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.
Upon a winter’s outing I
a lovely cottage did espy;
of lovely blues with snow atop.
How I would love to have stopped,
just for a chat with merry folk,
whose home of happiness bespoke.
Within my car, I sat and sketched,
this lovely winter blissfulness.
On tree branch, sat a bird, a’twitter;
he was cold but, clearly not bitter.
Blue spruces dotted white landscape,
red maples reveal buds, new-birthed.
Some cattails waved behind a hedge,
the half-scraped sidewalk invited guests,
as an old red fox, behind house lurked.
but I thought better of my artwork.
So I sketched all that I could,
finishing as twilight lowered its hood.
As moon peeped up from among the clouds,
I perused my sketch, head bowed;
A tap upon the window I heard.
Imagine the surprise that occurred
when owner of that lovely place,
invited me in for hot tea and cakes!
You Select Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
1-20-2023
A for Arrival of a new born
B for Beginning of parent child affection
C for Caring and nurturing of a future citizen
D for Developing a healthy mind and soul
E for Education a must as the elixir of wise life
F For Foundation of strong character for future stability
G for Guidance to the path of devout yet wordly life
H for Honour -a sense to be instilled and pursued
I for Ideals and intelligence to be awakened and
polished
J for Judgement- and instinct to follow the right
conscience
K for Knowledge to be gained as best treasure for self
L for Love-the immortal feeling to be given and won
till death
M for Motherhood-the universal source of life and
inspiration to be
treasured
N for Noble deeds to be executed than just preached
O for Organization -a chart to be sketched out for
proper living at every stage
P for Patience -the most wanted virtue for peace and
sanity
Q for Quality to be cultivated for wise and prosperous
living
R for Reality of self to be accepted with both positive
and lacking abilities
S for Silence -a state adopted frequently to refresh the
soul
T for Teacher- the essential vital engine to lead your
mind and character on proper track
U for Understanding -a talent needed to be successful
in community life
W for Wisdom-a potion for healthy and boisterous
mind and soul
X for XL-to excel in every talent of self and groom
every instant to achieve excellence.
Y for Youth not to be wasted but utilized as stepping
stone for future accomplishments
Z for Zenith of character, soul, heart and mind leading
to the final destination- HEAVEN……
At the edge of the sunburst horizon
sketched by the tinge of celestial hue
on your verdant meadow aglow
I imagine I’m a sparkling dew.
In the space of the seamless void
the canvas of azure gets unfurled
in your enticing sky enveloping
I imagine I’m a soaring free bird.
On the bank of the crystal stream
cradled in the reclined terrace high
in your luring rose garden abloom
I imagine I’m a fluttering butterfly.
Under the star-crowned amorous sky
you come to me through moonbeam blue
I imagine I’m an entranced poet lured
to write fervent lyric of love for you.
August 21, 2019
In the depths of the sea lie hidden secrets,
Untold stories, where my mind reigns,
There, where stars compete in heights,
I seek answers, lost in abysses and lights.
Stop, traveler, from the desperate search,
No longer chase mysteries with a trembling heart,
No longer count the days until the earth stops,
For the truth you seek is found within yourself.
There are secrets flowing through my veins,
Untold stories, where my thoughts sift,
Silent screams you have never heard,
I wear a mask you never learned.
I am not a monster, nor a villain,
Just a man broken within,
Sometimes, to live a little longer,
I take refuge in the persona you think you know.
What you try to write will never be sketched,
For society does not heed the cry of the marginalized.
You think you sculpt like the Greeks,
But when the art is the artist,
They will lift their sharpest weapon and scrape away the wonders,
They will reshape your words to fit their maneuvers,
And you will remain, searching, searching, in an endless longing.
Stop, traveler, look within yourself,
There lie the divine answers,
In the depths of the sea and the heights of the stars,
Only the shadows of your eternal soul are reflected.
Peace seems like a once-written myth, now blurred from sight,
like wrathful willows floating along sullen streams.
There, stars linger to trace lost love in twilight’s grace,
amidst the bitter cold wind roaring through the night.
But is a black rose not a rose if kissed with warmth?
When petals wilt, reignite kismet flames of light.
We are the poets of a crisp dawn sketched in gold.
Together, we erase veiled wrongs with ink so bright.
For hope can weave fragments of faith from lunar dreams;
love lost in twilight’s grace, there stars linger to trace~
verses to calm sinister skies of hate and plight.
