticks
Stuck in the dry embankment
Delta 88s clack across Waverly Bridge
And underneath teenagers dig the hard mud
Hitting a joint while sharing a Mad magazine
Their screeches and laughs rising and falling
Like hooks scraping against cement.
We stroke the knives slung in our socks
Wary of them.
Tim wonders to me what it means for the USA
To have lost its first war.
I don’t know.
I say that my parents think that Watergate
Was worse for us
But either way they say
Things will never be the same.
Tim says his older brother slapped his face yesterday
For parking his bicycle too close
To his black and gold-trimmed Trans Am.
We share a plot of revenge.
We listen on a transistor to Ernie and Paul
Broadcast a doubleheader from Tiger Stadium
“And he stood there like the house by the side of the road…”
We love the New York chef turned right fielder Rusty Staub.
The experienced river fishermen
To avoid snags and the false pull of current
Must trust the placement of his bait.
Sit and wait.
The Grand River makes no sound.
Has no reflection.
These kinds of friendships last in a man’s mind
For a lifetime.
When I tell my story, the past unwinds.
Poet me
Poetry
That’s the treasure that you find.
A narrative woven from threads
of joy and tears, As words flow forth
like a river's stream I relive each moment,
relive each dream The highs and lows,
the twists and turns A story of growth,
of lessons learned
When I tell my story, I find my voice
Whether you listen or not that’s your choice
I said whether I like me or not, that's your choice.
At the end of the day I will tell my story
I rise with the sun
I let my melanin glow
Rhyming and vibing as
If I did it before.
where every thread is a memory,
a moment, a choice.
The fabric of my past is fragile,
prone to unraveling,
yet resilient,
for it has shaped the person I am today.
I find solace in the knowledge
that I am not alone
With each spoken word,
I confront the ghosts that haunt me,
In my mental home.
When I tell my story, memories unfold,
With every word, a chapter's spun,
Of laughter, tears, and lessons learned, begun.
Note: Reposted for my good friend John Hamilton who remembered I wrote this when I didn’t
I was just sitting there writing when I saw her stroll in,
I wasn’t alone, all eyes followed those curves sashaying
as if she owned the place and maybe she did. . .
if a heart can skip a beat, mine did a somersault.
Obviously cut from a finer cloth
than these eight dollar trousers ever found in their pockets,
the fit much better too, a warm hug on a cold December day
lingering in the moment
She sat down at the crescent shaped bar,
ordered a martini, neat, pulled a crisp twenty from her clutch
and brushed a few stray brunette hairs from her face,
the mirror behind the bar happily reflecting her beauty
Raising the drink to her ruby red lips
I found myself wishing I were that glass,
smeared in her favorite shade, kissed by a sighing sip,
caressed by porcelain fingers wiping sweat from a glistening neck
A jewel in this dingy joint, shimmering in the dusty haze,
breathing some class into this oblong shadow
that had seen better days, but none like this, like her.
She was out of place like fine wine in a shot glass . . . but didn’t seem to care
She lifted a cigarette to her mouth, I was quick with a match,
watching as tobacco embers flared and smoke rose upward, swirling about freeform.
Putting her lips together she blew out the flame
with a whisper of breath that made me weak in the knees, “Thank you.”
I stared, forgetting the spent match I held between my fingers,
tongue tied or mesmerized, take your pick, both answers are correct.
“You’re welcome”, I stuttered like a school boy in braces, “new around here?”
“Kind of”, her voice as chiffon is soft, “I heard I might find a poet here . . . ”
To be continued . . .
There are two more parts to this poem. I will post the remaining tomorrow if any would care to read them. : )