Long Sketched Poems
Long Sketched Poems. Below are the most popular long Sketched by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sketched poems by poem length and keyword.
Silently, he stood on the edge of a mirrored pool
For breakfast, he'd have to do a bit of wading
The egret's feathered image I wanted to capture
among wild cattails at this early morning hour.
He seemed to sense that I was watching him.
Stilted legs twitched, poised to take flight
but I was still as overhead, clouds hovered...
whiter yet, than this egret of the morning.
His regal head suddenly turned my way
but I dared not move, not to frighten him away.
His long, graceful neck turned from side to side,
as he tried to figure out if I was something to fear.
He took a stride towards me and then stopped.
A ripple on the pool caused him to change direction.
Breakfast was being served and so, he ate his fill.
I quickly sketched what I knew I'd have to paint.
Scars, like lace etchings, a pattern
Rippling indentations against porcelain skin,
What is that? I ask her, never quite
So humble as my heart when she pulls her arm
Away, like a secret not ready to be opened,
An ache not quite ready to be known
By anyone who might criticize or judge,
Anyone who might see the decorative design,
The shape of clever lines, so foolishly sketched,
Carved into delicate flesh with who could know…
Whatever tools she must have used, a knife –
Most likely a knife, yet it could have been something
Smoother, like a razor blade… sharp and willing
Against the tenderest flesh, the feeling bringing
Release from a mind, unbending – a mind, pleading
For the relief.
The act of cutting bringing respite from the pain,
The heartaches with their own stealthy blades,
Cutting into the soft flesh of a heart, like stilettos
Puncture the black earth, leaving hasty wounds,
The bleeding earth never promises to settle, healing
From the rupture the way weeping flesh, bleeds
As she blinks back the tears…
Seeing only the liberation, the freedom that comes
From slicing through the surface of her skin,
Exposing the inner demons that breathe easier
When the wound has exposed her anguish,
Leaving marks for the world to see, indications
For you and me – inscriptions beckoning, whispering
Into the silent night, erasing the throbbing of emotions,
Washing away the sensitivity with the subtle hint
Pain bleeding out its answers through the gash,
A laceration, filled with feelings that won’t last –
Feelings who sing of darkness and doubt,
Feelings who are mysteries of the fragile heart,
The heart who will reconcile, one day it will mend
only…
Will it still feel? Will this cutter ever genuinely heal?
Grace answers this with a resolve that feels like
Yes, etched into her flesh… Yes, God can reconcile
The only scars written on her flesh as her heart
Is returned to its best… with Him beside her,
There is the promise that she’ll be a survivor!
I am the pause in a planet’s breath,
a glitch in the code between birth and death.
I am the whisper in fungal lace,
routing news through forest space.
I’m tectonic gossip, slow and deep,
a quarrel continents keep in sleep.
I am the thought a comet had—
just once, before it went full mad.
I’m birdpath memory, sky-sketched lines,
migration’s rumour through tangled spines.
I’m the echo inside an ancient bone
that never quite learned how to moan.
I’m data lost in glacier code,
truth cached along a mammoth road.
I am not God. I am not Man.
I’m what existed before a plan.
I am what silence tries to say
before it backs itself away.
I am the itch beneath your name—
the part of you you cannot tame.
my five year old coloured a picture of spring,
on a Sunday morning with her new Crayon,
our big oak tree stood out with its wooden swing,
blue sky and green lawns featured in her icon,
daffodils along eastern side of building,
a few songbirds in white and red on the lawn,
to show off colours she put in a rainbow,
had both ends touching lawn, was sketched in so low!
She held it up for us to see and compare,
with that of nature’s spring as best as we can,
her grandma looked at it, an astonished stare,
“looks a photograph, am already your fan!”
happy grandpa too, walked up from his chair,
he squinted his eyes and said “ agree with nan”
approbations made her a Rembrandt reborn,
in season of happiness, glorious morn!
Premium contest winner (5)
Spring poetry contest
Regina McIntosh
written 17/02/2021
11syllables each line
rhymes checked at rhymezone.com
I pick a crumpled page,
from a basket of memories,
tucked in the corner of my old house,
they remind me of my bygone years,
sketched in crayons and rainbow colours!
a purple river with a yellow boat,
a green duck and a red rose,
stick like figures of mum and dad,
with me and sister in gleeful pose!
a park bench where we all sat,
singing along with tuneful carols,
wearing warm woolies that mother knit,
basking in the glow called family love!
many such papers I did pick,
uncurled them to get a good peek,
memories lost to time’s wither,
smudged in colours but fresh in mind!
snow white evenings and little chats,
playful quarrels and fancy dress!
school friends and all my teachers,
and kind Miss Evers who served us food!
my furrowed brow and wizened face,
reflect on those glorious days,
memories saved is all I have,
but folks I lost, for them I crave!
