Long Unroll Poems
Long Unroll Poems. Below are the most popular long Unroll by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unroll poems by poem length and keyword.
A Wintry Night
The night is dull, dreary and cold,
Yet my books I wish to unfold,
My aged pen I wish to hold
And divine verses to unroll.
The wind is cold, sturdy and strong,
My bones are frail, feeble and weak,
Yet my mind is robust and young
And songs with rhymes I long to tweet.
The clouds are dense, hefty and dark,
Yet my inner self is full bright,
Plugged with the radiant inner spark
And dazzling with the inner light.
The rains are wet, heavy and damp,
Yet my soul is light and full bright,
Drawing from the flame of the lamp,
Lit throughout the day and the night.
My frame is still, steady and warm,
But soon it will turn wintry cold
And laid to rest as food for worms
Or set to fire on a fold.
Yet the night will soon fade away
And anon a new dawn creep in,
Giving rise to another day,
May be better than one has seen.
Like the new dawn, my soul will rise
To reside in another shrine
Until, at last, time will arise
For it to reach the Divine Shrine
Where there will be no wintry night
And the light will be ever bright.
Written on 7 May 2023
For A Brian Strand Premiere No. 1215 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Alas oh how grave and horrendous misfortune...
Relapse written all over whole
fudge besmirched countenance
American as apple pie garden variety troll
tell tale evidence eats away
at me heart and soul
argh so much for new year's resolution
straight and true healthy eating goal.
Lofty ambition to attain once upon time
coveted, prized, and
treasured toothpick physique,
no not necessarily becoming
thin as anorexic pencil necked geek
scores of years ago,
when yours truly resembled
quiet as mouse phantasmagorical
disembodied prepubescent freak
surreally bobbing long Battle Creek.
Morphological body distortion bid me
to allow, enable, and provide suicidal
grimly reaped tally ho
with feebly uttered see yawl
back in the day circa approximately
my thirteenth circuit round the sun,
I sought to disappear into cellular vacuole
formerly carefree boy
his loose higglety-pigglety
hogtied psyche psychological,
(not in yeast wryly bred) did unroll
severely psychological afflicted son
taxed his mama and papa where
somber appalling death knell
deathly silent lugubriously reverberated
figurative emotional bell toll,
Matthew Scott starved yet hungered
for sustenance of body, mind and soul.
Pact nearly signed, sealed,
and delivered signaling demise
(mine) unwittingly inflicting horrific guise
kickstarting pinteresting repercussions no lies
lifetime developmental delay no surprize
even now this aging baby boomer tries
to shake off pervasive thought process unwise
fending off punishing
self destructive reflexive urge
after experiencing wages
of culinary sin where surge
impossible mission just desserts to purge
thus sink dentures into sweet treat
taste buds relishing joie de vivre emerge
(think chocolate fudge) flashes me memory
prior lovely skull and crossbones
nearly acknowledged funereal dirge.
LXII+ years old and he still carries a security blanket
Move over Linus
Van Pelt of Peanuts fame,
cuz yours truly
also psychologically lame
since prepubescence
mine noticeably long hair
delivered inner comfort,
yet found some classmates
calling me "hippy" by name
though other tormentors among them
hurled expletive laced offensive insults
even ethnic slurs much less tame.
Absolute zero
anti-bullying laws prevailed ahoy
when reasonably rhyming poet
just a little beastie boy
"mean kids" hurtful tactics
they did deploy,
though one bookish lad named Donald Hoy,
he rode the same bus as me,
and most likely practiced magic ploy
to ward off nemesis.
Impossible mission
to detangle mane reason why
I experienced omnipotent
hair reed bond neither thy
father, mother nor therapist
could understand or qualify
outsize (obsessive/compulsive)
significance well nigh
much more (hyperbolically writing)
blatantly mystifying and unsettling
versus comprehending meaning
regarding the bridge on the River Kwai,
whereat these long strands
emanating from scalp, I
imagined them extending
out into space into no fly
zone, and if adored locks threatened
with someone brandishing scissors
one puny lad would cry.
Parents did not berate,
when early within mein kampf,
no matter my mother did execrate
obsessive compulsive thoughts did instigate
long necked pencil geek son
did unwittingly irritate
analogous to Samson
(though Delilah not my mate),
I imbue power courtesy each golden lock
atop me addled sub tracked pate,
where fifty plus shades of gray matter
houses ticky tacky psyche substrate,
which doth bubble, gurgle and percolate.
Only upon taking me last breath of air
viz, when grim reaper delivers death,
I will unroll welcome me
Scottish Harris tweed mat without fanfare
(for this common man),
and just maybe allow, enable, and provide
thee opportunity for scissors
to lop off longish straggly hair
subsequently repurposed into a
security blanket ideally suited
to create creature comfort within lair
for garden variety and generic caveman,
who truth be told lives very near
yours truly in Schwenksville.
Beyond a small stream’s margin lay we two
beneath a giant oak which spread sweet shade.
We barely knew what next we ought to do
there, pleasure-sated from the love we’d made
within deep foilage like a carpet lush.
The grass, which from the bank seemed to unroll
with wealth of buttercups and trim of brush
continued past us, up a gentle knoll.
Wrapped in one another’s arms, we pondered
how the rill, once sprightly, now seemed subdued,
and how it once had rippled as it wandered
toward this sheltered spot of solitude.
Our brook, which kissed each boulder on its way,
in vacant time – with us – now sparkling lay.
