Long Storybooks Poems
Long Storybooks Poems. Below are the most popular long Storybooks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Storybooks poems by poem length and keyword.
The day you were born you are mother and father's miracle,
You were a very calm baby boy.
Walter brought baby Erik and mom home from the hospital,
Mom could stay at home with you for a few months.
You learned to walk and talk,
Loved to read storybooks with mom and dad.
Liked the Fischer Price toys,
Playtime was your favorite,
Then you went to school,
Learned to read and write.
Enjoyed sports, like soccer,
When we lived with grandma and grandpa and mom.
Went to Lorne Park Elementary School with your brother Kirk,
Received good results at school.
I would drive you Erik, Kirk, and Antje to school and back.
Then you went onto graduate from school,
I remember you winning the jelly bean contest and won a jar pf jelly beans,
when you went to Ellwood.
You went to Humberview Collegiate,
I am sure there are many good memories there.
Graduated with your favorite female escort,
I remember the holiday we had in Collingwood where we enjoyed skiiing.
We stayed over the weekend, dinned.
The miracle, that took us two hours to get there. I was still driving in those days.
Your mother's handsome escort to the Federation of Teachers twenty-five year dinner.
Where mother was photographed with the Director of Education, we had a nice dinner.
The nice picnic at Wittchurch with all our relatives,
We bought a bucket of Kentucky Fried chicken and had lunch.
Then there were the days at University where he studied to be a Chartered Account.
Got married to his childhood sweetheart Lisette.
Had a beautiful wedding in Costa Rica.
Sent mom the pictures of the wedding, very beautiful.
Went to live there because the climate was warmer,
Lived in a nice apartment with his beautiful wife.
I remember the days when we shared a Christmas holiday at the Limetree.
Upon arrival we received a Santa and a bag of oranges.
That was such an excellent vacation with Antje, grandma and grandpa and mom.
We met the Thornes, Regina, Eric, Cliff and Tina.
These are beautiful memories,
God has blessed us with them.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
thought to be
deadened
after the attack
from another
where one let one
in &
it didn’t turn out as
beautiful
as was thought to be
had, because the
storybooks lie &
the movies lie better,
but horny is as horny
does & along comes
another drama to add
to the
suitcase,
which we each drag
throughout our lives until
we finally get to drop it.
though the heart is black &
the mind is exhausted &
the hands are told to
castrate oneself to keep
anything from ever happening
again,
the path leads on & you walk it
because
what the **** else are you gonna
do?
no direction comes &
no one knows more than you,
no text written before you tells any
truth, which hasn’t been worked out
to oblivion now &
the sounds that you love to listen to
will do &
the feelings that you love to indulge in
will do &
because the choice to dive in again
is but yours to
foster.
throwing logs on the fire
even though the friends say to stop,
throwing logs on the fire,
even though the passion seems too much,
throwing logs on the fire
even though their eyes may be drifting,
throwing logs on the fire,
when the jealousy doesn’t stop the wanting,
throwing logs on the fire,
when the fighting leads to better sex,
throwing logs on the fire,
when the sex leads to better fighting,
throwing logs on the fire,
when the lack of fascination in the other
leads each to another,
throwing logs on the fire,
when the straying leads to passion in both
contexts,
throwing logs on the fire,
when the demands (physically/mentally/emotionally)
begin to outweigh the process,
throwing logs on the fire,
when the parties involved want you all to
themselves,
throwing logs on the fire,
when you haven’t enough energy to spread it thin
anymore,
throwing logs on the fire,
and choosing one over the other,
throwing logs on the fire,
like picking the wrong teller at the bank &
watching the lines on both sides of you
move faster & more precisely,
throwing logs on the fire,
back to the beginning,
with no logs left to throw,
back to the beginning with
embers
still
flickering.
I planted the Daffodils in the hills,
You were thrilled as daffodil flowers bloom,
Amonst the sunny summer fields,
Our room filled with perfume of golden yellow,
With view of dew crystals cover the meadows.
Oh joy....
You planted the Jasmine along the fences,
I loved the scent of white night flowers,
Our lives are entwined, two lovers devined, smitten by love.
I planted the Cypresses along the paths,
Across the way from the garden arches,
Amongst the white Jasmine arbors,
And blue Sweet Lavenders near the Junipers.
You were thrilled at the sights of yellow and gold,
Our hearts growed and filled with joy,
Amongst the pretty flowers and brown soils,
We toiled and planted in the sun.
Raindrops mist turn to showers in the early fall,
Water fills the swollen creek,
You were thrilled at the Golden Poppies,
Red bright petals peeked at the morning sun,
Amidst the sound of swishing hummingbirds,
Perching on the sweet vines of Morning Glories.
Spring came with her rain, it's drenching,
Pouring droplets and wet my face,
Rain water fills the over flowing brooks,
Storybooks of river runs in the sun,
Storms and vast gray skies whirlwind,
Amid the freshness, the signing of my heart,
As the Winter cold chill is over,
So far vast above the horizon.
