Long Short poems Poems
Long Short poems Poems. Below are the most popular long Short poems by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Short poems poems by poem length and keyword.
Girl woman mother master wonderful mind
Extraordinary figure of daring revolutionary aesthetics
Poetess Sensitive Verse Soft Heart Gold
Intuitive Sensitive Poetic Flower Fountain Adventure
impressive resembling Silky Smooth Eagle sage
immense soul radiant poet universal heart
large-scale poet strain mate plus
Faithful squire love poet deep verve
Formidable poetic glow universal friend stars
Loving heart poetess amiable sincere friendship.
Huge hands extracted heavy red clay lumps
gleaned from Edgefield's argil soil,
placing it
upon the whirling wheel.
Fingers roughened,
he formed, shaped, with master skill
vessels fit --
massive stoneware pieces, usable, rare.
Sinuous liquid clay upon black hands
like tortured blood from harsh slave-beating wounds,
dripping down dark skin,
branded,
cursed,
damned.
Unique old man, Dave,
a slave, literate --
in times dangerous for his kind to read,
he proudly displayed more than maker's mark.
In poems, quaint,
with shapely script, his creed
was carved upon the pots' serene shoulders,
then boldly signed with his own name.
Yes, "Dave" was inscribed
for the eyes of all beholders.
Forty years he worked for his white owners,
longing, like all enslaved, for freedom, dear.
He lived to see emancipation's dream --
perhaps never knew an accolade sincere.
Six foot under, unmarked,
no one knows where old Dave the slave
lies buried.
Sure enough,
his perfect pots are still discovered:
both he and they
were diamonds in the rough.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, June 14, 2014
Dave the slave lived near Edgefield, South Carolina, and crafted
some of the largest pottery pieces known. He was literate and signed
many of his pieces with his own name and also included on some his own
short poems. His pieces when sold command very high prices.
Poetry is an opened book,
that is not always understood well...
Who makes this world hell,
can never deserve heaven...
Every day with love and food,
right recipe for a splendid life...
You even pay to play war,
no one lives in this life for free...
Even for the non-fisherman,
the fish is waiting there...
A wild bull in the room,
it only causes damage to the owners...
Calculating the jump well,
we avoid mishaps and holes... !
The ball of life is yours...
all that's left is for you to learn to play...
Potion of water, sugar and salt,
it doesn't injure and saves life...
[form is cinquainish- with 2-4-6-8-2 syllables in a stanza]
Fountain
where lilies bloom
violets, reds and whites
their soft whispers like God’s finger
touched them
---------------------------
Snowflakes
perch on bare trees
dazzling under sun’s light
nature’s gift an awesome prism
white gems
---------------------------
Pillow
my closest mate.
when I lie down to sleep
in my dreams, looking out. I cry
alone.
The bond
that holds us tight
are memories of him
and me, our heads pressed close- on one
pillow.
--------------------------------
Old man
fine lines of age
threading their way around
corners of his eyes, break into
a smile
-------------------------------
Voices
children humming
melodies, they're beacons
flashing bright before night gives way
to day
Freddie
Friendship you offered me freely
Ready always to help and advice
Each comment structured and balanced
Delightful were the words you wrote
Drawing pictures and visions in the mind
Invoking thoughts that inspired
Each phrase and verse chosen well
I read the last poem he wrote before changing his id
to poet aggressor and to me it seemed he knew what
lay ahead. Maybe even welcomed it, I think he had,
had enough for who knows what he was going through
we all wear public faces keep the pain and torment
hidden. Freddie dear Freddie already I miss you so
much I will leave you with his own moving words.
Spoken Words
richness of the heart
the tongue will speak graciously
a bounty of words
spoken tenaciously well
incanting ones included
Mea Culpa
I'm the accuser
blaming myself directly
a sign of my guilt
pointless justification
without any allowance
Missing
at the funeral
unsuccessful burying
mourners in plenty
grave devoid of a body
instead thrown in a furnace
Anticipation
courage is with me
just as long I keep breathing
once I die I'm dead
apprehensively of course
don't know where I'm going yet
A few of Freddie's short poems
his websites
www.poetrycuresthesoul.co.uk
www.guidgearcomesinsmabulk.com
www.poezijimaltin.com (blog)
Are you attached to some of
your poems?
Or is it only me?
I see my best ones as living trees.
Standing alone with no comments
And, it makes me tragically sad as can be.
The short poems of mine get some
comments and that's all they deserve.
But the ones that grow from the
root and elegance of my heart?
