Long Spacing Poems
Long Spacing Poems. Below are the most popular long Spacing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spacing poems by poem length and keyword.
-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet-
Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause
The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance,
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest,
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein
You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal,
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."
I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter,
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer
Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light,
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes,
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.
If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause
by;PD
I do it for fun
Abdullah was a student in my school.
He wanted to learn English very well.
The school had home stay programs. At that time,
I sometimes took in students. I’d had two
before him, and they had not worked out great.
Abdullah, though, was helpful and polite.
I’m sure, like other Muslims at the school,
he practiced his religion but was not
a zealot! He would smoke outside and not
complain about my rules. He fit right in!
How pleasant this young man’s demeanor was!
Alone in this big country, he had set
a goal to get into a college soon.
Though only Level One at English school,
his comprehension of the language grew!
I still recall the sweet way he would ask
to help me wash the dishes or to cook.
I showed him how to make a pizza dough.
We baked some chocolate cookies once and were
like old friends in the kitchen as we laughed!
But mostly I recall the drives to school
and chatting with Abdullah, passing time.
I wish I had him on my Facebook page.
No matter where he ended up, I know
he’s doing well and brightening more lives.
July 3, 2017
(Thanks to my friend James Horn who helped me with problems I had spacing on a different computer)
FICTIONAL POEM FOR CONTEST
I sailed through my pregnancy without a problem
We’d painted the nursery in pale blue
I was having
A little boy
I'd stroke my swollen belly every time he kicked
we joked he'd be a great football player
tragically he’d never kick a ball
no one knows why he stopped moving on my due date
The doctors could not save my child
Why was my baby born sleeping?
My precious son
You never cried
F I C T I O N P O E M W R I T T E N F O R
n/a in Fragmented Verse Poetry Contest
(n/a because the line spacing was incorrect for the form - now amended)
02/15/21
In the stillness of dawn, a primal question awakens,
A whisper that dances, a quest that never dampens.
On the blank parchment with lines, I lay my thoughts bare,
Each stroke of the pen, a truth I must share.
You define your font, size, and spacing that is life,
In the chaos of letters, I seek to find light.
In a sense, we are kin—words on paper entwined,
More woven than we know, in the fabric of time.
Shelter in syllables, where our stories reside,
Reaching for heights, aspirations as wide.
Like the ants in their labor, I’ll learn and I’ll grow,
Building bridges through trials, in the ebb and the flow.
Boys and girls, we gather, each voice a bright thread,
Mothers and fathers guide us, where hopes gently tread.
In the tapestry of society, we weave our tales,
Finding strength in our numbers, as each heartbeat prevails.
So why am I, a question that bends and expands?
In the ink of existence, I craft with my hands.
Through the lines of my journey, I’ll seek and I’ll find,
In the vastness of being, the answers unbind.
Watching the Debaters
Addendum 2 – The Varsity
By Franklin Price
8/7/2015
This round a media fiasco
For me to write in verse
Presentation of the top ten
Was much different than the first
As always the moderators
Slanted the show their way
Immediately quite evident
That they had come to play
The stating of the questions
And to whom they were addressed
A water boarding process
But only few confessed
Candidates mostly held their own
Whether liking it or not
I think they showed us who they were
And what it is they've got
If they got together
Yes that's all the seventeen
Without the help of media
To see which way to lean
And honestly discussed
What this country really needs
Without all of the TV talk
And the hyber spacing feeds
Would find it's not about them
Mirrored fairest in the land
It's about this country's people
The real players in the band
So this is my opinion
There was not a victor's fist to pump
Only one who looked quite foolish
And that was Mister Trump
spacing out I never did
Now I feel like a kid
Daydreaming with thoughts of pleasure
Since a gift of hidden treasure
Glanced into my lonely eyes
Now no matter how I try
My mind always goes back to you
And I do not have a clue
How I ever lived before
Now my hearts begging for more
Longing for a simple touch
Never have I felt so much
Joy building up way inside
Forgetting all the tears I've cried
Hurt and sorrow fading fast
You are helping me get past
Torture I have always known
From loves that have never grown
Into anything except
Surging pain which slowly crept
Its way into every inch
Of a heart that's squeezed and pinched
With no relief anywhere
Betting no love--only fear
And rejection would be mine
Never knowing love so kind
Eventually could come my way
Here until my dying day
A Flock of Startled Birds
He had sat for an hour on a long, low, flat rock,
He had checked himself over from bald patch to sock.
His leather shoes burnished to a mirror-like shine,
Tie ironed flat – a perfect straight line.
Trouser legs spotless, each one like a razor
Creases removed from a freshly-pressed blazer.
Beside him his beret, shaped, shaven and fitted.
Medals on chest at the spacing permitted.
A lifetime of honour, in metal and ribbon,
Scant recompense for the services given.
On the rock, gleaming black in the late evening sun
A Webley revolver – his Grandfather’s gun.
