Long Sprung Poems
Long Sprung Poems. Below are the most popular long Sprung by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sprung poems by poem length and keyword.
As the end of a long day now approaches
Like a candle flame almost spent
The sun and its expanding rays
Now hides away with contempt
With stealth and silence,
The light of day starts To dim
And the harsh realms of darkness
Now creep and start to flood in
Its velvet shroud stretches across
The expanse of sky high above
Spring has finally sprung
And harboured thoughts turn to romance and love
The stars shine down in profusion like twinkling diamonds
In a pincushioned sky
Then somebody took them
And put stars in my true love's eyes
We made love all night
In our cosy warm feather nest
With so much tender mutual giving
Honesty and ferness
Lost another galaxy far away
Heaven blessed
Wrapped up safe and snuggly in each other's arms
Her sweet head resting on my chest
We drifted off into the adventures
And unfolding landscape yet unseen
Into the valley and islands
Of our dreams
The clock hanging on the wall
Ticked away our heartbeats
Beating the same tempo no missed beat at all
The sun rises and smiles down once more
An awakening and birthing of a new day born
The newly strengthened sun pushes the moon far away
Like the moon pushed the sun away
With the mist of morning now clearing
Exposing the nakedness of the land disrobed by the day
The morning moist dew
The likes of fallen tears
Cling to the plants and grass
Until the dries them and they didapper
The musky odour and perfume of two lovers
That last night made love
Still wafts in the air
Up above
The sunlight peeps through the now open window
As my sweetheart opens her limpid sleepy eyes
That always tells how much she loves me hearts aglow
And what made her marry me
All those years ago
I have to smile to myself
Just how beautiful and cute she looks
Even with a little sleep left in her star filled eyes
Her hair in such a mess like the nest of a rook
Laid by my side
She tells me that she loves me
Then kisses me like a butterfly
Kisses the heart of a flower leaving me in ecstasy
She shuffled her sweet feet to find her slippers
Puts on her dressing gown
And puts the kettle on and makes breakfast
When I or she heads for the staircase and then goes down
I think to myself just how much I am blessed
To have such an angel
And she's the best.
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
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.
I, a Red Skin dog, as some may delight to call me,
I have heard the tales of horror, from my dark skinned foes.
I have heard the tales of terror, from others who became my friends.
And I have walked with a dark skinned woman of their tribe.
We walked in the beauty of her courage, together. Tearless.
Tearless we both were as she spoke, for tears, only gods could cry for her.
I am a Red Skin dog.
And yet we walked together and we talked – together, fearless,
I and this swaying ebony sapling, sprung from the roots of my foes tribe.
We talked of the pitiless reality of that life she left behind, of that time
That she has left, far, far behind, like a useless scar
That has toughened over. And made her stronger.
I learned from this daughter of my foes
That true courage is never fearless, but always stronger. Victorious,
Stronger she was by far, to this Red Skin dog
Than the thousand sons who died, in her honor. So they say. Ridiculous,
But I have heard the balance of their sins.
And for all the tales I have heard from those angry young men, and their vengeful fathers
Her horror was a thousand times more sinister. A thousand times more callous.
Horror took up residence in her home but never in her heart.
But for others, I cannot speak.
“…splinters and bursting fragments…in my mind
Ai! Tearing! Memory of tearing flesh, swallowing tears and mucus, blood and bile
…bruising and ripping garments…off my body
…filthy, familiar hands tearing at my dress…
…my legs split and broken like a wild pig slaughter, my screams smashed from my lips,
With the butt of a rifle, just used to kill a Red Skin dog…
Aieee! Clean this floor mama, mop up this spew!
It cannot be mine!
This child is not mine!
It is not mine! It is the devils own creation born in hell fire!
Born in my death!
Aieee! I am dead, I cannot be alive.
I am dead and the Red Skin dogs have eaten my corpse.
Those spirits in their wingless chariot flew over the land and sea, to rescue me?
