Long Syllable Poems
Long Syllable Poems. Below are the most popular long Syllable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Syllable poems by poem length and keyword.
In misty heights, where clouds embrace the stone,
Our souls ignite, no longer flesh and bone.
Dawn breaks, a spark across the dreaming sky,
As master's words make reality fly.
We climb through realms where logic bends and twists,
Our minds are ablaze with wisdom's amethysts.
Noon's golden fire reveals a hidden door,
Beyond which time... flows backwards, then no more.
The master speaks, his voice a crackling flame,
Each syllable is a universe to tame.
We float on thermals of enlightened thought,
Our earthly doubts now burned to ashen nought.
Dusk paints the peaks with consciousness diverse,
As stars descend to whisper nature's verse.
In twilight's glow, dimensions start to blur,
Reality and dreams begin to stir.
Night falls, yet darkness yields to the inner light,
Our beings fused with cosmic oversight.
The master's ember glows within our cores,
Illuminating wisdom's distant shores.
Mountains dissolve, we're cinders in the void,
Yet paradox leaves the senses overjoyed.
Enlightenment, a wildfire in the mind,
Burns illusions, leaving the truth behind.
In the frame of full moon silhouette hungry wolf barks
A grey castle on mystique hill top looms in the dark
Through the rusty steel gate a tall figure in black cloak
Comes out, the creepy stillness of the flimsy night chokes.
Arms stretched wide he walks on air like a hooded black bird
As the Count did in Transylvania people heard.
When the moon reaches the top of starless steely sky
He stands at my door, to stow the fear I vainly try.
Cold blue light of the eerie night smears the ashen face
Before I could retract I find myself in his brace
With wolf's red eyes glaring and fangs pressing bloody lips
On my jugular vein, he says your blood I will sip
You turn a vampire, in Dracula’s castle I’ll keep.
September 25, 2017.
Form : Rhyme. Syllable count : 13 each line.
Contest : Halloween Scare
Sponsored by : Russell Sivey.
They named the place My Lai,
but it echoes as my lie—
a soft syllable wrapping a hard truth,
a village turned into a footnote
because paperwork needed calm language.
Hands pulled triggers, yes—
but mouths followed later,
buttoned up in uniforms of denial,
calling orders “confusion,”
calling mercy “collateral.”
The men who did it said they were young,
said war made them smaller inside,
said fear spoke first.
The men who defended it said nothing at all,
which was louder.
My Lai, my lie:
the lie that obedience washes blood,
the lie that flags forgive,
the lie that courts move faster
than graves.
Fast-forward—new borders, same boots.
ICE knocks before dawn,
children memorize door hinges instead of dreams.
Different language, same math:
remove the inconvenient,
file the rest.
And the world watches, professionally concerned.
Statements issued, hands wrung,
feeds refreshed.
Outrage expires quicker than milk,
and empathy needs a subscription plan.
Wars keep happening with better cameras.
Killing now comes with talking points,
and silence has learned to sound neutral.
My Lai isn’t past—
it’s practiced, rebranded, exported.
My lie is thinking distance absolves me,
that history stays buried if renamed.
My Lai asks again, without shouting:
who benefits from forgetting,
and who is still alive because we don’t?
Often, I enter a contest
I enter the ones I like best
But one sponsor said
Write stood on your head
I moved on to check out the rest
Another said stand in a bucket
Write Latin, or I’m gonna chuck it
Eight lines by the way
Or get an NA
I thought about that and said f… ..
[They say stick to your chosen form
You should never break with the norm
In two stanza’s time
I’m switching to rhyme
The purist would kick up a storm]
But what really scrambles my brain
Is what comes up time and again
It’s apps for surmounting
The problem of counting
And one’s a particular pain….
*
‘How many syllables’, that’s what gets me
The logic it uses ain’t easy to see
Take for example the simple word ‘Wouldn’t’
They say it’s one syllable…
See it?..
I couldn’t
It misreads quotation marks, single or double
A single’s a syllable….. doubles?…. no trouble
It claims that the open quote counts as a syllable
Yet the ensuing quote counts not at all
Now I’m not unique so I run with the crowd
And I’m sure that no-one reads quote marks aloud
With ‘How Many Syllables’, if demand lingers
I simply ignore it and count on my fingers
But Soup has a resource called ‘Syllable Counter’
Which disregards quote marks that it may encounter.
In ‘shouldn’t’ and ‘wouldn’t’ and ‘mustn’t’ and ‘couldn’t’
The syllables all number two
And all of that makes pretty good sense to me…
So does it make good sense to you?
*
I love writing poetry, dearly
And often I get it right… nearly
So please do feel free
To set rules for me
But ‘How Many Syllables’?…. Really?
Through mirror’s bilge, Mariana on deck -
Wick’d queen, licks lips, with a delicious scheme.
In mock ascent, ego gives cheek a peck.
Suddenly daughter’s reflection - a gleam,
As snow forms queen’s exhale into a scream,
Her rubious threads covered in bright light,
Mariana’s hair in cascading flight.
Furious dark red strands taint apple’s flesh.
Fruit’s innocent beauty beckons a fright.