Then drawing himself up and heaving a sigh
He stood and was conscious of time slipping by
The sun was still shining but the far hills were dim
He knew that there wasn’t much time left to him.
No friends, no family, no future but pain
Nothing but memories of comrades, all slain.
The only survivor, he felt like a thief,
His mind filled with torment, dishonour and grief.
A lifetime of desperately trying to mourn
Till the shame and remorse were too much to be borne.
He put on his beret, threw up a salute.
A pang of fear stabbed, but he stood resolute.
With one hand in pocket he searched till he found;
Then picked up the revolver and chambered a round.
Near the rock, at his feet, lay a bottomless cave
Unmarked, uncorrupted, an ideal grave.
He stepped to the edge, raised the gun to his brow
“We all have our time,” he thought, “my time is now.”
As he tightened his finger, a calmness descended
In a moment the anguish and pain would be ended.
It was all he could do to defeat the despair.
Then a small flock of startled birds took to the air.
In The Waiting Womb Thereof
(Apropos Of Poetic Onement)
Thanks for being here with me
in the waiting time of the birthing
flow from the poetic womb thereof:
We mind-pregnant poets have all experienced
that spacing time reality of which poets must be
in waiting for the waiting poetic womb to give birth:-
At times, we’re forced to realize that we, too, must be,
and become as was Shara, waiting God’s timing of poetic
pregnancy and mental water breaking delivery of the crying word:-
In doing so, we sometimes just stand while waiting on the word;
or walk around or just sit, while waiting on the word’s water to break;
and sometimes, we just lay down, and feel it pushing to freely break out:-
My fellow poets, be not in poetic dismay; rather, be in the awareness
that in the waiting, we are where we are, as yesterday was where
we were so that tomorrow will be where we are willed to deliver:-
Know that the graceful beauty
of our cisterned mind’s womb is in
the guided wisdom that is poured out.
As in nature, so it is with us: poetic words are not born ripe,
and ready, but like all else, they are born to become so in their
own time, and when their water breaks, nothing can abort the flow:-
Thanks, I’ll soon be there with you,
and the birthing of the echoing words
from the waiting womb of yours thereof:-
placing and spacing
my wooden mannequins
to visualize two though at this
point not sexualized
these are just for the pose
the position of a her and a him
all the joints move
moving to any possabilaties
even stretching it to
create perhaps not
actual real to life kind
of body bending movements
so i have two one
being me and one being
you (disclaimer it could be
anyone) inject
or interject your
self to be a figure
but i'm posing
figures for a scene
that would mean you
need to as
the sitting
figure bent all
but almost
past your lower
back so that it seems
as if you've been
struck but to early to
tell by who knows what
in this take
Jackie stay in
your seat and don't
dive back because
your husband's head
went backwards that
makes it
seem you
should be
looking
forward
because
he looked
forward to
a country
that...
echoes
echoes
Form:
Seems my handwriting will never improve,
Yearlong efforts, letters still oblong.
Not quite right, but we pretend it’s not all bad,
I fixate on each line, a prerequisite approach.
So next and then that line and its spacing, proper
striving for excellence, sentence, cursed to find
some semblance, a distant echo. Earshot.
Eardrum. POP!
Outward rang disdain, my reality indifferent,
Marks resembling a bell curve in chicken sketch,
It distorts my outlook, tarnishes self-image.
I try with practice sheets laid out,
Only to be reminded of the horrors I scrawl within.
Devastating, humiliating,
Suppressing nausea,
Sick of this, hating my own thoughts,
Ruining half-decent poems or ideas.
Regardless of merit or talent shown,
sent into the fire.
scribe on restroom walls
its contrived and
makes me writhe.
I discard writing tools,
My creative well runs dry, deceased,
Gone, past tense, already done in.
Progress slower than a snail,
with kidney failures
Skull soon exposed.
I’ll tear at my scalp,
Writing used to be fun.
You'll say, 'shut my trap'.
The torment I hold towards
every pen, pencil, or marker on any shelf.
Chasing after graphite,
specific utensils, lead grade, ink, acrylic,
I want them gone, obliterated,
Every trace, every hint.
EXTINGUISHED EVERY PEICE OF
. . .
Sorry, I get carried away...
This heretic! The disappointment,
Frail and brittle behind every attempt.
All result in zero, void, null, nil.
Here I sit, head in hands,
My task forever incomplete,
More setbacks, my drive
and desire to compete.
Now I understand why progress is elusive, unseen.
Hard-scoped when each step shown seems hopeless
rooted in the waste of regression.
I would be remiss if my speech lacked spirit.
Results: Inconclusive
Next topic: I digress,
I relinquish anima,
Lay to rest a thousand eyes’ constraints,
Seeking arrangements through attainment.
If there's space to graze, then seize the day.
Something bountiful in the invisible,
Nature's beauty in the winds of change,
Wrinkles on sheets of belief,
A moment for molecules deem insignificant,
Nested in the fabric of space-time,
An embarrassment that's all mine,
It is really all fine.
Signed, A construct for mortality.