Long Vowels Poems
Long Vowels Poems. Below are the most popular long Vowels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vowels poems by poem length and keyword.
Like a tumbleweed aimlessly blowing in the wind
across infinitely open and wide prairie home companion land
(which wasteland famously epitomized by T.S. Elliot)
a barren vista ravages metaphorical landscape
of one measly mortal malcontent male
bumping and scraping along accursed habiliment
just barely avoiding and dodging diabolical demons
mercilessly and unrelentingly ready
to seduce this somewhat sanguine Simian
who finds himself amidst the pitfalls
of a tortured and twisted existence
racked with pinions describe bing
a demonic dragon filled dungeon
damp, dark, demented domains –
a veritable no man’s land
impossible to escape no matter how fast I -
as a foo fighter flee
from the fearful, fierce-some phantasmagoric forms
figments of my imagination seemingly real
tangible as bone and flesh
who haunt sacred crowded house of slumber
transmogrify me into a loathsome madman
ranting raving senseless gibberish and sic gobbledygook
perceived as metaphysically n philosophically insane
as soundgarden syllabification
from one womanly World Wide Web wayfarer
which virtual vagabond venerates vowels
and possesses means and tees to till verse
akin to a sorceress who waves a magic wand
to produce supreme sentences
weaves tantalizing terrific tweed topographic tundra’s
that this admirer of her artful and colorful poetic endeavors
prompts me to accompany my mindscape
as a thought-provoking troubadour
amidst the information super byways and highways
along winding labyrinths of critical thinking
or simply stepping o'er rolling stones
of silly rhymes without wing less reason
all the while giving subtle egress
into that chamber of secrets
long kept shut tight to maintain
that sure footed stance of solitude
whose only entities happened
to constitute trappings of literary lugubriousness
those tombs of largesse identified
as great works and masterpieces of literature
yet careful to avoid complete intimacy
lest that cherished solitude shattered
and a heart rent asunder
twin tower ring inferno imp perils of loss that provide
an understandable cautionary tale
to the author of this rambling missive
a most profoundly perceptive acute Ape man
touched to the quick with a bit of angel dust
aware that this agonized and angst riddled arboreal beast
contents himself with the confines of cyberspace!
In a valley where gravity
drinks only upside-down,
She wakes, spinning thread
from fractured glass,
Kindling pale fires
that refuse to burn,
Her heart was a metronome
ticking in a vacuum.
She speaks in violet vowels,
Building bridges out of
forgotten whispers,
Holding the sun
inside a jar of moths,
Where nothing is
permitted to die.
He arrives on a wind
that tastes of iron,
A void dressed in velvet,
Swallowing the light
she mightily stitches,
His heart was a hollow flute
recreating in quietness.
He breathes out velvet nights,
Breaking bridges
with a touch of nostalgia,
Stalking the shadows
of her bright moths,
Where everything
is allowed to rot.
They meet at the intersection
of Nowhere and Ever,
She weaves him a coat
of crystal tears,
He dissolves it
into a cloak of ash.
She offers a rose,
blooming backward into dust,
He drinks the rot,
singing a lullaby of screaming,
Two opposites locked
in a dream that bleeds,
Never merging, never leaving,
One holding the flame,
the other the dark,
Binding the shattered
world together,
In a dark, loving, terrible art.
It was tantalizing, sweet completion
Lines of blue ink filling white space
Tastes of emotions, colors of consonants
Music of vowels, syllables singing
To create, and satiate
Then, time thinned
Responsibility and stress stepped in
Poetry, after all, does not pay the bills
Stop cloud watching and become an adult
They said, and they were right
So I packed her away, that silly girl
relegated to the dusty back room of memory
Gray and wilted, foolish scribblings
Nobody cared about anymore
Years, decades of feigned disinterest
Begins to dissolve in rediscovering
The flash of joy in composing
Ignited by a song-writing friend
Who dared encouragement
Steps sluggish, atrophied, but there
Saved in muscle memory
I hungered for nourishment, for balance
On unsteady limbs - I wanted my silly girl back
And I have her, revived on Soup from
My poetry sisters and brothers
Now, I am gaining
The reach of my wings
Soaring over cities of sonnets
Neighborhoods of roundels and rispettos
A haiku hamlet, an acrostic alleyway
Kingdoms of pantoums and villanelles
To the unfenced openness
Of free verse
I am still the bedrock of me
Stretching to climb taller trees.
