Long Take form Poems
Long Take form Poems. Below are the most popular long Take form by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Take form poems by poem length and keyword.
She really wanted to see a ghost…ecstatically excited.
She heard this place had plenty, and a spooky atmosphere.
She’d have to pinch herself, ready to cheer…elated.
She’d spend a romantic weekend there with a freaking-out spouse.
He’s a scaredy-cat! He rarely finds anything funny!
He stutters. He’s bony. Of course she fibbed to him.
A mansion on the cliffs, buried behind briars and thorns.
You could hear the roar of the tide, far below, over the rocks.
Bitter thunder and lightning— oh Angela’s freaking stunned.
Couldn’t ask for a nicer day - husband’s a shivering bag of bones.
The thick, heavy door, with unrelenting ‘turn on back,’ opens
nonetheless. Angela prods and pulls her Jack, into the lair,
as the door closes and bolts. He’s crying like a baby, inside.
The romantic getaway’s bleek and dark, except for candelabra
here and there, in this statistically bad idea. Angela just knows
she’ll get a look-see at the afterlife - a welcoming sight.
Jack be nimble…Jack be quick…Jack wants to jump
over the candlestick and hit the bricks. Without a boo,
she tries to resurrect a ghost or two. “C’mon out! I’m
raring to see you. Don’t play hide’n seek. Show yourself.”
She’s so giddy with no care about her scared to death spouse.
Angela laughs as wisps of smoke take form, as snowy cotton
shifts, as the familiar “oohs” and “boos” uplift. Terrified Jack’s
in no laughing mood. He hides himself in the corners of the room.
Suddenly it gets very cold, and a very bold ghost has a hold
on a candelabra, shines over the face of Jack, “Don’t you worry,
son, this will make you crack a smile,” surprisingly reassuring.
The ghost grins, as he spins touché over to Angela, “Is this
all you were hoping for?” He bellows with his mighty flue,
turns gray-green, skeletal too, eyes out of sockets. Flames
of the candelabra catch her curls and girly-mustache too.
From the corner, a full-throttle laughter emerges from Jack
as Angela is laid out on her back. The specter adds a pillow
and a gravestone to the act. The ghost ribs Jack,
“I rather like your bones, son. Let’s see you rattle and roll.”
Welcomed out the door, Jack leaves without a wife.
10/13/2021
Chantelle Cooke’s Ghost Lace Contest
SOLDIER OF BATTLES.. Steve Hudson
It started, in silence, in infancy; the eyes look beyond the darkness
To understand the sounds of rage, echoes of misunderstanding,
The beginnings of normalcy wrought with disturbance,
Bereavement for the loss of innocence and the first lesson learned.
The lines in ground becoming clearer.
The only thing that ever came easy for me is warring,
Not because I chose the ground, but because it chose me.
Here is your sword; here is your battle,
The field is endless and there is no turning back,
So find your heart and find your place among the ranks
You sojourn with.
You tell one another it will be okay, and that we will pull through,
But no one really knows.
Its only after our first encounter and mortal blow that we find some
Courage to face another foe.
The welcomed peace endured for a season, then skies darken
On eminent splayed horizons and shadowy realms of spirit
You try to make sense of the next wave of terror,
Taunted and vexed at every turn.
Your enemies take form in shapes of, what is true?
Wrestling, pondering among bloody concepts and the why.
Wounds received through fearful encounters take shape of scars,
Scars take shape of trusted moments carried through
Onslaughts of deception.
Fallen men on smoldering ground, tormented by hounds of confusion.
This is how it started, but not how it ended for you see,
There was One we found in heated skirmish
Battle hardened and sure footed, the spear and shield wielded
With skillful hands, He inspired confidence in us all.
On days we found respite, He sat with us and taught strategies in warfare,
The secrets to winning the hearts and minds of defeated bretheren.
The certainty and comfort in His eyes, told stories of ancient victories held.
A kingly stature though plain to view, never considered Himself better
Then the lowliest man I knew.
We asked about some of the scars He brandished,
“They are scars received from the greatest of man’s struggles,” He said,
He got them while defending the poorest of souls.
It was then we understood, it was of us He spoke.
So now we gladly fight for this One who became the captain of our heart,
We’ve learned from the truths that have pierced our very souls,
our greatest cause and reason to be.