Those Flowering Quints with Cinnamon mints,
Giving Spring mist blisses in mid Summer,
All over the garden, the flowers sprang,
All that then was consumed by my heart,
Green and blue the hues on facade turns,
As water churning, dancing in the pond.
You planted the Jasmine along the fences,
I loved the scent of all the fragrances,
Our lives are enriched and smitten then,
Amongst the herbs and flowers show,
In the middle of Daffodils meadows,
As you promised to love me so,
To no end .... 'til eternity.
Jieranai (Jeri) Maier
May-December @2003
Tonight I can write the saddest poem.
I can write that the heavens are sad that's why the stars are dark,
Or the heavens are heartbroken that's why the rain is red.
Tonight I can fall in love
If you can convince me that I am worth loving
Regardless of the fact that I am a toxic infection.
Tonight I can write the saddest poem with tears on my fingers
And a heart broken pen
That narrates how I feel dejected and rejected.
Tonight I can be a grateful man.
I can thank you for showing me that it does not matter
How true you feel or how hard you fall.
Tonight I can thank you for being a great teacher;
For teaching me how to burn hearts on a pyre and flush away true love.
And above all, for giving me a reason to never love a human.
Tonight I can write lines like,
Love and reciprocity do not exist in the world of humans;
And only God can love you unconditionally.
Tonight I can speak to the moon
If you call me by my name and tell me you love me,
Even if you are lying.
Tonight I can write the saddest poem.
I can write about my feelings for you
And they would be the saddest you ever knew.
Tonight i can tell a story of how
You dream of storybooks and mythical creatures
And of how your eyes when into mine pierce they declare desire.
I can write a poem with lines like,
Your love for me is bigfoot and unicorns;
Nonexistent!
Tonight I can write the saddest poem.
I can write lines to jerk your tears when they tell
How it is so hot that I miss your cold shoulder.
I am quickly replacing memories of you;
I wrote down whatever I had left of that love
And folded it into a paper plane.
Only tonight will I take time to wish you would rest in peace,
For tomorrow you will be a bad dream
That I woke up from and already forgotten.
Ace of Spades
In a weightless state of tranquility,
paraphrasing relentless thoughts of motion
in my head into words, which 'til now
have laid dormant in unsung verse, waiting
for you to shine brightly upon them.
Freshly painted impressions mark
the beginning of halcyon days, where gulls
hover just above waves that barely
kiss the shoreline, burying tiny toes
beneath the coolness of wet beached sand.
To what shall we compare thee or can
your effulgent beauty be measured
by metered stanzas of verse taking form
on rice paper and egg shells so that the yolk
slips out draining lucent into the earth's core.
Your wisdom surveys the high seas,
coursing through cavernous veins that harbor
quietly in safety channels, as zephyrs
challenge moist underbrush among youthful
lips, blowing innocent kisses in playful semblance.
Oscines sway in sync beneath heaven's domain,
bathing in rays of sweet luminosity,
as sun-drenched fossils rise, reborn,
reclaiming their gaiety to shine unobstructed,
teething along crevasses of incandescence.
Embrace these Sun days, reflecting
on fireside chats and old storybooks,
reciting euphonious tales that burn mellow,
rising to greet the eyes of omnipotence
with chants of celestial song and dance.
And to this place we call rapture,
let wings of sober doctrine reveal
where grace resides within Sol's castle,
waiting for the children to come forth
with clasped hands in joyful unison.
Such days will greet warmth openly,
without hesitation, so the orbiting
star becomes ever more pliant,
allowing whatever name you choose
to objectify it, to stand always...
Bright, within itself.
Memories
You’re a constant reminder of the time that got away,
When seemly not enough hours were available in the day.
I remember all the firsts, and how time seemed to fly,
And now that their gone brings a tear to the eye.
No more constant crying or pacing the floor,
No more frantic worrying of what we could do more.
No more midnight feedings or diapers to throw away,
No more anticipation of the first words you might say.
No more carpet crawling or standing up with a chair,
No more waiting for your first step or food in the hair.
No more cuddly pajamas with the feet built right in,
No more making funny faces just to see you grin.
No more little kisses while sitting on my knee,
No more tippytoes when you were trying to see.
No more kiddy game and hiding out of sight,
No more storybooks before you say goodnight.
No more first day of school or combing your hair,
No more silky blankets or praying teddy bear.
No more crawling in between us in the middle of the night,
No more saving your clothes or measuring your height.
No more tricycles, training wheels, or riding your first bike,
No more blushing moments with girls that you like.
No more dressing like your father or wearing what’s picked out,
No more dress button shirts or pants with a belt.
Oh my precious, handsome son, why you had to grow?
Where’s that little boy that I use to know?
I love looking forward but it hard looking back,
When you’re growing up so quickly and I’m powerless to react.
