Long Sketches Poems
Long Sketches Poems. Below are the most popular long Sketches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sketches poems by poem length and keyword.
the verge of blossoms,
a spumoni serenade ~
faerie dreamboats by the lake.
the daylight fusion of hues
dallying with love ~
mirror fancy
~ introvert & extrovert ~
her wings wrapped ‘round a rosebud.
his heartstrings skim lake’s surface.
Monet’s berry-vanilla...
...silver dollars swim about.
bright butterflies in stomach…
their tiny eyes magnetized.
~ the north and south pole ~
a love at first flight ~
his wings shy, hers so pretty.
she gently draws him
from his water cave.
he sketches lines on her palm ~
a silent poem.
~ dew drops on lips so winsome ~
12/28/2020
Listen to the night reciting heavenly music
When purple sky brightens with angelic spirits
Mesmerized by the twilight's fabulous glory
As the shining stars swing to celestial lyrics
Streets are beaming in cherubic nightfall
Stage has been set for the curtain call
Romance is dancing in a rhythmic ball
Happiness is reigning over one and all
Watch the sun's orange glow deep in the river
As clouds block the view of a lone photographer
When wild horses frolic in open air theater
Half-moon sketches arc to announce its arrival
People are singing a melodious song
Signs of melancholy have long gone
Echo of joy reverberates the town
For angels have joined to sing-along
See emerald green dipping in reflective ocean
As the moonlight shines upon supernal passion
When the milky-way stirs up ardent emotions
Watch the lighthouse rise-up to greet horizon
No one wants to say goodbye tonight
For revelers see the seraphic bright light
As festive images dominate every sight
Blessed by the presence of saintly might
Hear heavenly night singing hymns of compassion
As constellation bursts with flashes of excitement
And the town meditates in ethereal devotion
When cadence of the Holy echoes veneration
December 12, 2017
Placed 1st: Strand Pick 4 Contest by Brian Strand
Heavenly night
Sponsor: Vermillion Scythe
Placed 7th
The soul has to courageously experience all things,
taking steps in new direction by adjusting the wings.
Genuine sincerity regardless of fancy and pleasure,
destinations journey to accumulate embrasure.
Silence serves as lock of the excitable,
shielding the wisdom as veil before versed delightable.
The trades of life adjust in time to advance,
mastering oneself to vices enhanced.
Passing through and rise to conquer,
progress loving virtues anchor.
Believing fuel and inspired light,
struggling self as consuming flame of right.
Compassion the smoking glow of faith,
flames that illuminates the path of right.
The journey of freedom leads to captivity,
mountain pass of discipline towards liberty.
Translation become reincarnation,
the fine line of interpretation.
Subjecting the ideal as true realization,
the soul as part of love becomes glorification.
Chicago, Illinois was his birthplace.
He was a man of the white race.
A move to a small midwestern town,
And an idea for a famous street formed in his crown.
In school, he realized he loved to draw,
Beautiful drawings with crayons his teacher saw.
Taking photographs became the norm,
And ideas for cartoons began to form.
As a young adult, he lived in Kansas City.
His animated films were quite witty.
He made laugh-o-gram sketches,
That were met with great successes!
He moved to California for a fresh start.
Creating cartoon characters became his heart.
Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck, and Goofy too,
Fairy tales, animated movies, and clothes to name a few.
But his work was not done.
He built a theme park so people could have fun!
Disneyland because his creation,
He left a legacy for our nation.
a female
Byron
of
love&passion
in
a woman's voice
taking refuge
in
imagination
a
poetic personna
fallen yet
feted
feated on the
lips
fragments
& sketches
a song
of a siren
devotee of hope
&beauty
improvisation
rose wreaths
&dewy
petals
enigmatic
tragic
romantic
clandestine
liasons
of a poetic
diva's doings
in racy&
obscure
hints
ambiguity
masquerades
of fantasies
neglected
long forgotten
visionary,once
now
asleep
forever
According to a 1975 article published in Winnipeg Press, those 3 stones, found in Eastern Townships of Quebec, serve as evidence that Phoenicians embarked on a treacherous sail across the Atlantic, reaching North America well over 2,500 years ago.
***
He wore a purple dyed robe and bantered softly with the sailors
as they navigated by the light of the stars
with cases of wood and glass tucked away at the base of the boat
including a thousand biblions from the City of Byblos;
The papyrus sheets filled with hurried sketches and mad scribbles
sat on his wood desk. He was on his way to Canada, what could stop him now
Six Mysterious Stone Orbs appeared in the sky overnight
at first appeared that they were just ornaments
But then the sun, fog and rain set in as he touched each stone
The knobbly Orbs were massaged and rolled,
it appeared these stone orbs had magical properties
One was made of sodalite, one of marble,
the other four had strange substance and texture;
It was an eye-opening journey through history and culture
that almost didn't happen, if it weren't for the timely effect
of one Turquenite Blue Howlite Gemstone Orb that blazed
sending Mysterious Gurdian signals to the Galaxy above;
The mast began to shake with its isignia of Orb and Sceptre
as if to say, hang on I will transport you in time,
as a large massive portal appeared he went through.
He made it to Canada, who knew ?
The artist looks at the meadow,
He remembers details when all others…
Forget.
Uniquely transformed…
By the sites, he has seen, forever.
Upon arrival at his home,
The soldier gathers strength.
Supported!
The studio is open,
waiting for the gladiator,
to do battle with canvas…,
New breath to stone,
Images… set free…
Re-born.
Now,
No longer waiting…
Impatient.