‘Story from your Childhood’ contest
Written 10/December/ 2020
L Milton Hankins sponsored
Free verse
You carry the thread of red sentiment, a cord bleeding.
Each Volta you make is measured by its expanse,
and the walls elicit remembrance of the hurt,
reflecting your possessed pastel face.
This passage is not a labyrinth of pebbles,
but one of piercing rumors and cob-webbed roots,
and every step you take, you are drawn in place.
The features you embrace are impotent here,
sketched with ancient haunts and a legend of what was spoken for.
It is a point, not a principle.
The only winning way to move is not ahead, but to fall,
to the heart of the Minotaur that plagues your caverns,
the one you posit and feed with resentful meals.
Pardon is not the killing of the beast,
but the loosening of the blood.
It is the preference to look away from the features,
to feel the phantom weight lift from your embodiment.
It is the deed of offering that red cord an absolute, genteel tug,
not to drag them back, but to appoint yourself free.
And then, in the quiet of the freed realm,
you can listen to the fiction of a novel path.
Not a way alfresco, but a way through adagio,
where the walls dissolve into a horizon of spectral light,
and the labyrinth itself becomes a garden grown with gratuity, of staying alive,
for that is the only way out of the labyrinth of suffering, is to forgive.
uphill climb,
rigorously relentless
with ambling ambitions
and schematic stratagem,
blueprinted blatantly
on the blank
parchment of marooned mind,
sketched skillfully
with chameleon color shift,
transiently transfixed.
gripping gravity
of transcendental time
of the loaded past
pulls back incessantly
the strings of present,
fastening in retrospect
the incoherent network
of faltering footsteps
at the refurbished root
of existential essence.
intent inertia
of living force
creates proactive
causal momentum
of tumultuous time configured,
permeates the perception
of the fourth dimension.
construed continuum
of elusive eternity
strives to unveil ineffectually
the shrouded acuity
at the summit of actuality,
emotionally evasive,
abortive climb connotes
futile foray
to somewhere intangible.
The first visible ray of sunshine
Is snatched from the unyielding sky
Murky waves lurking in a single line
Turns the tide in a significant way.
Hymns are sung to the melody of water
Bedlam with elapsed goals and dreams
The cloak is the tackle of rhyme matter
Repeatedly downrush freely at the seams.
The cliff is painted by the morning light
Also, the stones there are truly talkative
A calamity that was merely sketched right
For ancestor's bones, there's no alternative.
Word conflicts hump my tongue twitch
So I'll never be able to satisfy my hunger
Notably, when one has multiple switches
Blowback with a clap of fury and thunder.
The pen in my grip has me feel like a judge
with no verse left to the whims of chance
If I'm the blaze, no one can hold a grudge
Indeed, I was conceived for a floor dance.
Written: April 28, 2023
A reflection of the coloured pencil drawn sky
skates on the glass smooth surface below it.
While a rebellious group of shades take their positions
on a glorious stage to express themselves artistically and
I...
i think of you
Wisps of clouds shaped like a palm leaf
fan the winds that stoke the fire
of a randomly sketched sunset.
I...
i think of you
The cool of an ocean breeze
travels the shadows of this low lit evening.
Caresses my skin like the essence of romance.
Enthralled by the allure of a candle lit sky,
I...
i think of you...
Our French Bakery early mornings.
Café au lait and croissants.
Our freesia soaked baths.
Your mink soft body.
Its milk and honey scent.
As I fall off
the edge of the world,
I...
i think of you.
March 19 2015
Armand
We nodded first a truth aligned
A simple point we both could claim
I tried to show another mind
How others feel what fuels their flame
Their smile went cold their eyes grew hard
I’ll shut you up they spat bemocked
My words were careful soft unmarred
But hit a wall of passion locked
I sketched their steps their fears their view
A world beyond the frame we share
Yet fury drowned the insight through
A narrow gaze too sharp to care
I will not judge the spark that burned
For friendship lives beyond the fight
But still a deep divide is learned
In how we hear and what feels right
Agreement breathed but barely stirred
The lesson plain yet edged with pain
Some hearts are deaf to another word
Some minds will close though eyes remain
Only through such darkened skies
Can calmer truth and grace be reached
For now let the storm between us rise
It’s thunder spent in pursuit of peace