2/23/19
I am not a fancy dancy writer.
Willy-nilly is more like it.
I toss common ordinary words onto a page
they are the ones that decided to whirl, twirl or saummersault
Sometimes landing on my head,
prying open my skull to take a look at my dendrite highways.
Wait! I say. I’m not ready for ths poem.
I don’t have an ending in mind.
My verbs stick out their tongues and wiggle their petootsies at me.
The vowels screech with “EE IIII OHHH and OOOOs”
Who knows what the adjectives are doing?
I am terrified of them
So I don’t hunt them up
I am not a fancy dancy writer.
I am a poet who came into this accidentally
Tossing some words onto a page for “fun” during a boring day at work.
And now five years later, here I am, wondering what happened.
How did this obsession begin?
Is this why I am still here?
Is it my poetry?
Ouch!
A damned verb just bit me on my left leg.
I never know what is going to happened.
OUCH!
On the eve of that somber, stormy night,
I began to see strings of spring swirling soundlessly
along the thread-thin blade of this culinary cutlery.
Why does gravity lay on thick in this silver steel accessory?
If only you knew, where there is a subtle screech of harmony,
there is a violent war viciously humming melancholy.
As the dust of what was once obscure drops from the passing clouds,
it sets in an assembly of soft, dull vowels,
waiting for the rug of grass to spread a path to the furthest mountain.
Why do I feel no raging colors from the twilight
yet see them so vibrantly?
How do I know nothing of summoning my movements,
when this adrenaline speaks distantly?
Alone, a rush of flame once formed, now shows the demons in the storm.
When this flesh and bones become one with the unpredictable elements,
I hope what prevails is the lore of my regiments,
where I bled into the disasters of my own shortcomings,
learning to rest without a bruise as I drown.
You can only apologize so many times for being here.
You can only explain yourself until your vowels are exhausted.
They wrote rules around my life
and handed me the bill.
They made bathrooms into battlegrounds
and called it “for safety.”
They made my childhood a case study
and auctioned my pride for status.
I am tired of being the homework people never finish.
I am tired of teaching empathy
to mouths that prefer to chew on fear.
Patience in my chest has fossilized
into something that doesn’t move,
and I am not interested in being polite
while they legislate my existence.
So I say this—
I will not spend my life explaining
why I deserve to exist.
I will not turn my name into a footnote
to make you comfortable.
If leaving feels like the only clear option,
I remind myself—
it is a protest, not a surrender.
And still,
there are little mercies
that keep my world from folding:
a friend who learns your name
and says it with love.
A text at 2 AM that says,
You are safe here.
A laugh that refuses to stay small.
Looking in the mirror and being okay
with the person who stares back.
You owe them nothing.
Not your grace.
Not your explanations.
Not your silence.
Take your rage like a hammer—
use it to dismantle the places
that make you want to leave.
Plant your feet.
Say your name.
Breathe the kind of breath
that keeps you here.
I am _________
I exist.
Say it back.
"The Goodbye Road"
Glass slippers
cut roads clean
like diamonds
they dance through the storm
and Yellow is just a colour
ribbon tied around a tree
never Gold
Monkeys fly
flattering mongrels
who walk the lonely roads
always on their own
with soft feathered 'friends',
soap sudded soupy vowels
and horny (backed) toads
Christmas
comes and goes
Unicorns are ridden
until their jewels 'n horns 'n hearts are torn
Everything in a suspended world
glows sunset in mystical rose
The last poem you wrote
is always the last ode
Poems drip off a tongue
whispering
to the vast global empty zone
like blood slides
down a sword
like dropping crumbs
to the silent
dog whistles
and absent jingle bells
baptised slowly by
too much brandy
egg nog whiskered
licking Life's
luscious lips
mistletoe led
snookered
ray bans on
8 ball holy holed
Road Home
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
Christmas/New Years
gvlm
“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road – Sara Bareilles”
https://youtu.be/5vtguBvC-zk
"’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."
Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There.
"Permanently on the "Naughty" List"/Anonymous
....and I haven't even started making the Rum Balls yet...
regards,
somewhere,
lost in OZ.
yeah, I know, you ALL love me. Hard not to. x
LYRICS/ Goodbye Yellowbrick Road/Elton John
https://genius.com/Elton-john-goodbye-yellow-brick-road-lyrics
Can you speak the language of love my love am lost
Am all empty inside without you my heart is lost
Remember the day you saw me and I Saw you
Our lives now like a pair of shoes am left you are right always
Lets take walks then and smile for miles
Inside our heart two in one lets not make a crack
Never should we hurt never should we spite
Everyone alone in the world but with you I never walk alone
Today I am missing you my love
Someday hope you will wipe my tears along with my doubt
Understand my fears forget am a man and a sinner
Master forgiveness the art of loving is a science
Annoy me sometimes just to tell how much I care its fine
Hundreds wish to be U and I yet nobody wants the rest of the vowels
Maybe you are doubting,maybe you are hurting
Kiss me by the lips let me taste your pain
Am all yours trust me you are the one I was made for
Must we be apart even when we are together?
Obviously not but the seconds without you to me are forever
Remember I do even if you don’t, understand why
I am yours and you are mine beware of thieves we shouldn’t lose each other
Irene my deary love
Remember the good times when bad is all you see
Envy the dead for they don’t feel jealousy though its necessary
Never give up on me always smile when you remember me love
Enjoy the dance even when we miss some steps
I'm a wordsmith
Painting feelings with syllables and expressions
Vowels first and adjectives later
On the tip of my brush you will find no verbs
There is no action in these words I write
Technical pillars of this poetic religion
And I believe you know I do not mean them
But that doesn't mean I am lying
For I paint feelings to put in the walls of my gallery
And there is no practical to a feeling
For how else can you explain passion if not with words?
You cannot do happiness
Cannot visit love
It is the touch of feeling that makes the heart and the skin sing a melody that your lips do not know the lyrics to
It is a complex model
Only to be experienced on personal heights
Touch for touch
Smile for smile
Tear for tear
And like good cheese a good feeling is,
When you taste it,you just know.
Among a stone-wreathed, sun-fried declivity
On earth’s raised stomach, a shack. Common
With the nervousness of heat, such shack-up
Points bury their heads in shame forever...
School hours brought me to such beginnings,
Such introductions, transient and loosely
Translated into vulgar languages aired by
A hairless harum scarum – MY LANDLADY!
Her vowels, resonant with crudity, frayed the
Walls, reaching the cruel apex of wanton folly,
Embellished with tattered pollutions of crimson
Air. Her consonants, tongue in cheek, jeered at
Remote efforts applied to disarm a vector with
Borrowed proboscis. Paraphrased sex lined up
Lips that chewed with primed caution, when
Pressed to announce, through optimistic,
Sarcastic leverage:
‘YOUR RENT IS DUE! ’
But the moon always winked at me. All four
Phases richly painted, slowly sketched to crawl,
And not by any fast means, run. The seasons
Nudged me to remind me they were not yet run
Over by the wheels of time.
But she befriended the calendar, stiff with hard
Resolutions to turn over her pages. By a runnel’s
Course, she evoked the late principles of buried
Time, calculating the length of days, the width of
Nights and the circumference of her wilted
Patience. Hourglass was polished clean to reflect
The sun’s glare through holes pierced by decibels
Of eastern hymns, composed before the waking of
Larks, when like an underpaid courtesan, she would
Hammer her now contagious sign-slogan, but
Now robustly rephrased:
‘YOUR RENT IS OVERDUE! ’