Long Vertical Poems
Long Vertical Poems. Below are the most popular long Vertical by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vertical poems by poem length and keyword.
There are tons of things in the world that really matter.
And then, there are those that make you say, "Who cares?"
I was awakened this morning thinking about the word, 'WANT'.
If one broke down the word WANT, what would it look like?
If one saw the make-up of each letter, what would one see?
Does anyone even care about the individual parts of a word?
Oh, pardon me, my name is Triviality, and people call me Trivia.
Anyway, I was thinking about the four-lettered word, WANT.
I saw two 'Vs' that form the 'W' and two lines that made the 'T'.
The low-capped 't' has a vertical line that is curbed at the end.
The infamous 't' has a much shorter horizontal line crossing
the curbed vertical line just below the top to form a cross. It's
not that I don't have better things to do., but Trevia is my name.
I know. If this thought never crossed my mind, who would even care?
On a side note, the one lone vowel 'a', lives among three consonants.
But hold on; I'm almost finished. There are two crucial letters to go.
Did I tell you that my name was Triviality, and people call me Trivia?
Anyway, to me, the 'a' and the 'n' in caps have a uniqueness about them.
They are quietly sandwiched between the 'w' and the 't' to complete the very desirable word, WANT. The 'a' in caps is an upside down 'V', bridged just above the bottom by a horizontal line. The 'n' in caps is created with two leaning 'Vs', like identical twins, one up and one down. It's not that I WANT to spend my time like this, but what can I say? They call me Trivia.
062522PSCtest, Premiere Poetry Contest, Brain Strand
Lets not get carried away with facts
Or jump to the granular conclusions
Evident, proven beyond a reasonable doubt
Down to the shadows of last molecules found
Earth is held together by glue based magnets
Causing a stir in the illusion
There on the curvature of space
Ice caps north and south are two dimensional
Really just one continuous line around the planet
Drawn for your safety to the edge
Ice blocks keep us from falling off
Spinning into outer space in all directions
There are many vertical worlds out there
People have to cling on for dear life
Do a lot of climbing up to survive
Give me a planet horizontal and flat
One that I can touch at all four corners
That one over there around the bend will do
The truth is; round things make me dizzy
Magnets and ice are easier to understand
Lines merge with the Earth at the center
With length and width at the core, not much more
Reached at the border of the arctic circle
By a line, a boat and a leap of faith
Leading back to the same place as before
At the border of the arctic circle boats turn back
Lands end, drop off and that's the truth
They return to the one place that is for sure
Their destination, their point of origin
The painting of "The Sick Child" by Edvard Munch (1863-1944)
was painted in 1907, oil on canvas, 46.4 inches by 47.2 inches
or 3.8 feet by 3.9 feet. Edvard painted what stirred his mind, and
this art piece touches my soul, it is one of six of the same scene.
It is painted in thick layers, in vertical strokes and has a hazy
feel and an emotional power. We are sharing a scene that is the
veil of Edvard's memory, the death of his sister, Johanna at fifteen.
The suffering girl is propped up on a pillow, she seems poised to me .
As the girl looks to the side perhaps looking at death coming, a
mourner clutches her hands, a woman maybe a family member.
I feel a loving bond in the anguish of the bowed head and despair.
The painting captures the ravage of disease, it is a haunting scene.
The use color and style is Expressionism, pigments of white, marine
and vermillion red, ochre, emerald green, yellows, and cobalt blue
can be detected. Oh, that thick blanket must be so warm and heavy.
I feel the girl's pain, and the acceptance of her death, her emptiness.
"It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring" ~ myself, today, as SoCal gets its first rain of the season, and Anonymous, to give credit where it is due
Little tyke,
hold on, before you ride off on your bike.
If you'd like,
I will explain something insane.
It's called rain.
You are young and I am old,
and so, you must do what you are told.
Yes, that's what I say.
You think it's the other way?
It's just that you were born right here,
in Los Angeles or very near,
in Southern California.
