Long Vocabulary Poems
Long Vocabulary Poems. Below are the most popular long Vocabulary by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vocabulary poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh sapience of musings, oh savior of poetic art!
How longingly I seek you out to inspire my ballad
When lassitude of the night envelopes my mind
And grimace of dawn darkens shrouded in fog.
Oh lyrics of melodies, oh harmonies of music!
How eloquently you speak in articulate dreams
When wordless melancholy poignantly echoes
And voice of emptiness confiscates my themes.
Oh redeemer of words, oh language of feelings!
How musically you evoke rhythms of symphony
When broken phrases languish in depleted ink
And haze of confusion subjugates my euphony.
Oh oratory of wisdom, oh intellect of vocabulary!
How metaphorically you divulge motifs of imagery
When ineptitude of simile diminish comparability
And wordplay disappoints in misplaced analogies.
Oh allure of meaning, oh enticement of literacy!
How singularly you elevate cadence of my poetry
When decaying thoughts linger forever miserably
And creativity encounters nothingness of drudgery.
October 5, 2020
Placed 1st: When there is no inspiration poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
The vernacular language that I use
Slips into my writing also and can confuse
Those from other countries and regions
Sometimes my language is macabre
For I slaughter the English language
From the teachings of my upbringing
And also from the family and associations
My language patterns have taken formation
I wish that the zephyr of higher learning
Could sweep across and saturate me
With an instant knowledge of a broader
Vocabulary and grammar so that writing
Would become an eloquent and easy
Part of my life gracing me with flowery
Words that would bless each heart
That reads my work consuming each morsel
Sponsor:Brain Strand
Contest: Any poem from your first 100/ any form/ max 15 lines
I have escaped to my frog prince room to get away from my everyday messes.
I promised myself I would not do this again, reminding myself, "less is more."
But self did not listen. We dragged home everything and anything someone might use.
Someone might use has never come to play or to visit.
Someone might use has never taken anything home.
Someone might use does not exist except in my shop-a-holic mind.
Someone might use needs to be obliterated from my dendrite pool.
Someone might use needs to be annihilated and cremated.
Someone might use needs to walk the plank, in front of ferociously angry pirates.
At the very least, someone might use needs to be eliminated from my vocabulary.
And the way this stuff is piling up, the sooner the better.
Is this the result of being raised by two children who lived during a depression?
Maybe, but my mother could locate anything and everything, quickly, for someone who might use.
I cannot find it even when I search and search.
I am a grown up now, anyway.
I have no one to blame but myself for all of these things that "someone might use", but never does.
As I discard truckload after truckload of stuff that I dragged home, for the notorious
"someone who might use", I hope that I have learned my lesson.
But I doubt it.
She is not impressed by your borrowed brilliance,
By the overly polished theories that hang from your lips like cheap jewelry,
No—she feeds on rarer flesh, nourishment for the chosen soul,
She feasts on the marrow of irreversible philosophy, from tongues dead for centuries,
Her crown is forged from papyrus scrolls crumbled by time,
Engraved with equations that keep the stars in eternal, silent obedience,
She wears quasars as brooches, unravels black holes and braids them into her hair,
When bored by the mundane orbit of ignorance surrounding her.
Your pompous and superficial intellect will not buy entrance to her court,
Which you display like a trained dog performing cheap tricks,
She has read the plans of the cosmos backwards and memorized impossible enigmas,
Burned them for the sake of zeal, of knowledge burning with a living flame.
She doesn't blink at clever men reciting recently learned syllogisms,
She waits for the one who can trace the skeleton of history blindfolded,
For the one who can recite the forbidden footnotes, those the world forgets,
Written in the margins, dripped with blood and hidden by dying sages.
She wants the viscous vertebrae, the fetid rot, and the brutal bone of knowledge,
She wants the wisdom that cut out its own tongue to survive the ages,
And if you come to her with shallow quotes, with a shiny vocabulary, expecting a throne,
She won't even glance at you, for she is an empress of erudition,
The devourer of buried falsehoods, and you are merely noise in the corridor of time.
In California today, 2025, city managers, attorneys, engineering
Work in an infrastructure of control without water fountains.
Micromanaged district supervision of States of legislature
Troughing below the poverty lines as entrance and exit serve the wills inheriting the labor of "housing" "something" without competing.
Prediction of 24 hours, 7 days, is enough hearing of you
Needn't be hear nor better with time in a second arrived
Lots full of practice and routine appearance
Essayists and poets marching
Into town halls to legislate
Creating labora frame
Georgia 5th had no time to talk
Tap into the art of the unknown magick , unknown by vocabulary unable to bridge a connection
Lost like trickles of water in the cracks of the next dimension
Gaping black hole sucking life
Through the straw of deletion, everything is consumed though time
With a little to grant fruition, everything is on repeat until the jolt of perfection hasn’t reaped
Its pole position such confusion has become a daunting pollution
Unable to reach any conclusion without understanding a foundation
This structure is without a clue it’s all wrong it’s all off
The geometry secret has gone beyond our capacity given once but lost
It’s all here the infinite reply the infinite answer invisible to all
If browsed by any if ever a any, captivating its mass transparency
In the splinter of a second one grain of it’s speed the equivalent in weight, of ten million elephant feeds
Holy imagination laid to rest upon that last moment we like to claim as best
And then back to ignorance and yet again sucking on the teat of another’s breast
These are truths of wandering masses running around after materials, memories
And prideful clashes and what a purpose built and all done before
It all means no-thing when everything was saw piled on the heap of extinction
Burnt, vanished, broken, diluted mended and then manifested ashes
The plethora of our understanding it’s all gone, Just magick.
hints of sorrow and completely tragic.
