Long Tile Poems
Long Tile Poems. Below are the most popular long Tile by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tile poems by poem length and keyword.
Being cracked is no better than being shattered or broken.
Ask a heart if this is true. ~ Quote by poet ~
Morning broke at the crack of dawn
I gave the phrase thought, with a yawn
Alluding to sudden daybreak?
That logic caused my head to ache
A strange idiom for first light
Sunrise was such a lovely sight
I rose from bed and stretched my back
Pondering things that had a crack
I saw one on the bathroom floor
One that had not been there before
I looked into my cracked mirror
wishing my image was clearer
In the shower I spent a while
staring at cracks in the wall tile
Had I never noticed the flaws?
I wondered, What had been the cause?
I cracked an egg, and then I thought
Did I just stop a beating heart?
When an egg is cracked from within
a brand-new life will soon begin
But cracked from the outside, life ends
and there's no way to make amends
I couldn't eat it, scrambled or fried
Grabbed my jacket and went outside
There was a hopscotch drawn in chalk
and hairline cracks in the sidewalk
I stepped over all that I could
It took me back to my childhood
Days of playing with my stuffed bear
To times when I didn't have a care
When I rode on ponies, barebacked
without noticing things were cracked
Some can be fixed; some never mend
Some leave us shattered in the end
Ask a heart that has been broken
by odious words ill-spoken
It will say, "From a crack I bleed.
My destiny has been decreed."
Anything cracked loses its strength
when from love, it's held at arm's length
January 20, 2022
C Form - Couplet Contest
Chosen Theme - Cracked
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
Syllables checked with HMS
'Hole in Heaven' composed by the certain dramatist of India
Depicting the Heaven captured by earthly power-mania
Yahweh’s three-leg-throne getting easily bombarded
And the whole heavenly communion getting annihilated
'Bye, Bye, Butterfly' I titled a poetic piece once, my friend
Poems are endless and real poems find no perfect end
I am talking to you today about selecting a fitting tile
It's not so easy when you write a literary work vital
When on earth I find my works getting lesser or no viewers ever
Immediately a pain starts pricking me just like an office pin, severe
'The Respectable Donkey' -well-versed; rhymes jingling, yet, why
This work gets as though dust-bins standing neglected eternally by
What else you want? indeed, important is the way you say
Take time to edit and get masters’ views on what you convey
All the same, find a proper title like 'Taurus in its Temperature'
That attracts anyone who comes across your work makes sure
‘My Last Cup of Whisky’ I titled one of my counseling works
‘Who drinks whisky in a cup?’ a genuine critique questions
Cup or glass or vessel or plate or kettle or pot I simply tell you
If you drink whisky, constantly, you need to take care, Best wishes!
04/28/2021
What's In A Title In 14-20 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
On The Edge
He lay flat on the floor
On the edge of his mind's cliff
Taking notes
Wondering
is this life worth living
He tried to remember
Grasp onto
Happier times
Shadows of light
Fluttered beyond his grasp
Teasing
Evaporating
Hiding
Figments wrapped in glittering paper
Promising
Tempting
Geometrically angled
Away from him
He felt the coolness of the tile
Terracotta pressing against his forehead
Soothing
Absorbing his fever
Steadying him
Whispering
Promising relief
"Let your blood accentuate my redness"
" I will protect your bones"
Light flows through stained glass
Christ's brilliant blue eyes
Piercing his sadness
Reassuring him
There will be more days
Brighter lights
Warmth not clay
Sadness shall be left to yesterday
The floor will not be fed today
It is washed with his salty tears
The edge vanishes
Was it ever there?
One moment
Graciously
Turned to years
He sits in a pew
Looks up away from himself
It now seems so clear
He gets up
Walks across the floor
Walks out the silent door
Deciding once and for all
He doesn't need
Or want
This horrid place
Any more
His heart is healed
God goes where he goes
The suffering he lived no longer grows
What he remembers sets him free
He will not be lost to history
He chooses a life of Joy not misery.
Dedicated to native children abused in church and residential schools.
Their culture was systematically stripped away. in some cases much worse
things happened behind what should have been hallowed walls.
In writing this I question if this piece was honoring to Native people. As I thought about this I realized that this piece speaks to their resilience as a people. Despite what was done to them they have found a way to hold onto their culture traditions art and language. We have much that we can learn from them.
Written by: Richard J. Lamoureux
www.wisedummypoet.com
Sky deep dark
Flash of lightning;
Teary weather
~~~~~~~~~
Mahjong game
Mental gymnastics;
Feel tile speak
~~~~~~~~~
Words come
By this sidewalk;
Old friends meet
~~~~~~~~~
Joy wears a face
Happy moments;
Family mahjong
~~~~~~~~~
Baby shower
Floral colours;
Infant fast asleep
~~~~~~~~~
Background noise
Pulse of cheer;
Happy applause
~~~~~~~~~
New flavours
Keto diet plan;
Purge all carbs
~~~~~~~~~
Rain invigorates
Park walkway;
Foliage freshly wet
~~~~~~~~~
Downtown trip
Buying spree;
Sales galore
~~~~~~~~~
Sad eyes
A new tale;
Unspoken
~~~~~~~~~
Old vendor
Pain limps awkward;
Age punctuated
~~~~~~~~~
Playground wet
Children in dismay;
Play suspended
~~~~~~~~~
Pretty lady
Two kids in tow;
Stops to debrief
~~~~~~~~~
Earth brown chameleon
Spying next move;
Freeze-frame portrait
~~~~~~~~~
Old footpath
Random footfalls sculpt;
Mud patch monochrome
~~~~~~~~~
Young lovers
Eye to eye stroll;
Love greets electric
~~~~~~~~~
Ice-cream seller
Old world flavours;
Big people congregate
~~~~~~~~~
Crimson evening
Sun smiles fiery red;
Darkness intercedes
~~~~~~~~~
Squirrel scurry
Uncertain moves;
Run up old tree
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
24 June 2017
Singapore
Yellow rubber, swallowed by the wardrobe’s floor,
cracked wide across the instep where the plastic split.