That is why I warn ya,
there's something you've not yet seen,
a liquid like what's in the washing machine,
something that should make you think,
something a kid like you would never drink.
We covered that already - I'm not insane.
You can Google it. It's called rain.
It falls from the sky in a vertical path.
Gravity's involved. There's lots of math,
and often when the wind is blowing,
and along a slanted path it's going,
you must ditch your bike and then start rowing,
as rivulets of water flowing,
send you sailing. There's no way of knowing,
which way the current may be going,
due in part to reasons owing
to nature's special gift bestowing,
which plants use to do their growing,
unless it freezes. Then it's snowing.
But in L.A. we don't believe in snow.
It's just a myth - just so you know.
It's something they use in corny Christmas tales.
So, don't bother with those details.
Back to rainwater, which disappears, like magic, into the earth,
that ball we live on of massive girth...
When rain rises up and puddles,
it invariably befuddles
little creatures known to squirm.
Of course, by that, I mean worms,
which come floating up in sorrow,
because they'll be dry and dead tomorrow.
One good thing about rain - it sloshes.
As your mother advises, wear your galoshes.
I'd like to thank you for your attention, son.
My lecture on precipitation is quite done.
Now, go out and have some fun.
I spent too long away from her driving that rig,
So I gave up the freight line and learned how to dig,
‘cause I knew I could get steady work at the mine.
I was sure that our love was the permanent kind.
When I think of it now, Lord, the memory stings;
In a year she moved out taking all of her things.
Though I’d tried to provide her the best that I could,
Seems a working class life couldn’t hold her for good.
In the eyes of a miner the heavens are black;
An anthracite ceiling, a panic attack.
And it seems so ironic, the way that she laughed;
She took the Impala, while I got the shaft.
Now I could’ve caved in when she cast me aside,
But there’s not enough mountain to bury my pride.
Though I might’ve descended a vertical mile,
I’ll find somebody new who can teach me to smile.
In the eyes of a miner the sky’s made of stone;
A heaven beneath which no flowers are grown.
My glimpse of horizon hangs heavy and damp;
A curtain of rock in the glow of my lamp.
But there’s strength and there’s courage found way down below.
The vein’s getting richer the deeper I go.
I nod to the foreman while forcing a grin;
The only way out is the way I came in.
With the eyes of a miner a blind man could see
A glimmer of hope there among the debris.
My diamond-bit drill echoes midnight at noon.
It’s a gravel-voiced ditty, a hardscrabble tune.
The past plays back
Like a reel softly buzzing in a dusty projector
Frames jitter
Grain dances
Scratches run vertical like timelines
Nobody bothered to clean
On quiet unassuming days
Friends flicker in and out of the light
Laughing in that warm sepia tone
Not knowing they were becoming memories
Gate weave wobble
The joy stays centered
Family moments spool through
With light burn marks at the edges
Holidays melting into birthdays
Birthdays melting into twilight talks
All of it patched together
With tape only nostalgia understands
Workdays show up as overexposed flashes
Bright
Loud
Then gone
A few frames missing
A few frames scratched
The story still runs smooth enough
To feel like you were there
Somewhere in the reel
The dust settles on the parts you forgot
You didn’t mean to forget
These parts just fade like film left in sunlight
Still visible
Still yours
Just softer now
The projector keeps spinning
Casting old light on new walls
Every flicker reminds you
Even flawed reels can carry the whole story
People of sacred Cornucopias
found ourselves politically alone
competing to survive
in Earth's choking climates
of totally domesticated and over-run despair,
then neglect,
then more actively terrorizing abuses.
Corn People,
PolyCultural Planners,
greeting Yang-behaving bean bodies
growing up and into our digestive tracks
and tracts,
our speaking parts,
to sing like tassels
our Divine Corn and humane Yang-beanish ego-rising lines
of harmony
co-arising nondual Earth anthems
of graceful GreatSpirit incarnation.