“I want to be a writer.” My little one announced. The immediate response of his father was, “I will not invest on your studies, then. What do you say? “These days I am striving to learn big words, increase the vocabulary list. And at the end of the day, I am feeling like I am passing my last days and nights. These days are too slow, too painful. I was a shy, introvert kid, probably I still am. After passing all moments of discussions, mutual understanding, I realized often times that I forgot to ask the most important question; and it is too late, now. I have tremendous trouble in doing eye-contact. Always feel like I am an open book in front of those scrutinizing pair of eyes. I am continuous in giving credit to a tremendously powerful opponent. It is not helping at all, not at all. Old memories softly pour on, like a softer tune, like a softer light. “You have your math test today, get up, quickly!” my mother softly tried to wake me up one day. A long-forgotten moment. I woke up, paused for a moment, and told my mother,” My name is Tamanna Ferdous.” She was surprised, obviously. “Why are you telling me, this? “She is gone, long time ago. Still feel like sometimes, I am telling my name to surprise her, again and again and again. That poor math test taker and that math test!
—The Heresy of Light—
Before light, there was no darkness—
only the fathomless unarticulated,
where neither here nor elsewhere
had yet divided the infinite.
Then one photon,
an infinitesimal apostate of the void,
crossed the primordial silence—
and existence acquired
its first distinction.
Here.
Beyond it:
Elsewhere.
Thus distance was born,
and time, that patient devourer,
received its first wound.
A star kindled.
The universe became capable
of remembering itself.
We named this creation.
Perhaps it was the first betrayal
of the invisible.
For ever since,
we have mistaken the name
for the thing named:
we call a mountain mountain
and think we have contained its immensity;
a flower flower
and mistake taxonomy for perfume;
we draw constellations through ancient fires
and praise ourselves for discovering
what the heavens never inscribed.
Yet the unseen is not emptiness.
It is plenitude exceeding apprehension—
reality overflowing
the narrow vessel of the perceiver.
Even love refuses our jurisdiction.
Learn the beloved's face,
the genealogy of every scar,
the cadence of every silence—
and still, when that face withdraws,
there remains an inward country
to which knowledge has no road.
Perhaps this is the secret wound of absence:
presence gives the senses an object;
absence reveals
that the beloved was never an object
to begin with.
And death—
what if gone means only
beyond the jurisdiction of sight?
A star may perish
before its radiance reaches us;
yet centuries after its furnace is ash,
its last light enters a living eye.
So extinction is not necessarily silence.
What has ceased to burn
may yet arrive.
What has become dust
may remain luminous in consequence.
We are, perhaps,
the afterlife of vanished fires.
Therefore, when my own light falters,
do not say I have entered darkness.
Say only:
he has crossed beyond
the vocabulary of sight.
For darkness was never light's opposite.
It was the immeasurable
within which light,
having committed its first heresy,
was still learning
what it meant
to be seen.
1
See me rising
Through the mist
Cameras flashing
This is not vain glory
Spot lights on me
Because I have what it takes
God put it there
I was told to let
My light shine
And so when they ask me
Who are you?
A big fat sunshine grin
appears on my face
Because I know who I am
The word Can’t
is not in my vocabulary
I’m an AfriCAN
2
I was made in His image
Victory is my destiny
I’m history in the making
I will not fail
I am a champion
I have nothing to loose
If I perish, I perish
That’s my creed
I am resolved to do
what I’m made for
Defeat doesnt exist
in my world
Yes I can
Impact or Die
This is my resolution
I’m born to win
I’m an AfriCAN
3
What a shock!
is what they said
when I emerged
through the ashes
My hands are blessed
My fingers trained
for battle
Victory runs
through my chromes
I have no concept
of defeat
Did I hear cant?
Own up!
You Charlatan!
And Yes I Can
because I’m an AfriCAN
4
I will break the heart
of my enemies
I will hand them the towel
to wipe their tears
When they experience me
it will be epic
There will be no remedy
For their ultimate tragedy
Take that u hater!
Victory will be my name
On that Blessed day
Their lives will never
Be the same
When the battle is turned
at the gates
I am anointed to win
I’m an AfriCAN
by Tetteh Addo
Ocie the Ocelot liked words a lot!
As a tot, words like dot and trot hit the spot
Then, getting older, the folder on her shoulder grew bolder
What was once handy stopped ringing so dandy
Craving vocabulary candy to bandy
She sought what she ought, to form lukewarm to hot
Mooshu, the emu guru, knew what to do
To bring notice and gain focus
Journey there, to the oracle's lair
The fortress of Morris the Thesaurus Tortoise
When she approached his door, saying, "I want more!"
His smile creased - he replied, "Your covet's increased!"
She confessed her distress at being a pest
But he said, "My dear, you're not stubborn - you're tenacious!
You're not merely aware - you're perspicacious!"
It's not only knowledge; it's proficiency, cognition, discernment
For ideas, impressions, concepts, brainstorming segments
Be bold, audacious, intrepid, resolute, gallant
Credit your capacity, flair, savvy, talent
Evade the cliche, the commonplace, the trite
Clamp on, lacerate, masticate, bite!
Hours freed, for her need to succeed
Then, at the end, one final creed to heed-
Don't fall a slave to the misbehaving knave
Sometimes, the simpler speech is the one to save.
3/4/19
Poem of the Day 3/06/19