Long Tome Poems
Long Tome Poems. Below are the most popular long Tome by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tome poems by poem length and keyword.
Nope reforming hardened criminal donning
scarred face, manacles jailhouse stripe, et cetera
nor taming screwish incorrigible guttersnipe
ain't most difficult enterprises
entailing me to wipe
dripping sweat from my hoary brow,
neither primary tsoris,
(i.e. Yiddish, asper in woeful gripe),
but reading tome thick as stovepipe
hat, I declare constitutes most grueling task
paging thru compendium of words A thru Z
may rank less purposeful than bovine tripe.
not surprisingly causing mine gray matter
(more'n fifty shades), to wanna up and scatter
fist size shot thru unnecessarily subjected
to feel like oversaturated blatter
vehemently aggrieved mad as a hatter
to appease, boost and flatter
ever shrinking fanbase blithely bandying
faux poetic pitter patter
trumpeting expansive vocabulary
enlivened, leavened, seasoned... smatter
ring poem to expressive affinity
how bajillion combinations
twenty six letters one can splatter
casually incorporating multisyllabic
word such as sesquipedalian
less to boast more so to chatter
up food for thought perhaps...
infect reader to accrue fatter
vocabulary than mine
actually rather paltry yoke cant argue
yukon (albeit figuratively) tatter
with little effort hen even
offer as hors d'oeuvres
to this storied scribbling wildcatter.
In the secret hideaways of my mind, where the shadows of thoughts dance their play,
I see you as a forbidden verse, a stanza from a tome lost in time,
Inscribed with words that, when read, awaken no emotion,
For they are completely devoid of life, a barren landscape,
With no sense of home, no whisper of belonging.
You are the poetry that always slips through my fingers,
A spectral mist I can never possess,
Verses that leave the heart ensnared in a mystery,
A labyrinth of whispers, echoing an unknown history.
You would be the kind of poetry that people find impenetrable,
An enigma written by an extraterrestrial hand,
Or perhaps by a person whose soul has frozen,
Confusing and enigmatic, like a coded message from the stars.
In the flow of my consciousness, your image forms,
Like heavy clouds on the horizon of a silent storm,
Enveloping me in a profound sense of loss,
A deep and mystical melancholy that defies reason.
I imagine you as poetry that defies understanding,
A puzzle of words, each piece a miniature universe,
An enigma that both attracts and repels me,
A labyrinth whose exit I will never find.
You are the poetry that makes me feel isolated,
A wanderer in a land of foreign dreams,
Where each verse is a path to the unknown,
And each stanza a whisper from a forgotten past.
And yet, in this confusion and hidden meanings,
I find a unique beauty, a mystical attraction,
A melancholic magic that holds me captive,
In a world of words where you reign as the queen of mysteries,
A poetry I will never fully understand,
But will always love with a silent, unwavering intensity.
O quatrain, if I would, could you?
Aren't we fancy-free?
Bolt, shock through! O baby blue!
Firewalk with me!
Ravine behind, seen in dream?
Houses of the old.
Tend thy garden on the beam!
Terror, strike them cold.
Fateful fire, thy fury.
Scurrying rat, mad mink.
Blizzard, spent in flurries?
Dragon, firebake. Bad brink.
Fates Three, Muses Nine, pain. Pine?
Dark fire, black thy shine.
Glisten, wound in back. Boil, brine.
Vampire, on death dine.
Torments of the damned? Hail, home.
Let out on the loam.
Thunder, roll above the dome.
Black bound bell and tome.
Doom, loom over. Sibyl, sense.
Golem, got sixpence?
Death-flame, burning. Manse, incense.
Recoil, confidence.
Monopolize, monologue.
Metropolis, maim.
Prick, my nerves. Human race, cog?
Downpour to disclaim.
Wren, wind. Weathervane, point. Seek.
Glow, O gibbous moon.
Plaque o'er door of boneyard, speak.
Float, O my balloon...
It’s amazing how a simple glass of wine,
Can unleash a hidden thought or meaning
You’d think as much as I’ve consumed in life,
I would have a tome that’s gleaming
Full of wise, sagacious oratory
Of thoughts that help the mind
But maybe it’s all piffle, of the wrong kind
You see it’s a very simple thing,
If you’re a writer from the heart
It doesn’t matter how or if you cloud it,
It may someday become someone’s art
God has provided us one of many bounties, the grape
That sometimes helps unleash the sometimes hidden shape
Of some very blessed minds from the most blessed of us all
It may be a way to help reach our true selves, or sometimes break through a wall
So now that I’ve made this potentially absurd assertion
It’s time to prove the theory, with some not so perfect allocution
Of some wise, thoughtful insight into a single glass of wine
For without passion and effort in the making
It may not enable the divine
So maybe try a glass of the fermented grape
When next you feel the block of the writer,
And when others read your work thereafter,
Things may turn out brighter.
Baxter was born in a meadow
under a rotting plank
with hundreds of brothers and sisters
in a home both darkly and dank.
His momma was a June Bug
and he was a June Bug too,
schooled in all the sorts of things
that June Bugs love to do.
He grew up fast, it was time to fly
and leave his happy home,
his momma went to the book case
and pulled out a well worn tome.
She read from a chapter called "Hazards"
to each of her children dear,
“Stay clear of birds when you’re flying
or you won't last out the year."
