Long Short story Poems
Long Short story Poems. Below are the most popular long Short story by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Short story poems by poem length and keyword.
life be short
when seen as...
on the inside
where age is...
just a consumer
item bought as...
if year by year of
work and toil is...
life's purchase
of being as...
something completed
which is...
just a fantasy
of mind as...
an obedience defined
existence that is...
but one knot of mind
we helped tie as...
some time package
so one more being is...
ready to be warehoused
and closeted as...
if in that final box already
however though the now is...
that reflection we call mind
image increments as...
time thoughts imagined
while the whole is...
the universe
squeezed as...
into some grain of sand
while its infinity is...
a too reduced concept
labelled as...
your hour to be
seen rather than what the infinite now is...
stan sand
WRITER'S BLOCK
THE WOULD-BE POET
I thought I'd write a word or two,
Like all them famous poets do,
And then mayhap I would be known,
And folks would ask me to intone,
The lyrics that were world renown,
In recitals throughout town;
So I sat down with pen and waited,
For inspiration, breath abated.
I waited long into the night,
Then came the dawn and morning's light.
I thought I'd write a word or two,
Short story, pome, just one or two,
But seems to me there's no such luck,
So I got in my pick up truck,
And drove around to clear my head,
It did no good, my muse is dead;
Or else she's just abandoned me,
I prayed to her on bended knee,
But as far as I can see,
This effort's in futility.
DANG!!!
For Block, Block, Block Contest by Detroyer Poet
Spun out with no controls
Space craft exploded on the water
Solid impact on the emptiness
No land on this strange world
Saved by a fractured pod
Captured capsule by gravity strong
On this giants silver waves
All else disintegrated in the impact
In an instant on the day destroyed
Somber sounds of liquid waves paraded
In their solemn prayer
Not much else remained
Crashed and sunk as pods might do
Stranded between two dim lights
Brown suns that never know the night
Glaring down from opposite directions
Both horizons mocking this surviving soul
And lights the one and only mercury like sea
My new home light years away from anything
Alone, alive, breathing alien thin air in desperation
Pushed on forever to survive the silver life before me
Thirst forced me to consume the foreign drink
Sweet but could mean something dire yet unforeseen
Red wings for buoyancy propel me through the water
Floating in the open is my only option
Not much else to do but to go on
Nutrients in the sea seem to sustain me
Death by hunger or by thirst are not by choice
A curse much worse than that of crashing
But I enjoy the solitude and void
My damaged scales, torn metallic wings will hold me here
Eternity is just a blink away
Oval eyes open wide to see
Flying days are over now
Under the unforgiving suns
Dragon dreams could not have hatched a better plan
From a better hardened egg or shell
Or imagined a better ending to a day
Back on the home planet from where I came
*Authors note: My short story with this same title is posted in my Articles section of Poetry Soup. Feel free to contact me at [email protected] for any requests. Thank you for visiting. Earl
It was just before sunset in an early spring. Three horseback riders,
by chance, came together in the field by the wood and were having conversation. They were a lady and two gentlemen, well dressed, in horse riding outfits.
“How are you Ophelia?” The man in black coat greeted the lady robed in violet, with an unenthusiastic look. “We haven’t see each other for a while, have we?”
“Oh, your highness,” she replied in delight with the pleasant smile.
“It wasn’t me, but you were always avoiding me for some reason.”
Ophelia turned her face toward the other gentleman who was in red coat at her left. “Isn’t that true, My Lord?”
“When death dominates us, let it dominate us to sharpen the dagger; and when we resuscitate, hide our sharpened blade behind us to stab the foe in his heart.” The gentleman in red coat answered bluntly.
“I don’t quite understand. What do you mean, my Lord?” She asked with puzzled face.
”Never mind!” The gentleman in black coat shouted annoyingly. “For my cursed dagger’s sake, we must go back to the castle at once. Come, my dear friend Horatio.”
“Yes; my Lord Hamlet,” he drew reins to turn his horse to where
the Hamlet’s horse was, while explaining to Ophelia. “The ‘death dominates’ mean that a situation is in dilemma. The situation that of kill or to die.”
Even long after tow horseback riders ride away from the scene and
sun started to sink from behind the hilltop, Ophelia stood there on horseback and kept uttering. “When death dominates us, love may hate love itself, rather than love trust the love, the maiden pure heart.”
Note: A short story fabricated after appreciation of the picture of three elegantly dressed horseback riders in sunset field, using three main characters from Hamlet.
(Inspired by the humorous short story, "Angel Of The Odd", by Edgar Allan Poe.)
This young man had just been visiting his mother,
His wife disapproved of spending his time with another,
He grabbed his coat and hat, but not an umbrella,
For, he was quite an unwise and careless fella.
The rain began to pour with thunder and lightning,
This foolish man did not find it a bit frightening,
He was looking forward to a warm hug and a kiss,
Although, it was her cooking that he really did miss.
He quickly jumped over puddles and leapt the gate,
But, little did he know, that he was tempting fate,
He knocked and pounded his fist on the front door,
The house remained dark, though it never was before.
Now, all that he needed to do was simply unlock it,
But, he found the key was no longer in his pocket,
He picked up a rock and shattered the window pane,
It didn't matter to him, if he disturbed their entire lane.
