Long Short short Poems
Long Short short Poems. Below are the most popular long Short short by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Short short poems by poem length and keyword.
Short short story
Wit not whimsy
Very short takes
Crisp tale you make
Brisk word count here
Watch magic steer
Choice in brisk strokes
Mint poignant yoke
Think in warm feel
Wordplay now will
Flow in swift strides
Watch story glide
Finesse works zest
Micro tale quest
In a few lines
Panache works fine
Sketch not a lot
Ply precise plot
Tell in quick shot
More than a lot
Time in brisk poke
Unleash deep yoke
Textures spark mint
Reflect buzz tint
So here we go
Catch set glimpse lo!
Leon Enriquez
16 August 2018
Singapore
The Sitter
Nothing disturbed the tranquil air,
The tick, tick of the time-worn clock.
The sitter in the wooden chair
Not hearing the gentle, gentle knock.
An old, old man by the broken door,
Breathed in the still, still air.
The sitter looked but did know
The man who entered there.
‘Who are you?’ the sitter asked,
‘I am Memory?’ the man replied
As the quiet, quiet sitter gazed
Upon a face once recognised.
Memory, seeing no thought to share,
Lingered a short, short while
And the sitter in the wooden chair
Smiled a faint, faint smile
And the clock measured the stillness
As the man left the calm, calm room.
And the sitter sat in silence,
Alone in the still, still room.
Barry Stebbings
22/04/2016
the road travelled like a momentous mountain,
the end game on its peak of distant shores.
a matrix of bubblegum ready to drop with coins
or a complex crazy quilt with lazy and diligent dyes.
a wheatfield that traverses the plains and hushes
introspection in its youth and snatches heads
in its short short time left on earth, breaking bread.
the fruit like vines hang onto the wrinkled cliffs.
a small boat in the waxing ocean waves, alone at last,
neither lauded nor drowned...what is is...salt on tongue,
the port on the silvered horizon. An anchor and rope leans
like a sailor approaching home with a resurrected smile.
6/17/2018
I broke my personal record for days alive yesterday. Yea me. I feel great today. This morning I swear my hair looked shinier and more lustrous and there’s the slightest glow to my skin. I’m just saying. I’m out and about for the first time this semester and you couldn’t slap the grin off my face.
The commons dining hall was a rolling buzz of conversations endemic to university life. At the next table, the topic is how many people can someone be in love with at once. A girl named Ariana, is at the center of the discussion. She’s a film-study major and I think it’s the topic of a documentary she’s working on.
Ariana has choppy purple hair with bangs about an-eighth of an inch long. Today, (34° and rainy) she’s wearing a short-short skirt, thermal tights that look like sheer leggings and about four tank tops. “You should pick one person and give them your everything.” Ariana argued.
“Monogamy used to mean one person for life,” another girl states, “then it became one person at a time.” I hide a smile and try to look like I’m not eavesdropping. It’s hard to explain how much I adore these overheard conversations.
Soon it’s time to head for class and we're up, gathering our bookbags and putting in our AirPods. When you’re making your way across campus, the goal is to be fast, fierce and bouncy. I love Miley Cyrus’ “Flowers.” It’s Eden on so many levels. People try to shame Miley but the woman goes hard, she slaps - all the things - and “Flowers” is one of those songs that get you there.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Endemic: “existing or common in a certain place”
eden = perfect
slaps = is excellent
Rapacious Itch
It felt things coming,
The undeniable bottom feeder reality,
Where thought had no credulity,
Where irrational emoting ruled,
Void of mind’s prep,
Blind of light’s revealing purpose.
Such remained
This well-rehearsed and produced
Pulp life infestation.
It remembered…
Once many clambered to the marble steps,
Where dreams born of teachings
Promised delivery of reward.
But today…
All that is found
Is perpetuation of schoolyard practices,
Where bullying,
Mocking,
And “my dick is bigger than your dick” war-cries
Intimidate life’s playground with slippery slopes.
Down 5th Avenue,
Up Park Avenue,
The viral contaminants parlay their wears,
A far more contagious disease than Ebola.
And it knows…
Unlike a possible cure for a biological virus,
This consumerism equation seems without solution,
Given little of non-material worth remains
Visible on the species’ blackboard mess.
Today’s squirming parade of absence
Is dominated by the pounding of urban-warrior chests,
Of Armani jackets atop unlaced “made-to-look-raunchy” boots,
Ken Doll fantasies courting the strut of Barbie Doll dreams
Clicking attention with stiletto heels
Beneath ripped shorter than short-short insecurity.
On it spreads,
Past the Wall Street reviewing stands,
Where unlike the fickle nature of society’s infection,
Market makers understand a fever’s ups and downs,
Vulnerability’s capricious norm endorsing today’s
Debauchery fashion to Trump-taste,
Loudness to drown out worthy music,
Shock to shatter the true awe of discovery,
And the drowning of excellence
As it continues its desperate clinging,
All while mediocrity’s narcissistic sell-off
Creates another closing-bell windfall.
The pestilence holds firm its lock on discernment’s immune system,
Mutating daily into a mind-shrinking captivity,
A synaptic virulence rapidly rendering this once simple discomfort
Into an insatiable itch that will never realize its pursuit of “Ah!”.
Why do I write poetry?
It is something that helps me relax, like painting and cartooning.
Most of what I have written probably isn’t poetry at all
Just really short short short stories
When people ask for a specific type of poem I look it up
I can do a few things without researching them now
Ninette, nonette and sonnet are easy for me.
I do check the syllable count with howmanysyllables.com
Tanka I always have to look up, and it makes me feel silly.
Because it is only five lines. Why can’t I remember it?
Quintain and English quintain and quatrain are something I have to research.
I can do personalization, acronym and rhyme without research.
Free verse and light verse are easy.
Sometimes I know it is a narrative, not a poem at all.
A list poem is fun. I like doing them.
An abecedarian poem is a kick; it keeps my writing fresh.
Rhyme Royal I always have to look up. That’s okay.
Sometimes it is worth the research to create something new.
My dad wasn't a tall dad
He was a loud dad to me
When he spoke
Up to Heaven struck
He was a loud dad to me
My dad the Earthly one
I had
Was a short short man
He was only five foot five
Oh, but what he lacked in statue
His voice climbed up to the rafters
My dad had a voice like thunder
People would duck their heads and wonder
He was a proud man
He was yet a humble man
Never ever would he mumble and
You'd understood every word
He would say and
When he spoke children stopped
He was a giant with his mouth
If you want order
Then you call on my father
He speaks with a voice like thunder
Children stop and ponder
Birds would go in their nest of the trees
Afraid of the wave of Mister Lee
What storms strong hypnotic eyes
With stern hypnotic eyes
Wasn't very tall nor wise
Had only a sixth grade education
In his teens he join the Navy
Thunderous voice of a just littleman
We so now thank you for your service
If you were his child, you're
Going to be in the house before the street light shine
Oh, you hear the voice
the Roar of thunder
Sound like a bass drum or guitar
He would make you wonder
When you turn around and see him
His voice was firm and strong, loud
my dad wasn't a tall man
He was a strong disciplinarian
A loud voicetress man
He wasn't with a tall dad
He was a loud dad to me