Domesticating corn people
finally also meet Yin's squashed voices
flowing bilaterally out
well-grounded cooperative incorporations
intending divine corn
and Yang-bean
and Yin-squash
mutually braiding
weaving up and out
trimesters of rich
and deep
nutritional development,
with winter dormancy in-between
summerish diastasis.
Corn and Bean and Squash diversity
during August pre-birth deliveries
reduce competitive domesticating relationships
to favor cooperative democratizing trinities,
of Spirit and Body and Bilateral Flowing UnSquashed Minds.
These corny holonic domesticating resources
enjoy differentiated cultural climates,
Diverse partners prevailing
through multicultural nutritional landscapes
up and out,
down-rooting and inward feeding feeling
as outward bleeding
into each Other's Common-Space
and side-by-side solidarity reforesting times.
People of the Corn
and beans and squash,
co-domesticating temporal WinWin differentiations,
preoccupying Earth's global climate
in different times of day and night,
months and years,
transgenerational eras and stages
of mutual democratization
into trust
bean-sprouting
within interdependent pumpkin patches.
People of the Corn
invite diverse beanish vertical needs
and polypathic squashy tendril outputs
in different revolving stages
of our mutual domestication,
integrity empowered
through deep nutritional gardens
and forests of time,
like climates of Earth,
organically democratizing solidarity.
People of sacred wild Cornucopias
found ourselves politically atoned
through competing to survive
in Earth's stroking strumming climates
of globally democratizing,
healthy wealth,
Original PolyCultural Intention.
PRESENTATION
much excitement
to thrill
the soul
abstract
phrases
compelling
drama
in
an
extended
introduction
pictorial lustre
in a
vertical
composition
decorated as
a phalanx
settling
permanently
seemingly
intricate
simple motifs
captivating
a sense
resembling
orderly circles
in
oscillating
precision
sleek
as a
shaped sphere
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
I'm crestfallen in the shadows
of my raging firecrackers
when you're far.
I'm embedded
in the gaze of
your tempting
Silicon Valley.
Dumbfounded
by the cabbage
twists and turns
of your deceitful
twilight eyes.
my raspberry!
The howl of
my desires,
and voids
of my
needs.
Sink me
in the streets
of lavender
sins. Your beards
have enchanted
my thoughts and I can
no longer decipher
illusions from imagination.
The reality of your tender
existence is pushing me out of mine,
pulling me into your cloves of natural cocaine.
You're the hope of
my tomorrow,
the faith of my today
and the suffering of
yesterday. I long
for your beaded touch
and the threads that
carve holes in it.
I crave for your
whiskey eyes.
It fills me
through
the
primrose
spring.
Pats
me into the
deep cracks
of your
cemented bed.
Let me sniff your breath,
let me tell you its colors.
Allow me bit
the scars of your wounds
so I can share its taste with
your coal lips and let you
know, you can no longer bleed
because I'm the final healing.
I want to feel the
vertical lines on your chest.
Inhale the infinite tunes of your gasps.
Close my eyes
and still see
you in crystal bays.
Twirl my hands in
your hair and reassure
you that I will make
you live forever.
Appreciate your strong
nerves for working on
my neck and at your desk.
To remind you that you
didn't feel true emotions
your whole life, till you
met my flat nyash and its reflections.
His psychosis created a fragment of hell.
An azure paradise annihilated of purpose
screamed in cacophony of mystic syllables,
and sensing different times and places.
a shrivelled illusion intruded his mind...
only to disappear suddenly in a sinkhole.
In waiting room of Doctors chamber,
he cried for help, but nobody listened.
The ruckus of dysfunctional dopamine
cut a vertical bevel in his horizontal thinking.
They said it decimated his culminating life
it now will need a leverage of medication.
A derelict dog runs frantically...
after the family car speeding for vacation.
He stretches his arms, "please take me along
in my resolution to fight this fatal brawl".
Dated 4th June 2019
Sponsor Kai Michael Neumann
Contest Eight Word Challenge
Write a poem that contains these eight words ...
psychosis, leverage,fragment,bevel
derelict,resolution,sinkhole,illusion