Long Vignette Poems
Long Vignette Poems. Below are the most popular long Vignette by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vignette poems by poem length and keyword.
(A vignette I wrote in 11th grade 2020)
The breathless, Georgia, summer heat retreats with the sun.
People come out after dusk - like nocturnal animals.
We’re hunting ice-cream, at a carnival-painted shop.
There are four serving windows, hundreds of flavors and crickets serenading from the dark.
My BFF Kim and I are with my older brother (Brice) - we run to the line and he follows.
We’re waiting in line when the noisy muscle car roars up.
The driver is Kim’s ex-boyfriend - Rob.
Dumped but still, somehow, on the planet.
We fear the contamination of simple ice-cream pleasures with sour drama.
We turn our backs as they park and join a nearby line.
I feel Rob watching us, we’re tense, like maybe there’s a spider nearby.
Rob comes over - he wants something from her - she’s bored with understanding. He stands close - private-space-invader close - he’s high-school-junior smooth.
His assertions have no creativity - just history repeating itself - the talk is brief.
After a minute, he storms off - his friends are disappointed - I think they wanted ice-cream. Tire squealing and motor roaring announce his departure - his reputation is upheld.
I got two gigantic scoops - one Watermelon the other Key Lime pie. YUM
.
.
A song for this:
Levitating by Dua Lipa
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Each day begins with pain refined to grace,
the body bent but never breaking—yet.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
A leap, a turn—each muscle must erase
the doubt that lingers like a hidden debt.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The music calls, a strict and silent chase,
no step misplaced, no ragged breath to fret.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
Blisters bloom where satin ribbons lace,
yet pirouettes refuse to pause or let~
each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The stage demands what training can’t replace:
a will that burns but never leaves a sweat.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
And when the final curtain starts to close,
the ache remains, a ghost the dancer does not forget.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The mirror holds no room for soft embrace.
The accompanying memoir vignette can be found at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/turning_pointe_13606
In the base motor pool
See an off-limits card school-
A scheming Bilko takes the pot
Hoodwinking top brass was his game,
Fast talking his claim to fame.
VIGNETTE-ALL OF A ZITHER
Across Vienna's old town
In a sewer underground,
They tracked down..Harry LIme,
A Third Man in a crime-
To music so sublime.
VIGNETTE -ON THE BEACH
Prone,lying side by side
Lapped by an ebbing tide,
Together upon passion's ride-
In love's embrace enlocked
This watershed,no longer shocks.
ADELAIDE CRAPSEY-IMAGIST
A well travelled lass named Adelaide
Innovative and never staid,
Unmarried,single but no old maid-
A short life,latterly full of pain,
Her epitaph,the American cinquain.
Tribute vignette to Adelaide Crapsey,the American creator of the Cinquain form
VIGNETTE- STRINGS & HARPS
A vaporetto upon the sea
A love departs that could never be-
Tears trickle down face,
Mahler played at his slowest pace,
Langsum,adagietto-slow.
Scene from Death in Venice
A EULOGY-VIGNETTE
William,lived and died in Perth
Buried now in Scottish turf-
Diarist,poet extraodinaire
I do declare...lived a life of pain
Yet..lasting fame lies in his cinquain
tribute to my favourite Scottish poet -William Soutar note
my book of over 100 of his cinquains FLOWERS OF LIFE (isbn 1 903203 473)@ 25$ remains available to buy
Vignette-FILLED WITH THE SPIRIT
Immersed in the Jordan,flowing fast
In readiness for an awesome task
The Spirit descended like a dove
This man here is my beloved-
He still baptises from above
Full story at Math 3:16/17
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted
In the recognition ceremony during the Special School’s commencement exercises, I was ecstatic while witnessing my child jubilantly flashing his double thumbs’ up trademark gesture. He was screaming with glee when he acknowledged his name announced as “Academic Excellence Awardee.”
Oh, so triumphant was I in propelling his wheelchair, as he painstakingly, yet zealously maneuvered my hand toward the stage. Yes, I was filled with gratitude to God on our way to receive his medal. Such milestone was, and is a miracle, since fourteen years ago, I was confronted by his pediatrician with this torturous prognosis: “He will progress toward retrogression.” He was ten months old then, and I must admit fretting while pleading to the Lord amidst faith*, uttering, “How many more days will I bear this burden?”
Now, I surely cannot wait to behold him joyously walk on streets of gold throughout eternity.
*1Peter 1:5 21 Who by him do believe in God, that raised him up from the dead, and gave him glory; that your faith and hope might be in God.
July 31, 2023
Honorable Mention, "RELATIVITY - TIME - a vignette" Prose Poetry Writing Contest; Sponsored by Suzette Richards; judged on 8/6/2023
I.
Seeds for the Earth, bread for the early
Vines for the fields, their fruits for the ones ready to perish
Gates for freedom, walls for a cover
Portals unclosed at king's pass
They bring us the way forward
As ashes of totem gods we renounced
Cladding ourselves in God's armor, we peacefully march
On our way home to the source, in love with his freedom
II.
