Long Stroked Poems
Long Stroked Poems. Below are the most popular long Stroked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stroked poems by poem length and keyword.
My past a mixed brew grilled by time
scarred by an ardor with an expiry date
curdling bone liver heart
dry as refrigerated omellete
a breakfast for one, and later
tea stale in stab of youtube replays
because we are bleeding, leaving
mocked by reality which once glued
our hours together, and now a story
absolutely pulp fiction, hard boiled
to a numb indifference, although
I miss those rugged jeans
scratching gym- stroked thighs
as we fight again again about
the difference between and time and love
while our room screams of
my heartbreaking chains released...at last
2/11/2017
Nicola Bryne’s You Broke My Heart Contest
If I could change into a pet
I’d be my little dog.
Because my life would be quite set
there’d be much analogue.
I’d look up with my puppy eyes
then picked up I would be.
Patted, stroked, and idolized
this life’s the one for me.
Three meals a day, a yummy treat
I’d always be well fed.
For trips I’d have my own car seat
at night tucked into bed.
I know I would be very loved
have free range of my home.
Roll over have my belly rubbed
this place, my pleasure dome.
Outside I’d run and play all day
Explore, and things I’d find.
She is so cute, hear owners say
they are so very kind.
Therefore, if I could have a choice
my puppy it would be.
These luxuries of life rejoice
I’m sure you would agree.
The Homeless
People and animals are helpless on the street of any city,
regarded as worthless, society just passes them by,
empty and hollow, they fall into a black abyss of nothingness.
Today, I saw a man with a kitten, and I ran to the store for food,
even though I had only a little money, I did not want to just walk by.
Running back with a bag of food for the man and some kitten food, breathless
inside I was weeping when the spot they had been in was empty. They were gone.
Turning in circles, I searched for them, but they were lost in a deep chasm,
in some doorway probably, crouched and starving. Oh I should have told him to stay,
only then, I spotted them and walked fast in that direction, and
now, I stroked the little one as she purred and ate, the man smiled his thanks.
_______________________
April 8, 2016
Poetry/Acrostic/Preterition
Copyright Protected, ID 16-7750814-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Preterition
sponsor, Sara Kenrick
Honorable Mention
"Yesterday was a shimmering reflection on a lake. If you dwell upon what happened then, it will cause your heart to break."
by poet.
It seems like only yesterday when your skillful fingers
stroked piano keys, now silent, laden with dust and mold.
In mournful memories, a romantic vision of us still lingers,
although love's symphony has dulled like tarnished gold.
When we first fell in love, you wrote a song for me
A score you busily worked on day and night to compose
about the passion between an oak and a willow tree.
Your lyrics sweet as the honeyed scent of a fragrant rose.
Tender words on yellowed pages, now ripped and torn.
No longer cherished by me, for they cause pain and grief,
pricking me as though with the flower's sharpest thorn.
From the loss of yesterday's passion, will I ever have relief?
I continue to wilt, like the withering of a crimson rose
whose leaves are crumbling on ivory keys while she dies.
So like the aching wound in my heart that will not close,
will the past keep tormenting me until my fatal demise?
Will time erase memories of us? I fear they will not fade.
Traces of you and our yesterdays will remain with me.
They make me stagger as if cut by a knife, or a razor blade.
If I could relive yesterdays, from your memory, I'd be free.
Posted on November 30, 2021 for the "Y" Poetry Contest
Hosted by Constance La France
“When the pen falls silent that once danced to the muse’s command and when the poet’s heart no longer beats with rhyme, we realize that the poet in us is dead. It is a sad truth difficult to reckon.” ~ By Poet
Far from the din of madding crowd,
And away from the bustle of city streets,
I withdrew into a solitary spot,
To turn my thoughts into dazzling verse.
Shelley and Shakespeare came in view,
Emily and Eliot fell in line,
Their verse ringing loud and clear,
Their energy fanning fire within
I dreamt of putting proper words,
To clothe my thoughts in striking notes,
Longed to pour my loaded heart,
In powerful verse to move the hearts
But as I started scrawling down,
All that I had stored in hoards –
Ebbed out into mere froth and foam,
Leaving bits of broken thoughts
I sallied out for a stunning theme,
And stroked my pen to put it down,
But topics eluded me one by one,
Unable to decide on what to dwell,
I rummaged my memory for apt words,
And dallied round with lofty themes
Yet nothing other than splintered thoughts,
And hackneyed phrases came alive.
I strained hard to give them life,
And labored in vain to make them rhyme,
‘The Blazing Sun’ and ‘the Brilliant Star’,
Both faded out with no trace of glow.
I envisioned before me the Sacred Mount,
To drink from the fountain gushing down,
But hot lava spurted out,
And the wings of fancy burnt outright!
No Muse appeared to enliven me,
Nor my fantasy lingered long,
The words that once flowed like honey
Dried up with no inspiration, coming to nourish.
Staring blank into the scroll in front,
Unable to scribble even a moving thought,
Like a soldier vanquished in war,
I put away my paper and pen.
I greatly lament the death of the poet in me,
And wonder if ever will have a rebirth!
many are lions as once was I,
but now I sit on the porch
and swing.
As I watch my lives go by.
would it be so bad to dream
and of dreaming be enclosed
in the circular motions
of others
I once wore a paisley shirt
and said goodbye,
watching an only ball
rolling down the gutter
disappearing
into the mouth of a sewer.
