Long Square Poems
Long Square Poems. Below are the most popular long Square by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Square poems by poem length and keyword.
In the land where the eagle soars high and free,
Freedom’s enduring call is bestowed.
From the mountains’ proud peaks to the ocean’s vast span,
Lies the charge of a nation, since its birth began.
It’s not just the soil, the flag, or the song,
But the spirit of justice, where all belong.
To uphold the ideals that the founders wrote,
And keep freedom’s lamp burning, eternally bright.
Duty’s a promise, a vow to the brave,
Who fought on the battlefields, their lives they all gave.
For the right to speak freely, to worship, to dream,
To flow with democracy’s strong, steady stream.
It’s to stand up for truth in the public square,
To lift the voiceless, to show that care is given.
To build a community, united and strong,
Where no one is silenced or feels they don’t belong.
In the ballot box’s power, voices are raised,
To guide a shared future through nights and through days.
To serve with integrity, to strive for the good,
To honor the bond of a great neighborhood.
So let hearts swell with a fire and a grace,
As you answer the call of this hallowed place.
For the land of the free and the home of the brave,
It’s a duty, a privilege, a legacy to save.
There are werewolves among us, or so it is said.
Not unlike what you conjure when you think “lycanthrope”.
They plot and they scheme for the blood they will shed;
they lurk in the shadows and feed on lost hope.
Their lens to the world is a skewed microscope.
They're drawn to the viral; it’s vile what they spread.
They must devour others in order to cope.
There are werewolves among us, or so it is said.
These modern day wolves are not of the undead,
but they snarl and they howl at your heels as they lope.
They roam social media; in blog feeds, they’re bred.
Not unlike what you conjure when you think “lycanthrope”.
They strain all the norms, and they push envelopes;
they fill decent folk with much horror and dread.
They dox and and they gaslight and tighten the rope.
They plot and they scheme for the blood they will shed.
They’ll beat a dead horse and make sure it is bled.
Far from gregarious, these misanthropes,
avoiding the spotlight, in darkness will tread;
they lurk in the shadows and feed on lost hope.
So don’t be a victim, there’s no need to mope.
The truth is their wolfsbane, aimed square at the head.
Be a tiger, a lion, not a weak antelope.
The idea seems quaint, but don’t be misled:
there are werewolves among us…
—————
for the One From The Dark Side Poetry Contest
sponsored by John Lawless
written 06/08/22
She sat for hours
Needle in hand
Stitching in silence
Inviting medleys
She stitched together
Hues happy and glad
Brilliant and vibrant
Inviting medleys
She threaded her needle
Gently with patience
Taking time to create
Inviting medleys
She laced each stitch
Careful, a caress
Against soft fabric
Inviting medleys
She pieced each square
Rectangle or triangle
Together with care
Inviting medleys
She gave her heart
To the pieces she sewed
Weaving hope with her thoughts
Inviting medleys
She held out the quilt
Sensational dreams
Blowing on souls
Inviting medleys
She gave them away
Pieces of her love
Graceful praise
Inviting medleys
She was always laughing
Alive with compassion
Filling her stitches with light
Inviting medleys
She wove love and hope
Into her quilts
Delighting spirits
Inviting medleys
''T'' Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
November 7, 2021
TAPESTRY THEME WORD
each of us in broken in some form or fashion
be it external or internal we all have our share and ration
the brokeness that characterizes the particulars in our lives
the brokeness that comes in the guise of daily struggle and strife
twenty-nine families became broken on that fatal day
in that West Virginia mine
the sense of safety of New York City was broken when they found a bomb
in that Square called Times
out-sourcing and down-sizing have broken our economy which is now in disarray
the brokeness of Immigration Reform needs to be fixed right away
oil spills, tornadoes and flash floods have broken some communities and lives
but the brokeness of our souls in the Garden of Eden was healed by Jesus' sacrifice
"Take this bread" Jesus said with thanks as He passed it around
"Eat this bread", it's a symbol of My body so that My spirit of peace in you will be found
"Drink this wine" He said with thanks "It's a symbol of My blood"
"Drink this wine in rememberence" that it's you I'll always love
we've been bruised and abused, we've been mentally and physically harmed
but by the stripes on Jesus we've healed and have made it through life's storms
He was pierced for our transgressions and crushed for our iniquities
His sacrifice, His crucifixion so new mercies we would all come to see
God's grace will always be sufficient to cover every aspect of our lives
God's mercy will always be sufficient as it was for His Son Jesus the Christ
we are broken and blessed now ready to give God all the glory
we are broken and blessed and that will always be our story
The youth, wearing only boxer shorts,
is gazing with a sense of awe
at the small square object in his hand.