Rescue me from that black devil who said he was like Jesus to me.
I thought you were my uncle-brother…
Who else could have found us here?
Hidden away from the Red Skins and their Wingless Angels.
Only you my uncle-brother
Only you could have found us
Only you could have killed us.
And now the progeny of your evil deed suckles at my breasts
As I lie dead in the home of those Red Skin dogs you fought.”
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion flower shrivels on its vine.
An empty heart has stripped my soul
of its craving need to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings,
their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret.
That mockery invaded my aching breast,
when it ridiculed me as a fool;
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken and lost in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only beats to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered
dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief,
and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
and must retire.
I've watered the seeds of my self doubt
with salted sweat from my furrowed brow;
over fertilized them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief.
I've tried to save them all,
but half-hearted attempts were all in vain.
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain
and suffering loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven
for my folly, for I've given it no choice.
I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank.
Written January 24th, 2021
Judged N/A 2/22/21
Contest Open Poetry !
A Very Merry Christmas
T’ was the night before Christmas
And all through the house
Spoons were stirring the drinks
Held by every souse
The shot glasses were filled
With three kinds of whiskey
Though were often spilled
When Myrna got frisky
The highballs were placed
On the chimney with care
Until Uncle Nicholas
Tripped over the chair
By chance no kids awoke
Because of that slouch
But Grandpa slid off
His warm comfy couch
“What was that,” He asked
“Was there a collision?”
Which in this case there was,
And not one of his visions
Yet, before lying back down
Gramps had one more night cap
Then slumped onto the couch
And squashed poor Nips the cat
While out at the bar
There arose such a noise
Because Myrna was flirting
With some of the boys
I sprung from the recliner
To help my dear cousin
And saw lads sucking shots
From her pierced belly button
Away to the window
I flew for my life
But when looking outside
There was my modest wife
Dancing in circles
Around the snowman
Though minus a coat
Being half in the can
When I hopped to the door
But who should appear?
My dear uncle George
With a cooler of beer
I had to think fast
For my wife and Nick
And for Myrna inside
Yes, I had to think quick
Then came inspiration
To set up the maneuver
Of thumbing my phone
For the app to Uber
I had fifteen minutes
Until the taxi’s came
So I shouted and called
Everyone by name
Now Nicholas, now Myrna
Now dear Grandpa G
Yo Uncle George
Climb in a taxi
I called to my cousins
In the midst of a brawl
It’s time to drive away
For Pete’s sake, drive away all!
And then in a twinkling
I saw on the roof
My wife of all things;
Still high on forty proof
I didn’t call out
Knowing she’d crash
Yet she jumped in the chimney
Landing on the heaped ash
She was dressed in a robe
That turned coal black
And I was surprised
Coz she clutched a small sack
Then my wife oddly asked
If I thought she looked chubby
But I knew that trap
Being her hubby
I spoke not a word
As she quickly rose
But when I picked her up
Tore her panty hose
I sprung to the bedroom
Flopped her on the bead
While the sack she held
Knocked me upside the head
But the bag just contained
A large carrot and stones
And ‘Merry Christmas To All’
Displayed on her phone.
The Gift of Christmas
Some people say Christmas in this present time
Wanders lost
Through flashing ads and tinsel carelessly strung
On an artificial bough.
Some people say the Spirit of Christmas
Lives no more -
The simple Christ Child’s birth
Coldly mocked by glittering commercials
For diamond rings and robot toys.
Some say our plastic credit cards
Bring shame to one, who, born so poor,
Wore no fancy clothes
Or even slept in a cradle of his own.
Some say a Christian world forgets
The simple song of angel praise and shepherd lambs
In hustle crowds who only hum
Atonal harmony in green cash jingles
Some people say that Christ remains absent
From our Christmas celebrations
So lost we get in buying –
So drunk we get with wine.
