Long Sketch Poems
Long Sketch Poems. Below are the most popular long Sketch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sketch poems by poem length and keyword.
Word sketch and stretch
As if to say
Feel batch and match
Hedge well this day
A lone foray
I come to know
To spice this day
Flesh thoughts that grow
Words on the verge
Succinct with ooze
Speed on odd urge
To go with booze
A touch tells all
As rhymes of voice
Discrete with call
Now transcend noise
Fruit in due time
Such curvy lines
That cluster mimes
Curious and fine
Wordplay comes fast
To unleash more
From first to last
In deeper cores
Poise fashions tight
To mellow mood
Reap crystal sight
In all things good
Seek fresh wordplay
In simple pain
As joy now stays
in moments slain
Sift sacred space
Where wisdom knows
To honour grace
As true light shows
Leon Enriquez
23 August 2018
Singapore
So brittle is our finite life's short stretch.
Demurely, we spend out our early years.
Immutable at first, we're glad to sketch
each interlude of life without deep fears.
Our time seems limitless to spend away;
end of each night presents a brand new day.
As years fly by, so quickly turns each page.
Though tenuous, we come to alter views
that soon become formidable with age.
Bereft, we read friends' passings in our news.
Tho, thankful, that for now, we're freely spared,
we live in death's dark shadow, stay prepared.
Sandra M. Haight
~3rd Place~
Contest: Strand Choice 4
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 01/27/2020
~2nd Place~
Contest: Eight Word Challenge-5
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Judged: 11/03/2017
Required words used in order of appearance:
brittle demurely immutable sketch
interlude tenuous formidable bereft
quick figurative brush stroke drawn out character sketch
(serendipitous verisimilitude)
i stand in awe
(with mouth agape) at elegiac, fantastic,
and graphic idyllic Kinkade magic
leaving breathlessness from craw
at such artistic talent oozing
spellbindingly, whatever
aforementioned noteworthy craftsman
doth paint or draw,
and chanced to comment
about sad affairs leaving flaw
in regard to questionable business ethics -
where press hee haw
contradicting, maligning, undermining, and jaw
boning sans said late talented mortal
engaging in sketchy traits of south paw
city when contrasted with a dog given gift -
ooh...such rah...rah...rah
when he first appeared on the scene,
where most viewers saw
utmost dynamic, fantastic, and harmonic convergence
displaying such prosaic, rhapsodic,
titanic art show events
hum...and perhaps not surprising
his illicit in dull gents presents stark contrast,
staring hypnotized as imagination invents
experiencing peaceful, restful
and tumblerful joie de vivre espying
honorable mentioned nonpareil oeuvre
that placidly rents
craving to disappear into bucolic landscape whence,
splashed upon canvass,
attempting to bat
presumed "FAKE" rumors aside as nonsense - fat
chance prevailed constituting:
deceitful, immoral, unfaithful sly kat
nocturnal antics, despite scathing attacks
(cut him down to size), niggardly praises spat
out for me, I maintain cult of personality (his)
setting Mac Book Pro wallpaper
with exemplary landscape, either authentic or copy cat.
We are the people of a new era, with patchwork hearts and longings in craters,
The generation of bold dreams sketched on shards of fallen stars.
Let us not forget, let us breathe in: the source of dizzying love springs from our depths,
From the secret garden of the self, where I and me merge in an embrace.
I shall not build a home in handshakes that wither flowers nearby,
I dare to cross over waters when my soul calls, barefoot on the soil of my resolutions,
Where those like me blossom, rising like walnuts in the midst of the desert - unfathomable, ever-growing.
Abandoned will be those masters of bitter whims, whose tangos crushed petals instead of igniting passions,
Those who sketch maps of woe on your beating heart, with anchors of injustice.
I shall be my keeper, the well-digger who delves deep until waters tear free from the dry sand.
I will speak in the voice of opening, with the heavy eyelids of sifted honesty,
I will listen with the blood, with the resonant cavity of my chest, a sacred space of resonance.
Trust in the arrow of the heart, that compass steering our journey through the dispersion of genuine kisses.
Remember, love is the expanse of the ocean that joins us in growth, not the steering of ships towards collision,
It's an ally, which, like the sun in the fight with the dawn, gives you the warmth needed to blossom in cold limestone.
Let's lay side by side the open books of our souls, page next to page of grand becoming.
And above all, over thought and feeling, I shall not leave to oblivion my case valued in divine gold,
I owe a love that rises beyond words, conditions, and chains,
A belief in my own purpose, a categorical refusal to accept anything less than stellar.
Believe in your own divinity, in the waves that beat at your eternity's gate, within you –
The house of love that knows no foreign altar, only its own, vigorous and freely sculpted.
Mr Ragged 2024
The unsteady slow winter moon,
trudges towards a freezing night;
riding on winds back,of shadows feint,
blowing out the days diminishing light,
It is !
A pencil sketch in many pleasant hues
sharp strapped; as a barbers razor,
lined out,in a distant vanish point,
cloudless,pained in a subdued flavour,
Oh yes!
Wood pigeons pair for the chill; it comes!
Clocks are sleepy now many unwound,
all along the water spilled fountain; the
sparrows thirst sip for a familiar sound.
Then !