(a haiku and a monoku formed from using the bolded words in this sonnet)
grass seemed to unroll
beyond a small stream’s margin . . .
wealth of buttercups
our sprightly brook - which had kissed each boulder on its way - now sparklng lay
The winter nights draw in
as snow begins to fall
For soon it will be Christmas Day
the loveliest time of all
My Christmas tree adorned
with sparkling baubles and fairy lights
With my dear old fairy on the top
attached with a pair old tights
She’s been around for oh so long
she’s even older than me
My Great Gran owned her first
she used to sit upon her tree
But oh she was much younger then
and pretty as can be
So don’t gaze up too closely
for the years have taken their toll
Her hair is coming out
and her dress has begun to unroll
This dress it has seen better days
the moths they have been eating
But overall and from afar
her smile is a wonderful greeting
For Christmas time is special
the old traditions they live on
Having my fairy on top of the tree
in her dress of white chiffon
If only she could talk to me
such magical tales to convey
Of precious times when my family past
would meet for their Christmas soiree
Christmases of a bygone era
Oh how I yearn to be there too
But alas I cannot go back in time
So without any further ado
I brush her hair and stitch her dress
She does not look a total mess
My beautiful fairy on top of the tree
if only you could speak to me…..
23rd October 2018
The world is hushed, garbed with an outfit white,
The trees stand bare, with branches stark and cold,
The day`s orb, quite shy, offers little light,
A winter story silently unfolds.
The birds have flown to lands of warmer skies,
The squirrels are sleeping in their veiled nest,
The wild woeful wind warping up so high
Plants exhausted nature strongly to test.
The days are short, the nights long, dreary, deep,
A time to crack fires, one`s breath to withhold,
While snowy dreams through frozen eyes do creep
And winter`s gloom gradually unroll.
But underneath, a promise starts to bloom,
Awaiting spring to chase away the gloom.
Beauty
This thing called beauty
If I only knew
It must be my duty.
I demand a clue
To unravel its secret
If I only knew?
I would keep it
In my body and soul
Far more than a day.
I’d write on a scroll
Defining for all
You to unroll.
It is my call
To shout it out
From a high knoll.
I care not to flout
This unknown thing
For I undeniably doubt
That it is a King
On a golden throne
Rather his ring.
Can it be known?
Is it a mountain stream,
Or is it a stone?
Does it come in dreams
When thinking of you?
Your loving schemes
Can it be blue?
Is it something I see?
Is it always true?
Can it be
Something I feel
Like a churning sea?
A butterfly’s zeal,
A little child’s smile,
A sunset you steal?
Will it go on trial
If mistaken for lust?
Does it last for a while?
Will it combust?
Can it be held,
Not turned to dust?
And not withheld?
What is this thing
If not a word upheld?
Does it have wings?
Is it more than you see?
Yes, it even has flings.
It is found in the sea,
On mountains high,
Is more than it can be.
It is black and white,
The color of skin,
Reflections of light.
It is not a sin,
The music you sing.
Hidden within.
It is a string,
The words you pen,
To which you cling.
It is when
The portrait you paint
Ends in amen.
It is more
Than all these things
And even more
This thing called beauty.
The carpet has two sides
The upper surface with patterns
The underside plain
It describes two worlds
The rich and the poor
The dignity and the informality
The solemn and the ordinary
The authority and the civilian
The high reputation and the low reputation
The publicity and no visibility
The difference makes the two extremes
Unroll the carpet red and shining
You're the king or queen of that moment
Rolled up the carpet dull and dusty
You're yourself or a step lower
Why not
Always be a figure that live
In the hearts of people
With or without the carpet
Like God who is the almighty
Of all mankind
Irrelevant of man's origin
I wish to lie where orchids dream
In shade of trees beside a stream,
Where petals turn to velvet light
And hide away from coming night.
The grass is smooth beneath my head,
A verdant green and quiet bed;
I hear the water softly speak
Against the wrinkles of my cheek.
I watch the clouds slowly drift by
Gazing at the placid blue sky,
With din of cities far away,
Signalling a calm peaceful day.
Eyes half closed, I breathe in and out,
With the mind cool and clear from doubt,
Free from thoughts, turning round and round,
Aligned with the quiet surround.
In the depth of my inner self
I glean a light within myself,
Kindling comely orchids in bloom,
Dispelling darkness of life`s gloom.
I find a peace I cannot name
With the light of an inner flame,
With simple breath and quiet ground
Where only grace is to be found.
I lie long hours gazing within,
Amidst flowers calling me in,
With a bunch of lovely daisies
That ring my bliss with their beauties.
As I fully open my eyes
I can view the orchids arise,
For here the breeze is sweet and still
Upon the slope of a low hill.
In hidden spots where shadows play,
The silent orchids dream away;
Kissed by the sweetish soft sunlight,
Their petals open in delight.
With the sway of light gentle breeze
They softly dream of climbing trees,
Their roots reaching the deep, dark soil
And twisting tight in tranquil coil.
They don`t dream of the golden sun,
Nor with butterflies to have fun,
But vision bees kiss their pollen
And in sweet love, with them fall in.
Such bliss pervades my shining soul,
Where daisies dream, free to unroll,
That I wish not to quit this place
For any other sparkling space.
One-ply, two-ply, three-ply, four:
Whether you are rich or poor,
This is something that you need.
Substitutes won’t do, agreed?
Extra soft or without rolls,
Every brand has matching goals –
Do the job and help us wipe.
We don’t need the extra hype!
One conundrum makes folks nuts;
They won’t stand ifs, ands or buts.
(Pun intended) – This harangue
Regards which way the roll should hang.
Is the next-to-follow strip
On the top for you to rip?
Or perhaps it’s lying under
Waiting to be torn asunder?
Everyone thinks his way’s best.
Please comply if you’re a guest.
When you’re on another’s bowl,
Use his method to unroll.
One last thing I’d like to mention –
This is one superb invention;
For without its grand debut,
I can think of one word – EEW!
July 31, 2012