Yet, I see his star rise up again
In children’s faith, eyes aglow with awe,
Reflecting wonder back into the darkest night
The miracle of the Christmas story.
I watch a callous world
Retell Nativity
Then remember little acts of kindness
From a neighbor, or a friend,
In homemade thank you cards
Of cookies, cakes or ornaments.
The Yuletide air overflows with scents of sugarplums -
Pungent cloves, nutmeg sweet
And aromatic cinnamon -
A gift of time given to baking memories
In sweet spice with children.
Music fills the world again,
To herald
Carols dancing in our hearts,
“Joy to the world!” the lyrics say,
“Joy to the world! The Lord has come!”
Each year I watch the world
Stretch out a loving hand of help
To strangers shivering in the cold,
To those who live alone -
To ones with rags for clothes
And families who face each day
Empty cupboard shelves –
Whose children would be strangers
To the joy of Christmas morn
If not for hearts and hands
Of women and of men
Who bring the Magi’s gifts to poverty again.
I see this cynical world
So closely guard the spirit of this time
A world of Santa Claus’ asks no gratitude
For countless days of aching feet
Crowded streets
And traffic jams.
Their love returns a hundredfold,
Through smiles and gasps of childlike glee,
To nestle beneath boughs of evergreen
When the dawning light opens up the givers joy
Spreading across a silent world
A message sprung from hope’s own heart
Born with a baby boy.
12-2-22
Contest: Christmas Spirit Poetry
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Yes, spring has sprung and the bat phone is ringing.
Dragon is at it again! He grabbed his cape! No kidding!
Wouldn’t you know! Here we go, with his eyes to the sky.
Look out bad guys! He’s soaring up in the air, so say bye-bye.
In this case there was a fire, some place, Dragon was needed NOW!
A little girl lost in a fire so hot, and no one can find her, somehow!
So Dragon came in, flew right in, but she wasn’t anywhere on top.
The basement next, there she sat balled up, real close, & so scared.
She was protecting her kittens and a momma cat! And she was in tears!
Dragon to the rescue! He saved all the little ones, huddled in great fear.
He pushed them outside through the basement window, isn’t he a dear?
Tho he naturally, wouldn’t fit through that window, that was so near!
He climbed slowly up the steps, where the house was totally engulfed.
But, never fear, he’s a Dragon, my dear, flames simply don’t bother him.
He got to the back door, as a volunteer fireman, totally hosed him down.
Literally, ALL the way down, to the basement again! HEY! Silly Clown!
The fireman, the Sheriff of Crazyland, was trying to hold the hose, tight!
Out of control, he blew Dragon, back down in the hole! Until, the others…
Could grab it away! The Sheriff of Crazyland, still wanting to be helpful…
He took the little girl and cats to her Mom! So HE was called the hero!
He got a photo taken, for a newspaper spread, as Yep! Here we go again!
By the time Dragon got out, few were about, as the fear had gone away.
And Dragon’s chance to be a hero, well that too, had flown far, that day.
Now, WE ALL KNOW, the great thing he, absolutely, himself, had done.
Later, he’d leave the mascot title behind, to become a Full Fledge Fireman.
But he wouldn’t be there to receive it, until later that next day, you see…
For now, he’s too busy, chasing the Sheriff of CrazyLand, all over the place.
And guess what! He made the front page under the Hero Sheriff, that said…
“That Crazy Dragon! Guess What? He’s at It AGAIN… Chasing the Hero!”
But Don’t Worry, I made him a New Cape! And I called the newspapermen.
So he got a correction, on what happened, along with news of his promotion!
Next day, Umm, on the very LAST page. Oh, Well! Sigh! Can’t win them all.