"And one more thing that you should know,
and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
So he left his home behind him,
went flying all around,
he saw some birds in the tree tops
and headed right for the ground.
After landing in the tall grass
he met a stink bug named Dwight
who told him wonderful stories
of an light so purple and bright.
"Forget now what your mother said,
I'm here to set you straight,
the orb is just a doorway,
you know, it's like a gate."
"When you enter into its brightness
you're magically swept away
to a lovely world of happiness
where forever you can stay."
So Baxter started searching,
he looked both high and low
and if he found the purple orb
straight to it he would go.
But the light was very clever,
it kept its secret well,
but Baxter kept on looking
as if he was under a spell.
Finally on an August eve
just as darkness was appearing
he spotted a distant purple glow
across a meadow's clearing.
"It must be the orb,” he said to himself,
so he flew with all his might
across the meadow with all due speed
toward that beautiful purple light.
Soon he hovered before it
and bathed in its eerie glow,
what wonders lay in store for him
his mind could scarcely know.
Gathering up his courage
into the purple light he sped,
crackle and zap was all he heard
as he fell to the ground near dead.
He lay in a growing pile
of other bugs who'd seen
a purple orb up in the sky,
but it wasn't what it seemed.
So if you meet a stink bug
who goes by the name is Dwight
don't believe the tales he tells
of a beautiful purple light.
Remember what Baxter's momma said,
"and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
DEATH, WHERE ARE YOU
Teeter totter renders its slight ups and downs.
Balance of emotions in smiles and frowns.
Temperance of this long life, I’ve been shown.
Death, where are you
Cruel times threw me or left me to crash.
I felt forsaken by my fellow man’s trash.
Burned by youth’s mistakes, buried in ash.
Death, where are you
Left breathless by my serendipitous life.
Joy in pain. Peace, prayed in oil, chastises strife,
Unfettering forgiveness, as husband and wife.
Death, where are you
Destiny hopes for my heavenly home.
Releasing my shame, grace does come.
My soul clings to the rugged cross tome.
Death, where are you
4/30/2018
Rhyme and Refrain Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Broken Wings
In the land of silvery mists, where dreams touch the ground,
A being-abyss struggles, wishing to rise in docile flight and facing a deep fear,
Striving to be a fruitful field, the most fertile version of its essence,
While the shadows of insecurity cast it into the amphitheater of blooming thoughts, to crush it.
As the depths of the ocean carve waves towards unknown shores, so it sweeps the black soil of doubts,
Foreseeing serene sorrows from now on, the swirl that is just beginning its existential course,
Before the step has been set on the ancient path of stars, before the seeds of hope are thrown to the wind.
And every conceived gesture, every uttered word that will gravitate around it,
Will be sewn in a silent dance together with its shadowed face of expectation, imprinted in the essence of the tome of life,
They will intertwine, like threads of gold in the fabric of the night, in odes of the density of dreams,
Sending echoes through the abandoned galaxies of the heart, reflecting in the constellations of distant love.
However, the gaze directed towards the traces of the past heralds unwritten legends,
Whispers of time on its aged skin, spoken in a twilight that only it hears,
Resembling forgotten smiles which rays of dawn resurrect,
In the fields where the cries of the helpless and the shouts of the strong intermingle, a lattice of recovery.
Breaking the walls of the four seasons that confine its soul in a temple of skin is not a journey without fears,
It's an ascension on stairs of comets, a search for oneself through the fog of a universe made up of shades of grey,
But when the constellations dispense their counsel in a symphonic accord,
The revelation of a world between worlds is uncovered, where its destiny is written in the stars.
Receive your promise as a lamb at the bosom of spring, let its sash unfold,
Expand the curtain of hope over the scenes of your days, allow pure magic to flood your mood,
For if you do not catch the sky in flight, if you do not savor from the chalice of chosen moments,
The opportunity to reweave the tapestry of fate will flutter away like a startled bird – the precious sands of time will scatter to remind you of the age of silence.
I woke before dawn, with places to go
My wife wants to ride, but she’s far to slow
I sure hate to leave the number one shopper
For once she gets going, nothing can stop her
But the morning bus runs, in half of an hour
And I hear her back there, starting the shower
To get stuck at the back of the bus is disaster
With a seat on the front, we get there much faster
We should hurry along before all the seats fill
I would mention the time, but can't swallow that pill
If we miss this bus, there's one that comes later
Since there is no way to hurry, the beloved wifeinator
Just a few tas and a ya, to the end of this tome
So I’ll stand on my head, and hope soon we are gone
Has anyone seen my muse -
I think she’s gone on a world cruise
One where there’s plenty of booze
Then she can have a long snooze!
Why has she run away to sea
I’m searching for her constantly
I’m feeling really unhappy
Please can someone help me?
If you find her, please send her back
Then I’ll be fine and on the right track
I’ll take her out in my Cadillac
And confiscate her spotty knapsack!
Then my muse won’t be free to roam
She will have to stay with me here at home
So I won’t be left all alone to moan
And I’ll write poems in a massive tome
6th February 2017
.
'tiz hampered
twixt'd
ooooh thuh storiez
each mine duke's digits
would
'pon slip
spill
each their own
tome
e.g.
i reach'd 'low
whence 'witch'd
warm
(((shnap)))
thus thuh
bard born'd
were
this way