A soldier of battles was He…
Once upon a time I saw night like day
Having no fear from absence of daylight
Sun or moon, I enjoyed both in the same way
Loved the coming of stars in the twilight
Peaceful became dread like the greatest sin
Fearing not the dark but what lurks within
Hidden well from sight are those beings that wait
Existing between the folds of darkness
They are not obvious, made dark like hate
They invite the warmth to leave for coldness
Truly frightful to meet one yet sublime
Creatures of night never seen from daytime
Hardly ever felt at night, so beware
The shadows held no secrets once before
But one dreadful night, I chanced upon it
Ghost! Might sound ridiculous I admit
Yet it was as real as the moon lit dime
Glaring from the desk, like a great comic
My hearth skipped a beat for the first time
My brain urgently forwarding logic
I could not focus on its form on first sight
It stood in the gloom capturing no light
A presence which started out as a blur
Hairs stood on ends at the ghostly figure
Stillness became my only objective
Confronted by him I could not believe
The apparition was there yet not there
Seeming to take form within the darkness
Seeing through him like glass, he seemed harmless
Spirit or ghost I did not know for sure
Scared witless as I was I could not say
My only thought, how to keep him at bay
The specter was then kneeling near my feet
We stared at each other for a long time
To have seen him almost felt like a crime
As if we were never suppose to meet
I could make out his figure very clear
Sadness filled his eyes, removing my fear
It seemed to be pleading, but not with words
A Cheever ran along me like a sword
Are ghosts unable to make any sound?
He seemed ready to howl like a hound
Suddenly, a hand rose towards my face
This disturbing movement hard not to miss
My eyes strained to follow the fathom hand
As it swooped towards me, unstoppable
Ghosts can’t be stopped; it’s the law of the land
To make him gone, I felt incapable
I hid under covers for protection
Shutting my eyes from this confrontation
Uttering in my head, be gone, be gone
Until morning light chased away the dread
I never saw a ghost ever again
My conscience being as heavy as led
Back when times were tough, and was doctored up, I should have made positivity my business. Instead of not acting right, should have stopped the foolishness, stopped the fighting, and started too look around be gracious. My nature became missing holidays and birthdays. You just cannot have life both ways because either your broke and miserable or happy and paid. It was time to shed his negativity, and put on smile. There were too many nights in cells and days chased by trials. Life has passed by too quickly, and finally chose to spend it laughing and joking then laying around sickly. Not telling anyone how it is now, but once you give so much away to nothing taking on the heart of a champion really starts to seem like something. Realizing how life starts to pick and choose, I stare at those who were there for me, and I know I can’t ever lose. This is not just some message to try to tell anyone how to run their life. I just want to get out word life goes on in a simpler way, each an everyday, so always know where you come from and who you are..
It’s not a secret back when I took on the persona of a villain, all of the people I cared for faded away, and achievements looked higher than the ceiling. Life is what you make of it, either it can be great or one big mess. Living life the right way just doesn’t seem to come as natural when you’re growing up. As you get older the curtain seem to start to close, and you’re starting to want to be more appreciated, than being faded. Loyalty can become a factor, and lies take form you become a great actor. Partying every weekend because I wasn’t popular. I just couldn’t ignore them, all the pressures, I fell for it. Living pay check to pay check made things dicey, and humiliation started to take form as things got pricey. My mug shot on the news did not help, it just made me want more of the high life. I no longer care what they say, and it is always family first now. I no longer am out to just get mine, and even if life gets harder I know everything will be just fine because putting partying to bed means I made it. Like a great psychological film, life has become fascinating.
Take leave of this
Veneer of contented containment
Go tell your thoughts
Delineate the shades of
Dusk and the dark
Beneath the ashes sleep
Never renews this life
Little lived over and
Out like a wick
Talk takes the teacher
Like a bishop
To a castled king
Every dog has his
Day to be dinner
This cat brings change
In pockets and spades
To end topside under
Save for the hoarders
Would never come clean
Taken on winged whimsy
Spirited by Whippoorwill whispers
The embodied evanescent manifest
Who will we be
If not our past?
My veto to open
Wounds which speak softly
Ask water for warmth
And be blue brother
This synergistic system swims
The sun’s waves unaware
Our staple star unsurpassed
Suits in summer sweat
Cares with shares shift
Snow smarts the smile
Forget the global goal
In green smoke screen
Flower followers find bipeds
Take form like frogs
Business positions the tenured
The problem of power
Byproduct of professional profit
Please contact pink pig
For your pension pending
Glycerin unit vesting schedule
Fabricated and economy dressed
To eat your supper
Triangulate solution in vibrations
Sew me sound anew
Blessed songs self orient
Find joy in organization
By collaborative competition clout
Comes together they think
Through this conveyance compute
Corporate costs of copy
The tiny minds till
Their tares of cracked
Cash creates crossed functions
Yeomen wish for work
The biggest as best
Cycle while you winter
Here until your dreams
Tell you how to
Find rest in conflux
Cubed days make mockery
Of our false freedom
The office of night
Abate anathema gluttonous worm
Is light like knowledge?