Those empty moments of every life
where the thought never occurs
Astonishment
is what they call it:
the unexpected experience
a dead zone.
the zero.
Our heroes
always appear in bright spots,
hence the halo.
I have not seen my blood for a time.
It is the red that always remains
who we are, where we are,
what we are not,
it allows the internal to emerge
the external to enter
more often than not
there is fear
but when fear comes
you must remember that it comes
it comes.
therefore, it was never really here
to begin with.
I have tasted wooden spoons
when the batter is gone,
my tongue brushing the fibers
of the wood, it feels good.
that curved kernel of popcorn,
a golden retina of shell,
married to the curve of enamel
Artfully bonding to an outside tooth
where the tongue cannot dislodge it.
I tasted metal lips pressed to mine
where water and life emerged.
the faucet was my friend.
I tasted places where tongues explore
and eagerness collapses,
touched the velvet back of caterpillars,
stroked pollen wings of things
more beautiful than I.
I have seen the beauty
of those things that mount the sky
I have slain and lain with things
and wondered why.
And I have thought.
This alone ought to be enough,
but we are always
and have always been
more than enough.
Pondering the possibility
Of pavement as concrete garden
Not green but faded grey
Definitely depraved hardened
Even so one lone weed flower
Rises between crumbling cracks
Indifferent boisterous bold
Never shrinking or looking back
Growing even glowing
The blue sky never hides
Hues of rainbows and sunshine
Even the rain washes pavement pain
People are like weeds and flowers
Amethyst hearted unaware of their power
Very much like violets in spring
Elephant ears hear voices ring
Making mahogany men feel as king
Eager to have stroked self esteem
Never mind peace pavement dreams
That wars are won and lost for queens
Anacreontic Verse
With canvas primed
and brush in hand
I stroked on colors
that were not bland.
A shade of blue
like my love's eyes.
His woolen coat,
I painted red,
the one he wore
when he left the note.
It told me
what he left unsaid.
He wrote to me,
"I am sorry
if I hurt you but
this is goodbye."
What a coward!
I didn't cry.
Instead,
I painted
his body yellow.
What kind of fellow
ends it like that?
Painting finished
and sent to his house.
The note attached read,
"This canvas
is for you.
I call it
'Painting of a Louse'."
January 2nd, 2016
Anacreontic Verse 2
Sponsor: Edward Ebbs
On the lush green lawns by river Avon,
deep in thought,I was leaning on a tree,
golden sun rays spraying paint over town,
When my eyes caught a boatman sail past me.
Water rippled and splashed about his oar,
he stroked Avon in rhythm to a song,
His ballads of love from the days of yore,
I watched him weaving his old craft along.
stretch of meadow with many in leisure,
Families with children, vendors with stall,
Dogs playing fetch to little tot’s pleasure,
good summer day to relish, ere night fall.
A lone white swan followed the boatman’s ride,
Soulful number it must have heard before,
Ducklings quacked rushing to their mother’s side,
Swiftly she winged them close to reassure.
Her laughter, her voice, echo in my heart,
I stand alone where she once held my arm,
memories console, what time tore apart,
Pebbles of thoughts, bring an ocean of calm.
Only time may heal and time may restore,
For now everyday is so hard to take,
In memory she lives who lives no more,
Love for some is a such a sweet heartache!
...He looked around frantic as he struggled to breath.
“It’s all happening at once, I just can’t believe…
I know that they are all waiting, will want to record,
but right now it doesn’t seem so simple any more,
with all my family’s been saying…don’t know what to do,
and I’d hate if all this took me away from you!”
She stroked his hand and said,”Jack, you have to relax,
you have the chance to make music, that is a fact.
You tell me it’s what you want, so I think you should sign,
and not pass this up waiting for a better time.”
He said,”But if we go on tour, you know what that means?"
She said,”I know, but I’d never impede your drams.”
So Jack left with the band, and it was bittersweet,
they soon cracked the Top 40, which was no little feat.
Black Jack and The Shirkers would soon go platinum,
known for hypnotic hooks and songs of drink and fun.
Jack was modest at first, but soon embraced the fame,
all the parties and groupies who sere so far from tame…
Yes, the albums and the riches piled up in droves,
there was no sort of indulgence he did not know,
he had a big mansion, he drove fancy sport cars,
no one could image he’d ever go this far.
But as his twenties rolled on he soon started to see
deep within him a cold, growing despondency.
It started as a trickle, a fatigue he couldn’t shed,
them slowly grew until it filled up most of his head,
the gnawing sense that all of this was just skin deep,
before long it made it hard for Jack even to sleep.
The shrinks couldn’t help him, the gurus just annoyed,
so he thought back to the last time he’d felt real joy.
He realized it was that last night that he had seen Kay,
about no other woman had he felt that way,
for all of the drama he’d had his senior year
he remembered how with here there had been no fear,
just a quiet acceptance, she’d listened and cared,
and that was how Jay found himself going back there.
He was twenty-seven, eight whole years had gone past,
and he knew it was crazy, but he had to ask,
had to see for himself if some small spark remained,
if she could still see the real him through the trappings of fame.
It wasn’t all that hard to find her new address,
so he worked up his courage, and put on his best...
CONTINUES IN PART III.