Long Voraciously Poems
Long Voraciously Poems. Below are the most popular long Voraciously by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Voraciously poems by poem length and keyword.
Skies were gray again,
another day of rain falling constant without end
but the cottontail buck bunny made his way
through the wet bending grass on display
to find the clover patch for which he prayed.
The little herbivore nibbled and he chewed
all the while in observant surroundings he viewed,
first the green leaf shamrocks eaten voraciously in repeat
then a momentary pause before the greater treat
the flowered blossoms white and sweet.
As the rain slowed with clouds oft and behind
he found himself in delight, happy with his find,
and stood on his hind legs to clean his face of its reward
and with the swift energy he now stored
he kicked the ground and in the air he soared.
With an energetic twist and leap
he rose high flicking head and feet
his jump and twist and run binking
exuded joy and fun without blinking
then quick away from the clover patch he danced.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot your fame.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot your name.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot about the inauspicious and piteous moths that were attracted to your irresistible flame.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot to abrogate your lovers game.
In a small stretch of tempo, in the delay of my deliberated falseness, in my delay of barefacedness, infused by fierce streams of atrocious schemes, and baleful dreams.
In a small stretch of tempo, I was captured by you.
In a small stretch of tempo, the old had no power to cut into the new, from a small sum of time you sieged my body, permeating it, filling up spaces, touching barren places, erupting bridled desires, causing seismic waves of pleasure with; intense and faultless measure. In your arms and while my head rested against the swell of your chest, I inhale voraciously the sweet smell of your beautiful sculpted body.
At rest in an intoxicated mindset, I felt abundantly content; a perfect segment from my antecedent shameless intent.
In a small stretch of tempo, like the break of day and a timely resurgence of a nimble mind I realized that through the dull substance of flesh and encephalon, I did not adequately measure the art of your scope. With newfound hope, and like the hands of a clock swiftly pasting the minutes across its face, I put my plans back into place
Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake, copyrighted 2017
~* PICTURE THIS *~
Like a lone cactus sitting regally
amid a scorching desert wasteland
wearing a crown of thorns,
I sit astride a funeral pyre
engulfed in a conflagration;
You see the flames of a fervent passion
voraciously consuming me…
But do you see the
smoldering of my soul within?
Touch me and you’ll be set ablaze!
~* FEEL THIS *~
Like a vanquished lord I sit forlorn
amid my life’s blighted domain,
The memories of past wanton ways
of my youth pierce my mind
like thorns and prickles;
Now at the sunset of my life
my sky is awashed in a scarlet hue
blazing across the horizon from my
soul burning with the intensity of hell...
Touch me and you’ll be set ablaze!
~Any HM Ever contest by Laura Loo / HM 8/1/15
~"The I'Lyezette--Interpret My Mind" contest by FJ Thomas
Literature was pursued
by the greatest individuals who ever lived,
and they left us works of unsurpassable wisdom;
human emotions have always been the same,
and this can't attest to the fact that they will not change anytime soon,
but the freer we are, the further we go up in our balloon.
The richest heritage of Humankind
is found in the written word, which is heard often and not really understood;
where would we be today without the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare that were quite sad,
or Dante's famous canto, not excluding superb works by modern writers?...
During the dark ages, monks translated books from Greek and Latin into common languages;
as the barbarians destroyed everything found in their path, civilization did not end.
Tragedies of famous people attracted the lucrative minds of poets who had heard of them,
thus embellishing them with their vivid imagination and present actual facts...I follow in
their poetic footsteps, writing down stories that have recently happened, or occurred
before I was born; and with ideas as interesting as theirs, I continue in that tradition
without envying their unaging expressions and distinguished style, but by aggrandizing them.
Literature has finally found its merited place in History, unlikely a hundred years ago,
more people are voraciously reading, and keeping the writers busy by admiring
their sensational works, making comments of encouragement to boost up their optimism;
and to theaters they go and spent an entire night to listen to drama and satire...to scoff,
laugh, or cry when emotions intensify by the sconces of the electric lights; and cheering,
they applaud the richest heritage of Humankind on stage, and are captivated by its scenario.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
The storm stirred…having ingredients our neighbors provided.
Stolen goods, the storm stashed in its wings, and headed East.
The storm boiled in Mississippi - all baby boomers spelled
that state voraciously m-i-ss-i-ss-i-pp-i…the eye of the storm, calm,
while the raptor tore apart lives. The weeping of dark clouds
over smithereens. The storm with a long wooden handle, stirring
hail and adding more broth. No one cared for this stone soup.
neighborly stone soup
NO THANK YOU emphatically
Bless your heart tongue goads
3/26/2023
From wikipedia: Stone Soup is a European folk story in which hungry strangers convince the people of a town to each share a small amount of their food in order to make a meal that everyone enjoys, and exists as a moral regarding the value of sharing.
Prayers for those affected by this terrible storm!