Copulate nothing she says
Keep a bed about
See the ritual repeated
Growing gives the go
For rockets to assail
The reign of secret silence
Push past these principalities
A planetary pull Possessing
The answer for all
Beggaring questions more able
As balloons held aloof
With room for rain
Safety beneath a roof
Bowing before promise paramount
For seven days I perform magic for a crescent 6 year-old girl.
I bring rainbows indoors with an arc that wraps itself around her curiosity. I bring stories/fairy-tales to life. Fire-breathing dragons: secret potions, kings, princes and of course the princess in a castle---all this, under the umbrella of sprawled worn blanket that reminds us of comfort. This is our castle.
I take such things as “owies” and tummy aches and make them “go away” (as she asks) with a simple kiss from my natural lips and reluctant smile. I spin nightmares feverishly until the demons become bright-colored-big-eyed unassuming creatures (How cute she says giggling)
I am a true magician, a magnificent walking circus---that is, until she leaves me for 7 days. There is no “magic” within those 168 hours.
Fireflies mock me for 10,080 minutes. No bioluminescence during twilight. A shadowless window frame.
I am no match for these 604,800 seconds---I can’t apply pressure to them: run, run, run faster! The concept of speeding up the process does not exist here. These seconds have proven to be adversarial, each and every one of them.
I am not a magician. Rather, a father, missing his daughter searching for reminders for 7 days within a home filled with lifeless dolls: clothes waiting to take form, walls waiting for that echo--a raspy little cartoon voice. Floors anticipating to be destroyed by little feet, she is their Monster! There is a reminder in everything, everything lacks her substance.
I walk through the weight of the day contemplating how I am going to one day tell her that daddy is not a magician, just a fraud. And just when I think I have my grand speech perfected I look down at my left wrist: a pink hair tie, a black hair tie, a purple hair tie, a yellow hair tie, a rubber band---each day it’s different; subconsciously I have wrapped one around my wrist. And no matter where I am (and many times at the most unexpected places), at that very poignant moment, with that one reminder I start to think to myself “maybe, just maybe, I am…...”
I'm searching for a poetry that’s a hotbed of immense danger,
A spell that unleashes deep fear into every soul.
I want poetry that shakes the universe of old ideas,
Banned in bookstores, sites, and antique shops.
My poetry should be palpable, like a Glock in the dead of night,
Like a gleaming blade in the darkness, a bat striking mercilessly.
I want verses that don’t just heal but hurt profoundly,
Opening wounds that no one has ever felt before.
In my words will vibrate unseen terror,
Like a storm of arrows piercing the veil of reality.
Each stanza will be a thunderclap in the quiet of noon,
And each rhyme, a lightning bolt burning in deeply buried minds.
My verses will be like an ancient wizard's potion,
Mixing the essences of dreams and nightmares, of hopes and despair.
The reader's soul will shudder at their touch,
And with each line, feel bound to an invisible fate.
I'm looking for poetry that purifies through fire and pain,
That awakens everything buried and forgotten.
It will be a cry in the night, a swan song,
An echo that resounds eternally, endless and frightening.
The blades of my words will cut through the fabric of time,
Like a soul surgeon, revealing unknown wounds.
In a mad waltz, fear will fuse with ecstasy,
And in that experience, the reader will be reborn, frightened and liberated.
Each syllable will be a silver bullet, coming to cleave the darkness,
And each metaphor, a pantomime lock that reveals the truth.
The poet will be the wizard of shadows, invoking hidden forces,
And in those dangerous verses, true magic will be born.
Thus, I want poetry that elevates and topples equally,
That shatters conventions and feeds unrestrained flames.
To be both balm and poison, to be sacred and cursed,
To be poetry that shakes worlds, leaving only the ashes of dreams.
And so, in the dead of night, at the edge of reality,
My poem will take form, a creature of darkness and light.
A call to the souls who dare to feel everything,
In a world where magic and melancholy intertwine eternally.
The quiet rain dispelled any thoughts of a rain out.