Hoary-shapeshifter tempts Eve - step-hate fresh.
8/15/2020
Contest: Pick-A-Title, Vol 21 - Dizain
Chosen Title: Incandescence
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Dizain in 10 syllable lines
ababbccdcd
Checked by howmanysyllables.com
My Bitter One, My Sweet
If you were to vanish, my bitter one, some night without a shore,
I'd go beautifully insane and head down to the blind river,
with a sack full of sick clay and a spine made out of kindling,
to build you from scratch again with these two bare hands of mine.
An endless labor, I know — an hourglass filled with butterflies —
to raise you back from the warm dust, my sweet and bitter one,
like Pygmalion, the sick man, eyes burned by white sleeplessness —
come on now, move, Galatea, you statue made of ash!
If you were to vanish, my bitter one, I'd walk to the land of ice
to carve you out of long icicles and out of the silence of waters,
to dress you in a drizzle of frost and in shirts of fallen snow,
and then you'd be free to leave wherever some thieving spring might please.
If you were to truly fall, in the moment of your great rapture,
I'd come to you quietly, like a snowfall with no witnesses,
to ransom you back from the angels with all the gold inside me,
with my tollgate made of darkness and with my stopped clock.
And afterward I'd go back down, humbled, illusory as a shadow,
toward the home I've always had: a garret in purgatory,
where nothing grows on the glass but handless clocks and blinded moths,
and I learn, syllable by syllable, how your face is spelled.
If you were to vanish, my bitter one, my sweet, from all I am,
from my laughter of broken glass, from my weeping made of salt,
I'd go looking for you inside me, through galleries of silent sleep,
and I'd build you up out of myself, one brick of silence at a time.
LOVE IN QUIETUDE
He feels love and she loves to feel.
Deal on love or love to deal.
He didn’t talk and she didn’t voice.
Both were perfect on their choice.
Chaplin’s movie in Hollywood
showing mutual gratitude.
Both sank in reverie of solitude.
Song of love sung in interlude.
Symphony is inaudible.
Yet passion is permissible.
Love whispered in couple’s mind
Emotive urges were entwined.
Ardor echoed to rebound
turning amour without sound.
Though seemed unbelievable
Yet uttered no syllable.
Seed of love was sowed.
Amorous flow glowed.
Impulses in subsonic state
murmuring in heart and pulsate.
No need to be loud nor to listen
But to be proud and to glisten
In tranquility of love
Togetherness to observe.
09/31/19
'Silence' contest by Silent one
Dear Moon,
Each syllable of your name sings a melody so serene, I find the scarcity of my own tranquility immersing on the tip of my tongue.
The hum of my profound fragility twirls along the brittle attempts to submerge into the cloud of my thunderous delicacy.
The remnants of my soul crumble into a decaying, dispense of dust, floating through the basins of Earth’s hue.
The scent of you radiates off of the vex of my skin.
An ethereal blend of elegance, silver and the spirit of my distillation.
I find each celestial fragment of my embodiment thickening in the night sky, enveloping itself into the safety of the split space within the stars.
The green of Earth farewells the gleam of my cells.
Each one shines with the shimmering pride of a newfound purpose:
The stillness of perpetuity in lunate.
The hush of eternity in galactic saint.
And the appease of permanency in cosmic quaint.
A final exhale until my excess joins your divine rock of tragical, obscured beauty.
Your gravel brushes against my skin, so calamitously determined to test my devotion, oblivious to the ache my ashes fester for you.
Dear Moon, I call your name.
On pink beach,
with red feet -
Georgia peach
on hot Bahamas sand.
Green eyes - yellow with sun.
Warm beige flesh, lightly tanned.
Towels wet and gritty -
scented like coconut.
Hair’s scattered and pretty.
Teeny-tiny conch shells drip from ears —
ebb and flow of melodious waves.
Piña Colada with cherry cheers,
slice of pineapple and umbrella
in hurricane. Caribbean calm
in the salty breeze with her fella.
Her tongue peppered with a Southern drawl.
These lovers, about to get dirty —
pail and shovel build their castle wall.
7/12/2021
Contest: A 369 Poem
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
*hurricane - type of cocktail glass
Created by Emile J. Pinet. The scientist and inventor Nikola Tesla believed that the numbers 3-6- 9 held great significance, and in deference to him, the (3-6-9,) was invented. An eighteen line rhyming verse with the following rhyme scheme: (aba - cdcefe - ghgijiklk,) with a syllable count of 333, 66666, 999999999. It looks best centered.
Northern wind drifts winter chill away,
lifts the mist from my meadow grey.
Ivory cloud floats in majestic style
from the sunburst horizon
across the sapphire sky.
The seamless sky called life sparkles in spring,
in beguiled breeze flits a butterfly free.
I weave lattice of my soul on its wing,
my garden blossoms all seasons for me.
buds unfurl hued charm
fragrance sails in rippling air…
songbird finds lost tune
____________________
March 27, 2022
Syllable count checked on howmanysllables.com
Rhyme checked on rhymezone.com
Contest : A Combiination Of Forms
Sponsored by : Emile Pinet