But you and I… We will always know… The End
Loving life hid beneath rim of cool ceramic bowl
Tree frog claimed proud place, toilet's homely hole
Enamoured by his simple palace making stance
I bend to peer at his green grip toe stick, entranced
My ordinary admonished by gaze from onxyx eyes
Quick reflex and instinct, skills by which Frog relies
Shine of black marble smartness lures me nearer
Knowing even with my bulk, I'm somehow inferior
Rubber eyelid winks, peels open again enlarged
Eye wrinkles droop to hammock, I'm encouraged
To nestle within humid folds, shrunk human glued
Oscillated in his lid lures languishing duly procured
Spun suddenly, rubbery cocoon cosy lurches erratic
Some worry occurs I'll drown outside skin hammock
Prior to paranoia taking over, thrown from dizzying ride
Launched into stark big bowl with steep slippery sides
Swim in cistern spew strangely renders me cleansed
Lap in lurid blue sends me to inevitably to S bends
Whooshed and flushed with refreshed perspective
Dark harassed by diffused hues tug seductive
Dolphin derived, my smooth unphased by spiralling
Saturated zones, ease honed, enamour never tiring
Snorkel hole snorts water, puffs readily on its purification
Imbibing combines giddy with clarity, senses' temptation
My forehead flicked flirtatiously by wide flamingo flippers
Splayed feathers fan surface, showcase dance floor shimmer
Cabaret her costume, shakes crystal bead rainbow release
Ravishing precise pirouettes prim pink princess completes
Her curved beak caresses my porthole brain, rubs insistantly
Into warm walnut shell weapon I'm swallowed quite quickly
I spy through pomegranate seed eye, mirror lake unswayed
Stilled kindly by wind's nonexistance, decision to travel made
Climbed to bird's tiny tiara topped crest, covered in feathers
Graceful lace tu- tu floats my aquatic future endeavour
Bouyed weightless and grateful, flip draws no resistance
Swim in S bend treasure, trip of sight resumed brilliance
*** Spring has sprung!!
- in Australia
My branch beyond
The tired pond
of Earth, awakes
Imminent Heaven
(perhaps)
*** A collapse of facts
Flight of flamingo regalia
Revel in place of waste
- Mystery flush takes
on its S bend
1st September 2020
Nearly ten o'clock, Capitol Hill, inside the SCIF (specially designed for classified purpose): House Intelligence Committee chairman Adam Schiff was hosting an esoteric hearing featuring a deposition with Defense Department official Laura Cooper as part of Impeachment Inquiry into Dotard Trumpery. Suddenly a fit of ruckus flared up from the outside, increasingly nearer and clearer, then followed a string of desultory sounds of pounding upstairs. What's up? What happened outside? Over the puzzlement of those present, Schiff roughly learned about this supervention from a subordinate's brief report. He signed nothing perturbable and said: "It's the Gofers of Payolas that are crapping and monkeying around there. But do not panick! 'cause they're exactly aiming at the witness and me. Of course, the witness shall be put under rigorous protection, yet the rest may just stay here and sit tight." Then he turned face to Cooper: "Ms cooper, let me call over several robust escorts to ensure your personal safety." Cooper, remaining unruffled all the time, delivered to Schiff not just an assuaging declination but her deontic assertiveness: "Never overestimate those cowards. For most of them, the best way to varnish their guilty conscience is to howl loud, the best way to compensate their courage privation is to bluff big. What brings me here are the respect of law and truth, the loyalty to oath and duty, the faith in nonpartisan justice. But what brings them here? The blind deference to bosses, the obsessive wariness of watchdogs, or the browbeating practice against opponents? Just go your usual way, and go free of their distraction." "Oh, great! your frankness and bravery!" Exclaimed Schiff, getting up to seek to contact Dem House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. Right on cue, a few barged in, clamoring that the hearing lacks transparency and picking out electronic devices for its livestream with later nearly a dozen more joining them straggly. Although the hearing had to come to a halt due to the gofers' brazen violation of security rules, the present ambience scarcely turned tense, just plunged into weird vibes of twisting steadfast normalcy toward a kind of peculiar hocus-pocus that had continually sprung up from a handful of hopped-up harlequins who were hell-bent on hamming it up.
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