It was Fenway, it was Father's Day,
And within the sacred realm of wooden bats,
Unswung and dumbly waiting,
There is the halcyon hope of impact
This on our first day of summer
Like the first day with our father
When he slapped us on our day-old baby chests
To keep us alive, keep the beeps beeping,
Forcing life's tiny engine to re-fire,
Making love's literal labor rumble back into place
Like the slamming of the hood of the car or
The smacking of the hanging breaking ball or
The blowing up of balloons, in school, for winter's child
Who needs to see the swelling of life into vivid colors
So that he'll be tempted to speak through the tumors
And show me how even more not-so-small, slow miracles take form,
Like the oldest man on the team,
On the mound, leading the league in wins,
Like my father putting a lunch together,
A salad, asparagus, and sausage in three
Giant containers I could never fit in my work bag
So in a flash he grabs this nifty-sized paper bag out of nowhere,
(the nowhere where the cabinet and the refrigerator is),
That dark and unspeakable vertical slit
Where all things crawl to be forgotten
Except by my dad who hears nothing and attends to everything
Scrambling even now to get a lunch together for his
29-year-old son who slogs eye-blinkingly around the kitchen
As morning-dumb as the day of his arrival
With the first pitch, the first slap, the first symbol of love.
Father's guide us through the passing fog
Like a lighthouse with a hearing problem, on wheels,
Barreling into the future, keeping the ball moving,
Keeping the world working.
The father is our Sun, Summer's Eternal Boy,
Guiding truth (or his version of it) where it need go:
Another Red Sox win,
Another sandwich made,
Another reason to smoke a cigar.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
As long as you promise to keep swinging
I'll promise to speak up. (And answer my phone.)
In the shadowed corridors of the mind, where echoes of forgotten dreams persist,
People dance through life, weaving patterns of absurdity to avoid the abyss within,
Avoiding the cold mirror of the soul, where truth waits, silent and unyielding,
For it is not in imagining figures of light that we find our true selves,
But in the brave embrace of darkness, where consciousness awakens.
The night is a canvas, vast and endless, where the whispers of the soul take form,
Each star a memory, each shadow a fear, painting the landscape of our inner world,
And yet, we flee from this sacred place, seeking refuge in the mundane and absurd,
Building castles in the air, fragile and ephemeral, to escape the depths of our being.
In the heart of this darkness, where the secrets of the soul lie hidden,
Lies a beauty untouched by the light of day, a mystic truth waiting to be known,
Here, in the silent embrace of the night, enlightenment begins,
Not in the radiance of imagined figures, but in the conscious awakening to our own shadows.
As we wander through the labyrinth of existence, the soul whispers its ancient song,
A melody of longing, of forgotten truths, of the sacred dance between light and dark,
And in this dance, we find the essence of our being, the pulse of the cosmos within us,
For it is in making the darkness conscious that we become whole, that we become true.
The journey is not one of light alone, but of the interplay of shadows and stars,
Of facing the absurdity of our fears and the beauty of our wounds,
In this twilight realm, where the soul's night meets the dawn of understanding,
We find the magic, the melancholy, the mystic truth of our existence.
In the depths of the soul's night, where the conscious and unconscious intertwine,
We become the alchemists of our own being, transforming darkness into light,
For in this sacred space, in the embrace of our own shadows,
We find enlightenment, we find the true magic of life.
My Mighty Qaghan of Valor and Strength,
Listen to Me, your 'Captain-General' at length,
The Poet who leads you through your Eurasian way,
Till our flag of the Eurasian Empire dawns the day!
March with freedom within you,
Zealously protect, your dreams come true,
Inspire with zeal and works of love,
Stay calm and learn from the victory of the dove,
It seems strange that dove doth chose,
But trust Me, you Captain-General will never loose,
Be it a battle or a debate!
But Patiently, O’Patiently you must wait,
Till we rise as God will summon,
Us to Conquer this Liberal-World Da’mon,
To put to shame China the wicked,
Punish it for its works doth crocked!
That winds do blow and rough seas toss’t,
Eurasia shall take form at all and any cost,
Struggles shall come, pragmatic we must be,
Give up not hope, through those struggles shall light we see,
All shall be Jealous, and Jealousy runs deep,
For you O’Mighty Empire of Mine shall weep,
But fear not, your God is with us,
Victory shall we have, Victory in-surplus!
That Old Eastern Wolf lay a’wound,
Harassed by foxes that lie within,
Small bites and bites from dearth of thought!
Ripe for the taking, taking a lot!
Do not spare them O’Mighty Troops,
For they have killed all old and new,
Then cry foul, as they know not how’l,
Such Tragedy struck, Hypocrites prowl!!
Join hands with Indus and all below,
Taiwan and Filipino!
Malaysia and Singapore!
Your motto be, 'CPC-Gong Fe, Wu-Mao No More!'
Rise O’Mighty Qaghan of Eurasian Troops,
Follow your Captain-General, stand a’groups!
Fight with freedom and for freedom,
Bring down that insidious eastern Qing-dom!
All will talk, and talk they will,
Threaten to war, the dream to kill,
But we shall stand and stand a’fort,
Cling to Crucem and nothing shall rock our boat!
O’Mighty Qaghan of Eurasian Troops!!