No chance.
You get daggers in your hearts.
You stand like royalty,in the moonlit forest.
Greatly ignored, wanting to return
And hide in Panagiota's heart.
Where it is the warmest!
I want to erase you from the cold,
Indifferent site, so naked,
Exposed to all the world.
The trees and I know they are not wanted.
The no-think poems, applauded?
Why you bet!
Come back dear, long poems!
My Heart's door wide open to you.
I am proud of each of you!
More than eight lines,oops...
In a tech world you are too much.
Three lines only or less are best?
Shakespeare would have been a flop
He wrote in full sentences, outrageous
today!
Your tea and plaid blankets ready,
The fog rolling in...
Please, come home, poem trees.
I applaud you for standing tall, yet
bearing dishonor in spite of all.
Love,
Mom...Panagiota
5/13/2018
10:30 pm PST
Form:
The Quota of Ten
Oh, God! Help me to write something
touching and reflective today.
To be concerned with inner truth.
Not rushed, please help me ...to
overcome my poetic arrogance.
To not just post just anything to
meet the "Quota of Ten".
But to have a poem with real meaning,
A number fulfilled~ does not a great
poem or poet make.
It's rushed words on paper, that leaves
me forlorn, empty and and me....
Feeling like a poetic imposter.
I doubt any poet of note~sat down
and rushed off to "pen ten"!
This feels like a football game-))
Worse yet, each day of the year?
Imagine Shakespeare doing such twaddle.
It's a race to be popular here and what to call
that..I am at a loss.
A game of vanity~nothing more!
ee Cummings in a whole lifetime
wrote 700 poems of lasting veracity
and depth!
They last through the ages, he is one
of the poetry sages we never forget.
I wish there were no "Quota of Ten".
I am no doubt considered weird and
that's totally nothing new to me.
Ten short poems any one of us can cook
up! No biggie!
There are magnificent poets here who
understand that.
They don't participate in this game, I
so admire them~ so significant.
And their poetry stands like outstanding
mosaic works of word art, with a
heart.
Their poems so magnificent, they truly
move my heart.
A salute to them and their kindness to
responses to comments
God bless their compassionate and unselfish
souls.
To learn from you, is one of goals.
Panagiota Romios
4/28/2019
8:30 am PST
Life with Snickers
(four short poems in one)
our one-year-old dog
lapping up toilet water -
what a potty mouth
That dog is also into smut;
he likes to sniff poor kitty’s butt.
He hears my slightest movements in the kitchen.
His paws appear at the counter where I’m preparing food.
Later, Snickers comes to me. In his mouth he bears a rope.
He wants to play that silly game I dread.
He stares at me, big brown eyes filled with hope.
Tug of war I play with him. When it’s time for bed,
The cat and I can’t rest till Snickers has laid down his head.
Written 11/4/15 for the "A Poet's Dozen" Poetry Contest of the Silent One
It’s not that I hate your short poems.
Truthfully, everything you write
makes me fall in love with you a little more.
Even the haikus.
Every line, every word,
every piece of you that finds its way onto a page
feels like a gift I never get tired of opening.
It’s just that I always want more.
I check your poems more often than I should,
hoping to find something new,
hoping you’ve written another one about me,
hoping to catch a glimpse of what goes through your mind
when you think of me.
When I miss you,
when all I want is to hear your handsome voice
or lose myself in your gorgeous eyes,
and I can’t,
I turn to your poems.
I read them over and over,
letting your words fill the space
where you should be.
They become the closest thing I have to you.
So it’s not that your poems are too short.
It’s that when I can’t be beside you,
your poems are all I have,
and I wish they were longer
so I could stay with you a little while more.
Because every poem feels like a taste of you,
and no matter how much I read,
I never seem to get enough.
I always find myself reaching the end,
wishing there was one more stanza,
one more page,
one more piece of you
for me to hold onto until I can have you again.
Long poems, short poems
Wide poems, narrow
High poems, low poems
Romance, Cupid's arrow
Old poems, new poems
Red poems, blue poems
Luddite poems, uptight poems
Bawdy poems - screw 'em
Flower poems, color poems
Nature poems galore
Tall tales and whoppers
Who knows what's in store
Rhyme & Meter, Foot & Beat
Metaphor or Simile
Triolets and Woe is Me
Dot the i's, cross the t's
Stirring Odes and Tributes
Limericks, Epitaphs
If not too darn serious
Some will make you laugh
Futuristic? The past's terrific
Everything is unspecific
You see
~ Just call it Poetry