Long Vocalized Poems
Long Vocalized Poems. Below are the most popular long Vocalized by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vocalized poems by poem length and keyword.
how do i say good bye
to a group of girls
and a crowd of guys
and try to speak
with tears in eyes
of struggles we have
vocalized
of emotions we have
emphasized
of passions we have
recognized
of feelings we hope others
realize
of truth a little
compromised
in short
we let the world know
that we spoke
and that we spoke
eloquently
God made broken hearts
pick up pens
and write what
he was saying to them
God took creative minds
and wrote purposes
so divine
God put love in lonely hearts
that picked up pens
and created art
and unlike most
that toast the occasion
tempted by the devil
to drink and forget
we the scribes
chisel our words in stone
reminding our posterity
that they are not alone
each and every word has grown
and some times spoken from
the Throne
our speech, our claim
our poem
WILL LIVE ON!
(dear soupers, I'm not going anywhwere. it's a re-post)
Spoken said
Verbalized declared enunciated
Given aired voiced
Brought out whispered
Proclaimed commented
Blurted breathed broadcasted
SPOKEN
Asserted affirmed promulgated
Spoken truths and untruths
Advertised where am I to be casted
Publicized overwhelmed subdued demoralized
BROKEN
Talked discussed uttered thrown up despaired
Vented broadcast gasped phrased up and out
Broken
Snarled shot ripped (out)
Silently diverted screams of dispersions’
Vocalized shouted articulated denounced
SPOKEN
Shared passed announced Be it so,
Spoken is the broken speech at naught
Alleged ventilated averred formulated
Drawled avowed
Doubted Be it so, spoken is the broken
BROKEN
Vocalized shouted articulated denounced
Shared passed announced
Be it so, spoken is the broken speech at naught
Broken is Spoken
Quiet marks the spot
5/4/23
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
I want to fold myself into nothing.
Like a tiny origami crane that flies too close to the sunset and it burns up.
Ashes falling to the sea.
I'd love to be forgotten like so many shipwrecks beneath the water.
Omit me from any story I have touched, and let me be done.
Let the last time my name is vocalized be at my funeral.
Silence in the pews that sit so empty. Haunted by the ghosts of past- wounds constantly ripped open once more.
Let me be abandoned like so many times before, surely evolution will work out the pain of a heart breaking.
To feel nothing.
To be nothing.
It is how I have always existed.
Pet Poem, GiGi
With quite a large grasp of human’s language,
Gigi is “little girl,” our princess. She likes that.
The smartest pup we ever had; brought home
As a rescue, found — they told us — wandering over
Open eastern Kentucky hills. Lost from somewhere.
— Perhaps intuitively seeking her destiny —
Until out of her cage, that unforgettable day,
She rolled before us onto her back, wagging her tail,
And Jim swept her up into his cradling arms, which
She’ll never forget: her eyes see him with adoration.
This long-haired, silky-black dashund mix,
With brown streaks on her bearded muzzle; then,
Barely 12 -pounds; with long ears;and
A sweeping, fan-tail arcing up over her back.
Now she is nearly eight years old (we guess).
She becomes a friend to anyone who comes in,
Insisting on their attention, supposing the feeling
Is always mutual, and she will try to say so,
Because she has observed that people talk, which
She seems to understand will get results. Lately, Tr
She tries to speak with variations of sounds so
Nearly parroting song. She seems to hope she may
Receive the “Oh my!” exclamation that causes
Actions, meeting her trying and desires
In response to her every vocalized “Yrr-owl!”
Plus, Gigi has learned to hop with precision into our
Unexpecting, cradle-embraces on our chests or
On our laps. ...Like a toddler, she
Will then set herself, intent to show her affection,
Laying her head on our shoulders by our necks,
To give and to receive hugs. They are amazing,
Such sweet hugs for a couple with no children near!
She exudes a telepathy, locking her soft eyes’
Sight to my own, so fixed, while I relay the extending
Of my heart’s love to hers, dear girl,
Almost angelic, always coming (with what feels
Like true compassion) close to my sad moments,
Patient and never considering fear.
Oh, little girl, Gigi, you brought love
In the door with you
And your hugs will live longer than time.
********. **********. **********. *********
(C) sally Young eslinger 12/2020
I’ve misplaced my phone,
no I haven’t, I’ve lost it.
It’s nowhere in my home
and no matter where I look, I can’t come across it.
You’ve probably done similar things like that before
like leaving your car keys inside your car,
and then locking yourself outside your car door.
I lost my phone, wallet and cash within the course of a week
and then suddenly it hit me like an unexpected rain.
This is my unprofessional conclusion to all of my confusion,
Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain.
Much like the loved ones who witness the terms of pregnancy of their beloved,
they often experience sympathy pregnancy pains as if it were real.
When it comes to Sympathy Pain, Schizophrenia also has it covered.
IT got a huge helping of the Sympathy Pain deal.
I used to watch my poor son, stricken with this horrible thing,
pacing and laughing and talking without a care.
He seemed so happy and this picture would be perfect, if not for one thing.
He was carrying on with someone who just wasn’t there.
One day I happened to accidentally videotape myself.
I forgot that my camera was still recording me, but all just the same,
I once again caught a glimpse of my ailing mental health.
More Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain.
There I was just like he, rambling on endlessly,
talking out loud to no one. I was home all alone
and as if in a competitive race, just like he I would pace
with vocalized imagined conversations of my own.
Even though I realize that I was just talking aloud to myself,
and that unlike he, I was always aware, no one else was there.
Still, Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain creeps up on me with the greatest of stealth.
Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain will always be my cross to bear.
Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain will always haunt me and continue to remain
While My Son suffers with REAL Schizophrenia Pain.