I have mirrored the whole of my life
On this mercurial surface
I have painted myself on this glossy canvas
My pen has bled words in red
You can look straight into me
As you see my reflection on a mirror
I have sketched me as I am
Honest and truthful,
Sans distortion or contortion
I don’t want to be a sham
Here have I laid bare my life
Fraught with aches, dotted with smiles
My longings and my heart aches
My expectations, my disappointments
My triumphs, my defeats
My search through every nook n’ cranny for success
My plunge into the nadir of despair on defeat
My moments of escalating joy
My dark hours of crippling distress
Everything I wanted to be
Everything I failed to be
Please have a peek into my porous heart
Assess this candid chronicle of my life
And tell me if my soul is black or white
Sometimes I feel I am a life boat without oars
Floating aimless hither and tither
But I see light houses of joy in between
To pilot my way over shoals and breakers!
May. 5.2022
Placed Third
In the Mirror of Life Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Anoucheka Gangabissoon
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!
"Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more, in the leafless root there is no less" - Ralph Waldo Emerson
I'm a sunflower,
dipped in honey of
bittersweet bronze smiles,
admiring its soulmate
strolling around the sun,
in sombre shine of
eclipsed dawn, whilst
these faes lure poisoned
pollens with flaming
ruby red ocean foams,
And I see a peculiar
patchwork on knitted
canopies, which are
sprouting clayey hearts
out of crimson crooned
willow branches.
Crumbling to pixies,
falling lifeless like fragile
leaflets in autumnal carols,
I believe, twin flame
telepathy is a souvenir
of roses and thorns,
which emerges as wanton
wildfire on the brim of
ocean's moon-song
in mellifluous mystery,
outlining turmoil in
turquoise land of trolls.
For, magnetised feathers
on matte lips always get
soaked in ashey sighs
of regret, whenever
bewitching conspiracy
of his amethyst eyes,
befalls in dialects of
forest's echoes and the
brittle skin of basilisk
slithers with a deadly gaze
upon my mulberry heart.
Chasing seasonal winds,
I became the fading mist
that succumbs to the
sheath of amber rays,
infusing in my lungs,
and suffocating my love for life;
Amidst these broken skies,
you left shadows of
pencil-sketched debris,
that float like wisps
of faulty daffodils,
distorting my dreams
and twisting thy truths,
in hellfire horizon that
sets our graves apart,
beyond million miles of
satanic soliloquies.
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.
Rosebuds draft in scarlet, crimson, or maroon,
dreams to capture the viewer's point of view,
as its blossom's sheath their basis to its prune,
magnificent achievers rise in rows queue,
as the loss of age cast their field of thorn strewn,
shadows the facades to pipe a distinct tune,
shear away those sharp pokey points of danger,
and frail petals to amend its life-changer.
Amendments trail the housed maxed of tabletops,
of revived rosebuds claim a home as their own,
a treasured wealth trades with the town's floral shops,
then set at one's front wicket by an unknown,
or adorn tombstones as floral wreaths that props,
and crowned on a princess who sits on her throne,
a taxing burden to detain the death masque,
not tiny but thornless as Bonsai craft's task.
The Pyramid steps like the Baguio steppes,
where Filipinos view as their time-out spot,
the other is ancient for tourists who peps,
while an isle serves the rosebuds to sprout and squat,
nature confides stemmed thornless maroon by reps,
students check articles of the course they plot,
as a new breed of rosebuds shelved a terrace,
elegance embrace the solitaire heiress.
Loosely sketched parcels that the rosebud dwells in,
fresh sod fertile and well-sopped sealed neath the sun,
from its current strain, since its birth in Eden,
inspire blossoming with faint buzzes outdone,
coy rumors, green greener, red redder, seeds in,
East rises, and West sets, how the rosebud won,
Bonsai is an ancient craft not deemed as new,
man named rosebuds since their virgin birth, it grew.
Spring sprung sprouts as their healthy roots hug the ground,
a wealth of newborns reach for the warmth of skies,
its outstretched stem hardens merely being gowned,
a promised promenade paramount to rise,
by patrons, the sun, moon, and earth make their round,
a glowing shape as a rosebud is its prize,
the fields are graced with rosebuds color-filled rows,
as they grow in opened splendor till it snows.
Botanical Society best: Sowers.
ranked by their breeds and regions where they were raised,
down to idyllic truths, forthcoming growers,
who take pleasure in their leisure being phased,
where growth is best tended as their height lowers,
promised its dowery by virtuous praised,
reach prosperous glory in you or outpours,
rain or shine achievers within or outdoors.