Dear budding poet,
Modern poetry is an evolutionary process. A poet never really stops growing and learning. Even the most seasoned of poets can discover and master new forms. I wish you a happy journey to poetic creativity. My advice is to read poetry voraciously and listen to poetry recitals.
Read poems by famous poets. Join a group such as www.Poetrysoup.com and study definitions of poetry forms. You'll soon familiarize yourself with many brilliant Poetrysoup poets, poetry terminology, rhyme schemes, meters, etc. You'll also see examples of all the poetry forms.
Poetry is a malleable art form. It can be formless, like water. Like wet clay, you can mold or shape a poem however you desire. The sky is the limit in terms of your subject matter. I strongly suggest going out in nature for a wealth of inspiration. Try writing a poem outdoors.
Poetic inspiration is likely to materialize as you're much more alert and aware of your surroundings. Enter Poetrysoup poetry contests, which will further fuel your inspiration to write more. Positive, encouraging feedback from supportive poets also keeps your creative juices flowing.
Always carry a pen and notebook with you and jot down the moments or things that captivate you. Ideas. Epiphanies. Funny moments. Happy moments. Sad moments. It's an abundance of riches in terms of themes to broach. You can pen a poem about anything. Use your power of observation and let your imagination take flight.
To use lines from my poem, "What Poetry Means To Me," "Poetry is my catharsis, passion, escape. The golden spoon which I use to stir souls. Poetry means sharing my gift of creativity to inspire, purge, reveal, to weave a tapestry of deeply felt emotions."
My favorite themes are nature, emotions, animals, and astronomy. My favorite reference sources are as follows: Poetrysoup, Merriam-Webster's Dictionary, Rhymezome, HowManySyllables, and WordHippo.
(Prose)
She was still young, just a simple and irksome dilettante.
Her airs of arrogance and misplaced confidence were difficult to bear.
She played the piano but without an ear for it.
She abused her carte blanche, pleased, believing feigned interest was genuine.
She was all too easily duped by bona fide politeness and false compliments.
Be it avant-garde or baroque, the cacophony she created was no anomaly.
Déja vu for the captive audience, it’s a rerun from last year’s crude recital.
Guests are stunned and in shock, but too polite to outwardly show ennui.
With élan they applaud voraciously ever so very thankful it’s all over.
They clamor feverishly so there will not be another void needing to be filled.
AP: 1st place 2020
Submitted for contest TEN WORDS TEN LINES 2 sponsored by SILENT ONE on January 14, 2018 - RANKED 2ND
Form:
How perfidious is it to hide,
not to be found and be recognized
for the values not revealed
but shamefully being cast aside?
How deplorable is it to renounce existing,
refusing the crown of meekness,
a life of peaceful days, of a lesser complicity
and accept the glory of vanity...
when feelings of betrail resurge, contesting
the perception of loss beyond credibility?
Does one choose loneliness so voraciously sought,
that retreat from a squalid existence that fate brought
to a secluded place that lacks colors and sounds
allowing horrid darkness to descend upon defeats,
blocking out the brilliance and blighting the thoughts
of a mind in search of solitude and self-awareness?
How pathetic us to turn
into a lurking shadow
to conceal the frown of scorn,
the angry look of hurt...
rejecting soothing comfort,
accepting horrid sorrow!
Do all have the same principles of idiocy
and follow a deceiving voice
swerving them from reason...
does it offer delusions that attempt treason?
How strong is their effect on honesty;
how will it coordinate with their choice?
In a bright and rosy room, with an open poetry book,
the red-haired lady voraciously reads verses,
perhaps that are about love that softens her look;
doesn't she, with a heavenly smile, show praises?
With her back gently leaning against the loveliest orange tree,
her left hand holds a fragile orange blossom as in a painting,
this Victorian Age woman enters the exciting world of poetry...
is it Keats, Longfellow or Burns who keeps her voraciously reading?
If we could read her thoughts that flee to the nearest, brightest cloud,
we assume that they will reach in seconds the quietest place;
don't we notice that a glow of grace shines on her smooth face?
And although alone, every verse she reads can make that poet proud!
The Nature of Reality,
Or limitless sphere of space
Manifest in all possible experience,
Is by nature beyond experience
Since in this space there is ultimately
Nothing to grasp, and no grasper.
Sure, we can describe it,
But that is based on either hearsay
Or a direct realization beyond description,
Like trying to describe honey
To someone who has never known sweetness.
With the kicker being that we
Have always been the honeybee.
And so people talk, poets sing, and sages
Converse with the wind or simply grin.
The effect is everyone
Ends up hearing what they want to hear,
Each of us only able to hear
What we are ready to hear,
And even then we may only be ready for a hint
Of what will one day be obvious.
The Nature of Reality
Is unchanging, and so is always
What it has and will be,
And yet we change within this empty sphere,
Like a caterpillar, consuming voraciously
Until we are ready for our metamorphosis.
(9/27/25)