I waited... I surmised
I know I agonized
Of course... I never realized
Springtime was disguised
I pondered... I personalized
I know I criticized
Of course... I never recognized
Spring had improvised
I questioned... I vocalized
I know I dramatized
Of course... I verbalized
Spring had not arrived
I charted... I analyzed
I know I hypothesized
Of course... I never was more surprised
A third Nor'easter materialized
I remember... I fantasized
I know I rationalized
Of course... I never romanticized
That spring would be winterized
April 4, 2018
For Michael Vacek's Spring Monorhyme Contest
Is it a virtue
of legal, or just plain logical, process
to tolerate the morally intolerable?
Regardless of therapeutic opportunities to communicate dissent,
loud and clearly vocalized
articulate and explicit resistance.
Is it an immoral act
to participate in the Win/Lose market for climate pathology
if you could not know whether you are recast as oil-baron predator
or as a life-long perpetual child
praying for matriarchal cover?
Is it a corrosive vice
to tolerate the intolerable?
To settle for only Win/Lose options
in a ZeroSum stingy world.
Do I tolerate, even celebrate,
most everybody except those who are intolerant?
Why does feeding openness
to tolerating change
feel so risky?
Alarming past critical events
confronting disloyal oppositions
fade into memories of chronic dis-associations
against those also intolerant in diverse ways.
Am I a good person
if my most celebrated values advocating diversity,
and my more internal integrity of voices valued
and heard,
and cared for
feel like fragment fading shreds
of intolerable wonder and awe?
Why is your here and now intolerance,
my fearful-future intolerance,
against accepting invitations to mutually stretch tolerance?
Now invested in building apartheid-trusting walls
rather than win/win interdependent webs.
Why is my self-righteous intolerance
fair,
just?
Yet your fears and terrors,
impatience and suffering,
intolerable neglect
of win/win mindful opportunities
are not OK,
not healthy democratic enough,
too elitist,
too explicitly ignorant
of implicit win/win hope,
remain at least non-lose/lose communication,
verbal and non-verbal,
Still open to becoming more virtuously,
and legally,
tolerable.
There is a hidden story here,
wordings in the lines of a book that openly appear
well-worn images cleared
along paths and byways out of stagnation,
birth life experiences out of the shadows of creation
marked by words and phrases, filled within blank spaces
holding time in all its places,
imaginings real and vague,
too easily erased by respite, consternation, aged oasis.
The word streams up and down the page gathered together
in paragraphs and sentences, uneasily phrased
chapters to be told but never quite heard,
lives lived sad and happy within the written word,
addressing all the hows and whys
the wherefores brave and bold
life once delicate, innocent, foolish with intent, pure and pristine
held silent by images of unimaginable aging in the unforeseen.
A mistake taken and made quickened faulty steps
out of shadows, dark consuming, mesmerizing desires inept,
companions, friends, partners , dreamers, schemers, and lovers
searching for the futures waiting to be discovered,
paying tokens, worship of ancestral icons,
love's fool hearty titans, sublime and divine
to the body electric, solemn, serious, serene,
pleasurable by design.
Solemn prayers vocalized by the heart
beating in unison panicked when distant or apart
relaying the story of where love ends and where it starts,
blended, bonded, separated by passion, the moment on display played
unawares and barely assured of how long the magic alures.
or could have stayed lingering thought in the want and need
of where it once was made, all finely focused on life's grand parade.
The story is often sad but true
lovers, unfortunate in youth, emotional fools without a clue
knowing that all hope and dreams are learned better out of school
that truth, deception, and lie form both pleasure and sin
walling up the mind and soul from down deep within,
the story rolls out in a plot of twists and turns
and all, in the end, get burned.
Here the story, silently it may lay
placed hidden on a dusty shelf well-worn and frayed
unopened, unheard, and yet retold
so like the stories generations old,
over and over again by companions, family, relatives,
the lovers and the friends.
Building a relationship takes time.
A slow becoming of each other's identity.
A steady student in a firm desk where attendance is vital and homework isn't necessarily done with pen and paper.
To willingly give until nothing is left, to get on each other's nerves and have the courage to look each other in the eye and admit that your wrong, to say I love you deeper. Finding compromise in the smaller things.
Discovering new meaning rather than dismissing yourself every chance granted.
The building blocks to a firm foundation.
To create a support system that relies solely on devotion.
The care of another through sickness and in health.
To humble yourself in another, to find wisdom in sharing yourself.
Falling inside and out of problems without knowing the combination to every lock.
Each locker holding something different.
The impact found in arms reach of each other.
Where communication is vocalized in a different tone.
Every moment is precious, allowing yourself to be yourself with another.
A student whose back pack otherwise empty, now filled with knowledge.
Finally finding to solve for X when different variables are thrown in parenthesis.
The Y no longer important, finding a deeper meaning.
The things otherwise they never teach you at school.
Finding a love that never takes constant glances at the clock
(“Tapestry”, 2025, original encaustic)
Have you ever been taken in by the story
Delivered some place foreign and strange
Yet familiar and true?
Of course you have, as all humans do.
Vocalized, visualized, subliminally dreamed
That is our lot.
From bedtime stories to books and movies
Our lives leap gladly into the novel.
And oh what awaits us there!
Portals and corridors
Into what transcends the individual
And so transcends even our humanity.
I dreamt once of being a bridge
Literally not figuratively
And I’m sure I’ve also dreamt of being
More animate nonhuman things
The dream after all
In all its animate and inanimate forms
Is simply a creation of our mind
Our mind made illusively flesh and fiber
Fueled with all the tinder of waking experience
But brought to a frothing boil
By something more
Something that only comes alive
Taking form and shape
In the telling.
(11/15/25)