A smartphone!
It has a screen; it also has a camera.
Its lens has captured a mirror
with the boy within its frame,
gazing upon, contemplating,
perhaps admiring, even,
the screen of a phone that now is holding
an image of himself in the frame of the mirror
holding the object that has captured it
within the frame of the screen.
We see this image as
we wander social media,
where the picture of the boy
in the mirror in the camera,
which he gazes down upon
with awe, as if it were
an alien artefact,
is there for us to ponder.
The image has stolen his attention;
it has captured and confined him,
fascinated and entranced him.
He has fallen into a shimmering pool,
self-referential, gazing at itself.
It is another land.
My mind is like-
Checkerboards.
With organic patterns scattered in each square.
A mind’s eye.
A shaky eye which burns holes.
Heavy breathing sometimes.
But not scary.
Just letting the world become an outline of itself.
Seeing more.
Trying an imagination method.
That isn't like they taught us in school.
Bursts of effort.
Reflected by careful line drawings.
And also scribbles.
Letting the juice of a bicycle create splotches.
Spinning squares can unshape themselves.
And become the vivid version of what a simple shape can be.
I can see faces.
And make the eyes bold and sharp.
Whoosh-
Or not.
I can toss paint at a wall in my mind.
And laugh because I can let the colors bleed and twist into nothing.
My mind has-
Nothing to clean up.
Just take the mess.
And settle it down with deep breathing.
My mind is:
VIVID
My mind is also:
BLANK
And there might be more
The cardboard cylinder begins
to peek,
The prognosis is grim, the
outlook is bleak.
Only three sheets left on this
spinning white wheel,
And I'm starting to think about
how I should feel.
The plush, quilted days of my
youth have all passed,
When I unrolled with abandon
and lived life as fast.
Now the perforations are
marking the clock,
As I desperately downsize my
remaining stock.
Will I go out on glory, a two-ply
embrace?
Or be wiped from existence
with no saving grace?
The roll spins much faster the
closer it gets
To the end of the tube and a pile
of regrets.
I am down to the glue on the
very last square,
Just a ghost of a tissue, a
whisper of air.
So remember me kindly,
unspoiled and undone,
It was a beautiful, two-ply,
magnificent run.
One- Liner
Like the last square of paper
on a spinning brown roll,
we're all just clinging to the
cardboard at the end of the
bowl.
The spiral staircase made her high heels sing
Her soft silhouette was mesmerizing
The orchestrated trills were riveting
He would not have missed this for anything
She slowly turned spotlighted to the crowd
Which, along with drum intro, drove them wild
Her sultry voice and entertainment style
Rocked the arena for many a mile
From here the City churches pierced the mist
A scene no photographer could resist
Heck with the order to cease and desist
Taping her performance, he blew a kiss
Stars twinkled and music filled the night air
For him to make money seemed only fair
Video, in its case, was marked with flare
He closed it, and, now smiling, crossed the square
Promptly arrested and taken to jail
He called his ex-wife to help him make bail
Her sultry voice told him to go to hell
May 18, 2018
One, Nine and Sixteen Upgrade by Viv Wigley*
Sixth Place
*Line one - 'The spiral staircase made her high heels sing'
Line nine - 'From here the City churches pierced the mist'
Line sixteen - 'He closed it, and, now smiling, crossed the square'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The third drawer down,
stuck sometimes,
resists like a child refusing supper~
then gives all at once.
Inside:
a landslide of faded cotton,
each square a surrendered flag.
Some still crisp with the ghost of starch,
others softened by years of fists,
damp with forgotten tears.
The blue gingham one
worn thin at the edges~
once blotted my knee
when I fell running toward her.
The white lacy one,
embroidered with spring flowers,
never used, as if saving itself
for a grief too clean to stain.
At the bottom,
one still folded tight
into a perfect rectangle—
the way she left it,
the way I won’t unfold it,
keeping her last touch
trapped in the seams.
related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/lavender_time_and_mother_13659
The Crescent City
Ancestral roots are calling me
to Crescent City near the sea.
A city with its past displayed
where long ago the pirates played.
The glowing lights of Vieux Carré;
Café du Monde’s belov’d beignets,
and Creole foods prepared with flare;
it’s been so long since I’ve been there.
The Cajuns live life with pizazz
and everywhere sweet sounds of jazz.
These dreams are where I long to be,
this Crescent City near the sea.
December 19, 2022
Vieux Carré (pronounced VOO kah-RAY) translates to “old square “ in English. The French Quarter, the oldest neighborhood in New Orleans, is referred to as the “Vieux Carré.”
Beignet (pronounced bin-YEAH) is a French pastry.