New worlds reborn with no order
No laws, no form, no potter
No rules, no religions
Is this our sketch of freedom?
Moorish dooms rehearse themselves
No locks, no doors to keep out the legions of wars
Is this our portrait of freedom?
Knives for claws, guns for unbridled tongues that scourge
They speak abominably, they slander, they frame the innocent
Their only meditation is grave sin and gloom
Who could ever be in love with such a vignette?
How could this ever be the true picture of freedom?
III.
No water, no blood, no sun
No life, no spirit, no vessels to run
No fire, no drive, no light
No healing, no beauty, no revival
No joy, no glory, no memories
No battles for overcomes that crown us victors
No knowledge, no truth, no testimonies
No source, no men, no cherubs
No love, no energy, no miracles
No way, no signal, no time
No, how could this ever be freedom?
It lay cool against my wrist,
a gold chain with tiny stories.
Each charm was a miniature world
of special moments~
a birthday,
a summer,
a secret wish.
When I moved, they chimed softly,
a music only I could hear,
reminding me that even small things
can hold whole chapters of a life.
The little heart clicked softly
when I moved,
as if remembering
something for me.
I’d lift the bracelet to the light,
watching memories glint and sway~
small keepsakes of a girl
who believed
magic could be worn.
an accompanying memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/simply_charming_13718
A quiet spot in the house,
not frequented by visitors,
set aside, distant, aloof
solitary refuge, retreat,
escape, safe haven, sanctuary
from life trials and tribulations;
points of memory, subtle laughter,
remembered heartache and tears,
in picture frames, photographs, and reading books,
old school technology with paper, ink, and pen
scratchings of time and place,
etchings recovered and erased;
windows clean and wide,
open view portrait, vignette, a snapshot
to the world outside
visionary images of changes of the seasons
spring buds, blossoms and blooms
summer gardens exuberant with living visions
autumn color cavalcades
glistening thru the shade
warm sun lilting in reflective passage,
aging armchair warrior greeting time as it passes
clinging to the memories revived
within my sitting room.
A bloom breaks out afresh from its swollen,
green bud and then stretches skyward into
the sun-infused sky. A feature of nature that's
timeless and perennial, it faithfully flowers and
adorns its surroundings like its predecessors.
Never alone, and joined by its floral neighbors
of its own kind in fragrant numbers, it suffuses
the atmosphere all around with a heavy, yet
sweet stench of lavender and honeysuckle. The
thick odor attracts and entices the flower-
borne bees, hornets, and yellow-jackets nearby
into a steady, rhythmic pulse of continuous,
busy labor over the perfumed blossoms and
vibrantly-tinted petals. From an adjacent pond
the over-abundant and majestic beauty of the
lily-of-the-valleys add its distinctiveness to
the already rich and vibrant, floral landscape,
now teeming with the vibrancy of spring:—
so lush with fulsomeness of life and movement!
It sat there—not as metal, not as memory,
but as something half-asleep and listening.
A quiet creature of keys and shadows,
its body dulled by dust, its spirit still humming
beneath the years.
It had known the weight of a man
who believed words could bend the world~
a man whose hands were rough with labor
yet gentle with letters, as if each keystroke
were a small salvation.
I remember the music of it~
that click-clack cadence like rain on a tin roof,
like a heartbeat learning to speak.
I was a child then, cross-legged under his desk,
catching the syllables like fireflies,
not knowing they were seeds, not knowing they were mine.
When Granddad passed, I carried the machine upward
as though escorting a relic to its resting place~
a silent procession through the narrow throat of the attic.
It waited there—through summers that smelt of cedar and heat,
through winters that whispered of things forgotten, it waited~
a sentinel of stories I was too afraid to write.
Years later, the attic groaned under my return,
as if recognizing the footsteps of someone
who had once believed in beginnings.
The machine was still there, its silhouette steady,
its longing patient. It had survived because some things endure
even when we abandon them~
faith, memory, and the quiet insistence of a dream
we pretend we outgrew.
When I touched it, the dust rose like breath.
The first key resisted-a refusal,
a reminder of all the years I’d resisted myself.
But then, a single letter, dark and certain,
punched through the page like a pulse returning.
By the third paragraph, I understood:
I had not resurrected the machine. It had resurrected me.
And somewhere between the rafters and the rising words,
I realized this truth: I was never the one writing the story.
I was the story finally finding its way back to the page.
The accompanying memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
I found him in a box of dust-soft relics,
a face blurred by time yet bright with family and memory.
From brittle scrapbook pages, his life unfolded-piece by piece,
his story rose—a German farm boy who fled Dorn,
the sailor who leapt into Gulf-dark waters, swimming
toward Galveston Bay and the faint glow of a future he hoped to claim.
Texas shaped him with love, labor, and loss,
eight children rooting his family deep into new soil.
Dusk pooled in the attic around me, his courage moved
through our family line into my own bones~a quiet inheritance.
*You may find the accompanying memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_stranger_in_the_box_13607