The street seems to carpet up its cobbles,
It narrows; and tunnels into fast black,
bully boy cats prowl; and growl all clawed,
local dog snoozes, it snores on its bed of sack.
There on -
a lonely street corner cardboard damped,
barley lit; Is home once again to Mr ragged,
chatting in an alcohol tongue; a dialect to rats,
brittle veined, slow flowed, pave stone padded,
Soon !
Morning seeps in; spilling quite secondhand,
It slept long and sexed; under voyaged stars,
not fit for purpose! It breaks over a penciled hill,
49th street corner bustles, Mr ragged lies very still.
Some cry
Appeal to gain in simple grace:
Plant then a smile to wear each hurt,
Obvious the pain that moulds your face;
Ink script that styles such earthly dirt,
Glimpse in a sigh the weary world;
Now moments bring the codes that sketch,
Aim for grand highs that come to swirl;
Note ample flings in clash and patch,
Thrill senses wild that flood and scheme.
Be true to cheer with wit that puns,
Embrace the child that holds fond dream;
Indulge joy here where pain funds run,
Nurture sure poise that loves each day,
Grand succinct voice fills happy way.
Leon Enriquez
04 July 2016
Singapore
Being a devoted dilettante, once I fulfilled my dreams
to visit Art Museum on painting by renowned Artists
on fifteenth and sixteenth Century.
Exuberant mind was mesmerized on marvelous composition.
Emotion and Imagination entwined to perceive.
Some were so clear, so vivid, seemed photographs.
At the exit, supersonic cacophony hit me .
to see a half torn hand written letter
beside a broken guitar in frame,
as awkward anomaly amidst peerless paintings.
I apprehended, both must be very personal belongings
of any famous Artist ,
but couldn’t find any note.
Spellbound to realise that both exhibits
were Art Works performed
by some unknown Artist.
Half torn letter was just a tantalising sketch
Broken guitar was an unusual painting
with enchanting three dimensional effect.
I would be wearing a backpack and puppies would be hanging out of it.
Their tongues would be hanging out too, and they would be smiling.
Eight, nine, ten, eleven puppies. Because you cannot have too many.
My face would host an enormous smile.
I would proudly show the holes where teeth used to be.
To let you know that I am not vain, or socialized.
I would be carrying a sketch pad, a notebook, brushes and acrylic paints.
My clothing would be speckled and splashed with reds, greens and yellows.
My I-pads would be hidden. For I use both to cheat at word games.
I might not want people to know that.
My hair would not be brushed. I would be limping thanks to arthritis.
Dogs would be following me, guarding me, saying “this is my mama”.
I would have enough sandwiches in a bag to feed me and the pups.
M ade reports
C hildren abased
F ear ensued
Thirty years she was erased.' Three decades her truth, was obfuscated
Now comes the light.' I Am elated.'
She'd turned to officials and got berated
For these organs of duty? Are not run right
Those who guide direction often meet
At night.. A sketch of occult groups method and modes, too much corruption
Yet she shouldered that load.' I think of the
Broken.? Those shredded inside..Living
Dailey nightmares, no more tears to cry.'
I think of those who will never be found.?
Buried by un-consecrated beings on some
Un-concecrated ground, or burned alive on
Pyres.' Cut in bits..I hear the dawn chorus
And a stillness hits.' I think of the survivors who are now adults, how they wrestled with demons, and self-doubt all un-taught.'
And though broken and empty..Dragged themselves errect ' i think of Fiona Barnet here ( dear sister respect.!)
For they will not stop this..Now the broken fight on!!! Your
Threats fall empty the worsts been and gone. ' As the bruised and the battered and
Ignored for ( too long ) advance withought
Even courage.' We just want you gone.' No gift will aussuage now...No bribe will takesl us down..Cry freedom and action..Let the cursed take their wages..And let safety for
Children be the crown, the strength of humanity, from the weakest allways grows
Its nurture and kind guidance, that is key
Yet did we all.? Not really know.?
THE ART NUDE REALITY
Stained with the acrilic and emotive,
Pour us a drip of creativity,
Paint us colors of the rainbow
But still less appreciated
By the prioritizing inordinate ambitious
and flesh-conscious world.
Purchased with hard-earned money,
the brush, the pen and crayons.
Sketch us our hopes and dreams,
Paint us our now and future
And erase our rough past on canvases.
Even though your art states purpose,
style, size, color, character, and effect,
Our yawning yields lust, nude-addiction,
naked-body, physique & attention-seeking.
The world isn't on the same page with you;
Flip yours while we swipe ours
after our eyes has been well fed.
What's the fuss about this whole weird thing
associated with being unclothed?
Stripped images gets our muscles ripped up
as if we don't strip down for complete naked shower.
Why spend so much time idolising bodies,
divestment of draped attire?
Why's fragility hidden behind pointless social constructions
about what sells and drives society crazy,
about these lack of raiment vogues
conniving with carnal voices in our heads?
Why so much tempting and complete exhibitions
meant to be the private trek of someone else,
now openly played out in public square,
without remorse, except to honor certitude.
Social media empowers those who flaunt physique
imbued by deity, by desperate willingness to express,
the expression of beauty's form.
We term blessing by the display of skin's gamut.
So then I inquire of you: who is blessed?
The artist or the nudist???
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© 5th November, 2021