Make me a promise that you’ll never go away,
And that we’ll keep making memories with every passing day.
on a rearing steed Sir Rowelph rode
and rode, he rode through snorting nose
of thunderous fan, his stallion
galloping, charging, claiming land
to the rhythm of a drummer’s hand
down silt and dust, a lust did wilt
as love was lost, Sir Rowelph damned
his sweet’ lay buried not hours past
now race, did race from nature’s wrath
and blurred a woodland’s span
a lady, young, on bended knee, knelt
finely picking summer things
and pick, did pick up petals fair
berries, mosses, spiders there
this lady and her dainty looks
not old and haggard from storybooks
but had a company of crows and rooks
did flow and fly by all she took, and take
up in a basket, talk, she’d talk to her familiars
as she came across a fallen man
she helped him to her mottled shack
where hobbled bottles shelves they stack
and rack in crooked disarray, the shack it lay
off the beaten track away in woodland fray
and they, did they, spend all their day
of day upon each passing moon and soon
betrothed became one May, she found
her knight, a handsome sight, she’d say
but nay if passed him on that fateful day
where she found him once again
Sir Rowelph rode his rearing steed
had fallen broken neck indeed lay dead
and dead remain did he when seen by she
a passing witch, poisoned dead
from summer things she’d picked and fed
and dined, each time he’d ride, she’d find
help him away to a rundown shiel
and like a wheel so turn, did turn
this haunting quern, and quern and grind
forever ghosts eternally
Since early childhood storybooks of armored knights
riding beautiful horses held my fascination,
had I lived in that era of adventurous delights
I would have joined them to get the same admiration.
It's the unknown the story of a knight
who met a peasant girl of ardent creed
in some unpleasant times of war and fright;
it's such a great story for us to read.
Alex de Roux was the Norman commander:
handsome and strong; his curly long hair was red,
his eyes were of soft blue, and his skin was fair
he was sent to Abella to conquer its land.
And riding on his white horse one afternoon
he spotted a beautiful girl picking apples,
she had the features that made a soldier swoon:
big green eyes, long black hair and supple red lips.
Alex said something in Frankish expecting a response,
Silva looked at him and bowed if he were a seraphim,
" No, I am a very humble knight, not a king, please rise! "
She did not quite understand the language, but obeyed him.
He pointed out to the stately castle on the distant hill,
" Look, that's my second home, I have built a sturdy fortress."
some profound words he spoke expressing his benevolent will,
" I like to marry you soon and have ten children or less."
Silva tried to catch the meaning of every sentence,
and Alex replied by stretching out his two wide palms,
counting each single finger with extreme confidence...
then approaching her, he got lost in those pretty eyes.
Written on 4/23/2016
the “changed man”
have you seen the face of the “changed man?”
you know, the one who lost the girl but
wants to get her back---
so he converts himself
into the antithesis of what he once was,
in order to get back together with someone who
never was satisfied with who he was to begin
with?
seen the way he cleans himself up now?
(it’ll last until she comes back to him)
seen the way he opens the door for strangers?
(it’ll last until she comes back to him)
seen the way that he’s modified his own personality,
(it’ll last until she comes back to him)
in order to keep from offending her, in order to
(it’ll last until she comes back to him)
be interested in every single word she says, in order to
(it’ll last until she comes back to him)
get back what it was that he lost.
but what this “changed man” lost
was more than a woman, more than a relationship---
what he lost was time,
just as she pointed out when she was leaving him
&
the time that passed is never coming back,
regardless of how much he wants to be together with her
in order to make it all feel like it had some point,
like there was a reason for everything,
like they had been meant to be,
like the storybooks tell little children in
nursery school.
ode for the “changed man” to give up the gimmick &
be himself,
ode to know that there are more fish in the sea---
ode that she might do the same & leave him for good,
(just like she said that she would)
rather than mold him into something that he cannot be.
I viewed the dawn through mist of fading dreams,
Aware of silver feet upon the roof.
Eaves shivered wet, while raindrops welcomed spring
With murmured sounds, and giving me excuse
To burrow down and doze, with warming trace
Of childhood mornings, which have blown away.
I stretch my arms and rise with no regrets,
And see a rainbow’s face
That arches over hills so far away,
From crayons of time, that I will not forget
I love the rain that falls upon the grass
And look beyond the margins framed inside.
I sense renewal come with mute caress,
Will find new places where my soul resides.
The child in me will dance among the dew,
In soggy dress and mud between my toes,
Not to be dampened by a state of care…
Although the day is blue…
My inner child ignores the dark and low,
And thinks of rain the gift of something new.
Contentment comes from little things I do
Old storybooks will dazzle wishes, fed…
to make believe that wishes could come true
I drink some tea, with snack of jam and bread,
And once again, with growing up to do
Old scrapbooks found, to leap right through my age
Just one more moment as the child relents
My childhood bids adeiu
Recalling now, how fondness comes with sage
But knowing now, how well those days were spent~
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In Honor of Cyndi's Contest: Comforts of a Rainy Afternoon