He cooked and ate his dinner, now he wanted dessert,
In his mind he thought, what could one more bite hurt?,
The young man could not silence the feeling to crave,
Yet, that is what would put him right into the grave.
His wife's specialty was a heavenly, angel food cake,
And, into this one, a secret ingredient, she did bake,
A drop of deadly poison to keep her husband at home,
For, she never liked the idea of being left all alone.
He was very much in love with this pretty, young baker,
Yet, she had planned a date with the local undertaker,
Her selfish plans to tempt him, had worked all too well,
His new home, six feet under, is now where he would dwell.
Written February, 27th, 2014 For Craig Cornish's contest - "Angel Of The Odd"
Let me tell you a short story
A tale of long ago
When mother was a teenage bride
One who loved her man so
His mother always made dessert
Different everyday
Mother wanted to please her man
That she did in all ways
Mother decided to make a pie
Simple egg custard
She had all the ingredients
For this she's not flustered
She went to work stirring the mix
Then popped in the oven
They would eat like the very rich
Food for a whole dozen
When done it was loose and runny
A great disappointment
Mom threw it fast under the house
A very sad moment
Young ladies don't give up or despair
If you make a mistake
For my mother turned out to be
Sought after for her cakes
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper
Contest: Plentitude of Pies
Theme: Pies
Her hand upon my neck she swung herself around.
She placed her other hand on my cheek and looked deep into my eyes.
Her long black hair fell beyond her waist. Her smile of love turned to sadness.
She spoke,
“Oh, you are not he for that my heart longs.
Now I still feel all sadness in my songs.”
She continued.
“For as the sun arose and the light filled my room,
I waited for my love, as does my empty womb.
Where are the hands that do caress,
And where is he soothed by my breast?
Mirror in hand my beauty for him.
A stroll or a ride or a romp on a whim.
Together with him I’m ever complete.
We lay under the stars in a field of wheat.
Next to me I tremble with delight.
In his gentleness I put up no fight.
I’m never afraid where he takes his love,
Beyond the heavens soaring far above.
Stay with me a little longer, don’t go.
Your soul in mine I’ll never say no!
As his hands they travel my slender frame,
He whispers so gently to me, my name.
Glinting in moonlight his beads of sweat,
I wipe with my hands, his brow so wet.
He looks deep in my eyes and can feel my heart.
Our breathing the same please lets never part.
His head on my breast, my hands through his hair.
For a moment together we both gasp for air…
That night long since gone my love off to war,
He never returned my heart ever sore.
Each morning I wake the light fills my room.
I wait for my love, as does my empty womb."
Her hands upon my face she looked deep into my eyes…
I felt her love and the love she lost.
Her broken heart and sadness filled my soul.
She turned away and walked into the mirror.
Returning home a wise ant
stopped to talk to a grasshopper bent
on singing all day and playing with girls:
as winter approaches and snow unfurls
covering and hardening all food to ice
gather and shelter or you’ll pay the price
For not preparing by thinking ahead
from cold and hunger you’ll be dead
being positive won’t change a thing
singing in winter doesn’t make spring
her words of wisdom grasshopper didn’t heed
from hunger and cold died indeed.
The ant in her home protected well
from wintry ice and snow as it fell
with food and milk from aphids’ paid rent
with family and friends her winter well spent
in peace and comfort because prepared ahead.
Today's regrets are yesterday's neglects.
Ninth Place Winner: Fire Bird-Short Story Poem-11/22/24
Honorable Mention-Crystol Woods-Allegory Fable-3/24/25
There is a movement amongst Republican ranks
in The United States Congress, regarding the
the absence of religion in schools, and its
herald revival, like some Bible Belt Tent
-- minus the tambourines, being it is
The Halls of Congress -- after all.
In the wings awaits assorted
groups whose numbers had
enlarged, recently, due to
liberal channels, and that
is not of recent long ere
the days of backwoods
racism, --not all guilty
be the righteous few.
It's as if my, 'White
Lies' short story
-- resurrected.
Satanist sides with
the right wing in
hopes, it seem
they've filed a
proper docs.
to be a type
viable sort,
of faith be
admitted.
FYIs
Alexander Kielland
a Norwegian writer regarded as a fine author, if not the top drawer, but somewhere in the middle, one does not need to stretch up or bend low to read his work.
I read his books when sitting in the library, skiving as my teacher would have said
After seven years we, who didn't have what was said, did not need further education since we were worker
material, which in a way, makes sense after all, most of us ended up in factories as our elders had.
The day before our sour-faced teacher gave his farewell speech, and, gave us advice on how to go through life humble and respectful of higher orders, I read a short story by AK about little Marius, who could not grasp the Latin language.
The priest had told him he could not be a cleric if he didn't understand Latin, his teacher despaired, and his
poor parents ashamed that their youngest son was so dense and refusing to learn Latin verbs.
I can't remember how the story ended, but little Marius disappeared, fled to Germany became
a tycoon in
the valley of the Ruhr bought a big castle and denied
he was little Marius. His sons joined the Nazi party and
and were the first go to defeat Norway to squash rumors of the Marius, unable to learn Latin and AK
books were banned.
When our teacher came into the room, we stood at attention at our desks
He told us which factories were seeking apprentices
and stables needing lads to run errands
He looked at me and said, there is a training job for
cobblers I impress upon those who are hopeless to seek employment as cobblers.
No, I'm not little Marius, but I do live abroad.