Whiteboards, White paper,
Sketches of black and color…
Racism?
Nay,
Expressions of non-compliance
to the ideas of others!
“Art”.
“Off with their heads…”
The queen dou’th call,
I do not like what you draw!
The green is wrong,
All out of place,
The song is loud,
heard clear in space.
The soul behind the vision,
of something, barely seen,
Shared with empty “toons”
from the newest meme.
This is basic and beyond just “beautiful”.
All men should gather, take heed and see.
Remember.
I used to write like
Jack Kerouac.
Words
crumbling down
paper.
Stark thoughts
marked
by dots
and dashes.
Flashes of schoolyard brilliance
The hill I would
climb over
to be
someone different.
I never saw life
through a dot.
LSD.
My father
was on mushrooms,
when he and my mother
created me.
Psychedelic sperm
meets
bitter weed
infested ovum.
BANGED
into existence.
Transient spirit
sloughing off
afterbirth long
after I hit
the cold.
I have chased
paper
ever since.
Dipping my bones
in ink.
To paint a
masterpiece
of you.
Broken, homeless, loveless,
privileged, safe, warm,
sheltered, shattered
reconstructed.
All in a backdrop
of perfection.
An abundant Earth
housing an
ungrateful patient.
Most of us,
doctored
unconscious
sedated.
Waiting for
something
to wake us
up.
My own words
often
broken and
falling off.
Leaving only
snapshots.
I get ties and
sketches
along the
road.
I would bargain
my dreams
for pious acceptance
and my revelations
for wicked
indulgent
self
flagellation.
I have been
bound to my
vision
of exclusion
behind an
iron fence of
history.
Trapped
in pages.
Tapped and
wasted.
I used to write
as if I didn't
I would die.
On my knees
shattered
under
that perfect
silent sky.
Head bowed
shoulders cowed
frail and pasty.
Screaming
raging
breaking pages
with my pen.
Attempting to bring
black and white
to color.
Now I write,
because
I die.
A thousand times
with you.
Its glorious!
Over your
unfinished portraits.
Your shortcuts
your detours
your ache
your lust,
and your mindless
wandering.
Beautiful
and championed.
I pray to make
my prose like
a Sistine Chapel
after all,
you deserve
it!
Only to fall
very far from
grace.
At the
Inadequacy
I have
at coloring
your face.
I used to write
like Jack Kerouac,
jotting a shot
of you
in between
heaven.
But I figured out
that I would
rather capture
my own
splinter.
And be satisfied with
a sliver of you,
than die like him
at forty-seven.
Our drive started out like any typical summer trip into Philadelphia. Both buses rolling down the highway loaded with screaming teens, eager to reach their destination in a hurry. Rush-hour traffic was heavy, the white lines hidden beneath watery mirages that lifted only briefly beneath underpasses. The skyscrapers were barely visible through the thick haze of summer's heat. The skyline had the appearance of night and day clashing off in the distance. You could smell the rain approaching.
along city streets
slight breeze carries aroma
food and wet pavement
Once the children were safely inside, the buses continued to 30th street station, the only place the city allows buses to park free. The windows were all still down and the roof hatches open as the skyline grew darker. A light show was off in the distance and approaching quickly. The homeless people were now entering the train station in hopes to stay dry and earn a meal or some quick cash.
almost homeless
young girl wears a sign
on the corner
Inside the train station a young family sits on a bench awaiting the arrival of a family member. The benches line the hallway with vendors tucked in the center isle. We sit across from the young family, facing them as an elderly gentleman approaches them. In his arms he carries a sketchpad and a piece of charcoal. The little boy, probably about 10 years old, has grown tired of sitting by now, and his teenage sitters seem agitated by his silly games, the mother in frustration hands him money for a sketch.
with quick hands
he carefully sketches
to perfection
The oldest sister now amazed asks for her's as well. The man sketches her picture to a beautiful black and white replica. The mother refuses to spend another dime and sends him away without paying. Behind us sits another elderly man. He seems to be carrying on a very intelligent conversation with himself. This amazes the children for their final hour and fills them with much knowledge as they slide in to listen.
an old man speaks
as he looks to his right
just his cane sits
The last train has now entered the station and the crowds of people are disappearing outside. The storm has now passed and the sky left a permanent black with the coming of night. We headed outside to the buses to begun our return trip home.
on the street
two yellow buses
filled with rain
1.
Narcissus
There's a lot of room left in your head yet, my brother
There probably always will be.
Yours the realm of sliderule order
The self-denial of the man who believes in Facts.
Your feet planted firmly on the Earth
While your head inclines to the stars.
You could well serve as God's measurements taker.
Your home is the cloister,
The sound of sandal upon stone
Will usher you in and usher you out
As you pass through the halls and cells
Of your ruthlessly well managed life.
The quiet warmth of candlelight
Has always shone in your eyes.
How much I admire your strength and discipline,
Yet how much the more do I pity you,
O Master of the Mind!
2.
Goldmund
O what a lucky ladies' man you've been,
My darling, handsome little Goldmouth!
Kissed them all and not a one cried
When you left them.
There was too much of your mother in you for that.
The libertine's life was the road you followed,
Running ahead of wilting youth.
You saw the plague and its silent horrors
And killed two men yourself,
Got a taste of the gallows,
Yet lived to tell it all.
You lived much, suffered much,
Burnished your soul to its final brightness.
When you fell and broke your ribs
To breathe your last in icy waters,
Alone beneath that dark, unpitying Winter's sky,
Mother called you back.