They smell of wet rubber, mildew,
fear;
a pair of small boots, size twelve, seven years old,
caked in dried river-silt and salt.
A stranger may look in and call this precious,
a quiet snapshot of a girl who loved the rain
before her legs lengthened
and learned the art of running away.
How sweet to think I open up this closet to
reminisce an untouched girl leaping in the rain.
I never grew out of my yellow boots.
Perhaps I was torn out of them.
The monster does not have a face,
all rot and cold,
a mouth of shadows opening beneath the porch,
his heavy fingers smelling of damp earth and rust.
He never touched the boots; only the girl inside,
snapping her out of them like a bone from a joint,
leaving two empty hulls dropped flat upon the tile.
Each morning I reach into the dark for my coat,
and realize the closet is not where I hide the memory -
but where the monster wears my yellow rain boots,
waiting for me to slip my feet back in.
She grips a guiding hand,
stepping through the heavy door.
Her weight is shifting, hesitant,
wading through the tangled noise,
a momentary, shallow breath.
The rhythm shifts to meet her step.
The bass spills down,
a thick and pouring wine.
She lets the guiding fingers fall,
stepping onto the busy floor
letting the vibration pull her in.
She maps the floor sound.
The subwoofers push
a steady, throbbing north.
She doesn’t flinch at the sudden rush
of a shoulder spinning past,
just rides the static wake.
Her body catches on the groove.
A sweeping, arch of spine
that cuts through the flashing haze.
The crush of bodies hesitates,
stepping back they clear the floor,
leaving her to perform.
I see her read the dark in drafts.
A perfect pivot on the sticky tile.
She traces friction from a sliding sole,
and drinks the deep vibration up,
her body anchored to the sound.
SALAD DAYS
Remembrances of my salad days can’t enrapture me.
Compound fractures in heart when compelled to brawl,
though healed in the long run have left deep scars.
I walked all alone strolling in whirling storm
to mourn or to exult, yet strong soul was sworn.
Seeds of courage and zeal were sown in my conscience
solacing my sad salad days struggling forlorn.
Little sprinkles of love also spread pretty polka dots of joy.
Confident tune resonated in rhapsody of life
walking all alone, sometimes resting in sojourn.
05/26/19
Third Place
'Pick A Tile Vol.5 Verse' Contest by Edward Ibeh
Through the unfinished step goes
with time as we walk in repose.
Blindly his son has observed us through the blue and glowing days
blessed through His paternal rays.
Though, close still the blinds we pull,
through His breath rite of baptism waters cool.
Flourish rapture strings by two
closely weave who sees through.
Angels come down from heaven clad
in wisps of sun and full moon maketh glad.
Immersed in stain glass tile,
folded wings, and flawless smile.
Hark to his wisdom, his arms around
bares to all the garden ground.
12/5/2017
Poetry Contest: Favorite Rhyming Poem Ever
Sponsored by: Laura Loo
Sitting, thinking, stuck, saying repeatedly to myself...
"I've got to go, I've got to go, I've got to go"
As I sit and stare at the four-by-four ceramic tiles,
They look back at me with many faces.
It's amazing where my mind has taken me.
Those faces in those tiles, I see a woman holding a child.
As I continue to sit and wait and wait...and wait.
And continue to wait, I keep repeating to myself...
"I've got to go; I've got to go"
Then, I see on another tile what appears to have a horse on it.
It could be a cow, no it's got a horn, it's a unicorn...that's it!
On the upper right-hand corner of that tile, I see something round.
Could it be the moon I ask myself, maybe a shaded sun perhaps.
To the left and three tiles down is a man with a long hair.
Who is it, is that Moses...hmm maybe!
Wait- No that's Christ, that's Jesus...yes that's him, it has to be.
And why is it he, why am I so convinced that the lord came to me in such an unusual fashion, and at such a much-needed time.
Well, because I realized that I really didn't need to repeat to myself again... those frustrating words... "I've got to go; I've got to go"
Nor would I have to stare at those tiles much longer.
Thank you, Lord, thank you Jesus...
I went
Could I ever forget you my little paternal home?
Your reminiscence haunts me however far I might roam.
That mysterious nook wherein my mother gave me birth,
That treasure-chamber, where there never had been dearth for mirth...
That corner where, for first-time, I felt your motherly kiss,
Where with milk and maternal bond I drank your baffling bliss...
That home where, as young, many human virtues I learned,
Performing little things, where, from elders, esteems I earned...
Its each stone and each tile, had marvelous stories to tell,
Mixing, like milk and sugar, tales of heaven and hell...
When storms and tempests shook you, my roots within me did shake,
Though calm and still I sat; my heart, as pricked by thorns, did ache...
Could I forget that cashew-groove, palms and coconut trees?
Each little flower that, like novice dancer, sway in breeze...
That little pond, where I learned swimming and somersaulted,
Near which for inspirations to my poems, I halted...
Oh! Those little sparrows! Don’t they seem less in number now?
Those eagles in polite fury! Where are they, anyhow?
Though old and shaking, do not kindly fall down, home dearest...!
When life says slow good-bye to me, I'd love stay your nearest...!
23 July 2022