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.
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
I used to press two plastic hands together,
And stage a perfect love upon the floor.
I watched my grandparents and thought that forever
Was something simple, safe, and guaranteed by law.
I was so little then, so sweet and naive,
Building a kingdom out of make-believe.
I wanted to be Cinderella in the ballroom light,
Spinning with a prince until the clock struck midnight.
I wanted to be Ariel, with children of my own,
Building a happy family beneath the ocean foam.
But storybooks are flat, and fairy tales lie;
The colors fade away as the years go by.
Growing up means watching the illusion break.
Learning love is heavy, a constant, fragile ache.
It isn't always admirable; it isn't always kind.
The gentlemen I dreamed of are impossible to find.
Now the thought of marriage feels like a foreign land,
And holding a child feels too heavy for my hand.
I promise I am not just waiting for the perfect guy.
I promise I am not just building walls up high.
I am just Belle now, left alone with my thoughts,
Finding comfort in the pages and the lessons I was taught.
But even Belle found magic in the castle's quiet spaces;
Even she found love in the most unlikely places.
Yet my fairy tale ending looks different inside my head.
No prince, no gown, no promised vows to be said.
Just a quiet room of books, a life I built by hand,
A solitary kingdom where I am proud to stand.
Maybe the happy ending isn't a shared forever—
But learning to love myself, alone and altogether.
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
My heart utters gently: you are seven;
I am too. Yet, the bloom of womanhood
carries us now unto fields where
spiced pleasure and abandonment mingle…
I reminisce our childhood years, when as a girl,
we would look out the bay window
till late evening, awaiting Dad’s arrival.
How cold those months while we freeze
in longing, in tireless dismembering
from an absence you , I could not bear:
oh, we escape through storybooks, art-play,
even dialogues with a guardian-moon
allowing the release of damn cries, ‘ We don’t
need a soldier, we need a father!
Although the fear of sudden loss remains,
this navel spins in unified order; knowing
he loves us despite his passion for freedom.
It is about time we embrace a wholeness
ordained by healed seasons… then to dance
around the fire, under dusk’s awakened joy;
searching for the magic of stars…and treasure
each purpose of Dad’s cherished footprints.
..................
Laura Loo Contest: Any Poem Won in November ( not from mine)
Written 10/17/2017
Resubmitted: 12/3/2017
Contest: What Child Is This
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
When I was little and my world was small,
I had a fascination with island storms’ call.
As moist hot air ascends the skies and dark clouds form,
I grab my storybooks and set up my dorm.
Dorothy had Toto; I will have my brown book
For I never know what will happen to my nook.
While my folks prepare for the uninvited visitor;
I hardly mind, rather I get ready for pleasure.
Before the wind blows and the rain falls;
Grandma would serve meals and fill our bowls;
Lest it will be cold and tastes no good;
When darkness hit our humble abode.
Light(e)ning forks spread the cloudless skies;
Draw vivid images and emotions high;
I wonder then Noah was calm!
For us, children, we'd shriek and run!
When the breeze starts to whisper a humming cry,
We would start to gather ‘round father and sigh;
It is a cue for a tale to be told
And Pa always has stories untold,
Trees swirl, sending gusts whimper against the pane;
Violent waves tossed Crusoe’s ship to our brain.
Storms make stories in its marvelous form;
Stories birth silence and awe midst a storm;
As the wind howls in the stormy night,
Stories, like pray’r, make us feel alright.
6/30/2014
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.
Christmas is all about love sent with a child from the heavens above
A child who was born as a carpenter’s son who came to bless every one
He wasn’t born wealthy or lived in a castle or on a mountain high
But he was praised and honored from all the angels in the sky.
Because of his birth three kings followed a star and traveled from afar
When they arrived to where the star shone that is where this child was born
In a manger with cattle and sheep sitting on the hay, as they all knelt to pray.
They came with gifts to honor a king with gold, frankincense
And myrrh they did bring.
There is not diamonds, gold, silver, pearls or riches of any kind
That could compare to what he has left behind.
It is the power of love and the love that he shared with every one
And as they say: his will be done.
You hear of him in religious books, storybooks. And word of mouth
And how his words came about.
There is no story greater than his birth and life, not Sampson and Delilah
Hercules, Joan of arc, Moses, or Noah and his arc, and so many
Others on which I won’t embark.
One man who created a new religion called Christianity
And if you take the first part of that word, it is CHRIST.
Then you also have Christmas so don’t take CHRIST out of Christmas.
What more can I say! I believe and love him in every way.
© L RAMS121114
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~
.........................................................................................
In Honor of Cyndi's Contest: Comforts of a Rainy Afternoon
Please pardon mine assertion
I dared to surmise
familiarity with me,
an avid reader and prolific writer
(mainly to appease personal pleasure)
thus upon embarking upon
reaching out, your curiosity piqued.
Daily onslaught from schoolyard
punkish bullies ace
thus, storybooks provided
haven to experience liberation
cowardice, fearfulness, insecurity
low opinion regarding base
sic selfhood writ large upon,
this then diminutive carapace,
I firmly believe stunted growth
with me hallowed face
non-verbal passive behavior
ideal fodder did grace
for carnivorous, ferocious,
incredulous, and malicious preface
to young adulthood oppressing
quiet soul as if race
sing existence qua
Wounded Knee leg uss see
(possibly trace sub bull
during fertilization,
conception, and accruing
gestation within, what
would become a ways
trill womb did) fetal wretch.
Mailer daemons choked bravery
absent courage did endear
grievous inner mission
self-starvation parents did fear,
(which evolved via gradations)
omitting first one repast to share
then two, and finally declining
sustenance into a lad opting to die
butta as a licensed practical nurse
(LPN) this then puny guy
became top priority,
and my mother resorted
to whipping high
lee nutritious concoctions
in tandem with
giving me iron injections