Long Well formed Poems
Long Well formed Poems. Below are the most popular long Well formed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Well formed poems by poem length and keyword.
The whole world I can measure in this cornfield.
Why would I need
to go to Indiana or Pennsylvania
or Katmandu?
Ohio is right here, and the rattling gold of the corn is here.
Yes Indiana has its rustic temples also ~
as does Kentucky and Idaho,
all over the world the sky is wide open
and the green and yellow corn is swaying,
but why travel
when this amber upsurge is before us?
Here I can feel the hidden ramparts
of a mighty cathedral of music
here under my feet,
the songs are rough and ready,
but they are as good as any prayer.
Over there a stand of trees
where the green frocks
of summer shadow-dance.
Each stalk of corn climbs to its highest
and my spirit climbs with them,
rocking on that sea of wind-waving luster.
The mud and dirt here is as good as any,
they are just as holy as elsewhere
as are all the grubbing creatures in and upon it.
This field is a sure-enough atlas
it reaches surpassingly deep and high,
the roofs of heavens are below us
the roots of time delve and sprout here
the sky descends to breathe within each breast.
This is the land beyond the great river,
that river brings the world here,
the sun nests here, and the stars appear
reflected in our up-turned eyes.
We listen to the tilling breeze
mapping the whole of creation
in just this well formed,
well farmed forty acres
above and below
but also in Michigan and elsewhere.
I beg of guilt to riddance my sin,
sincerity mixed pleasure of call deep within.
My mind of haze to idea once preformed,
mascot contribution to my theatrics well formed.
Beauty and a beast to a sickening desire,
my body fuelled with pain from my minds deep transpire.
Berate of my complexion, fabrication and hope,
sacrifice my solitude with hopes of being cleansed deeper than soap.
Cremation from the burning of wait does bring forth,
my stature destined to the mirror now morph.
Soul, hand of pasture ,and faith in the god once named,
all placed in pieces of a figure left to blame.
Waiting on a miracle to work to good deed,
hoof of purest lamb now sentenced to breed.
Thorn and thistle cursed to beauty of rose,
man’s fortune to women with a price of propose.
System segregation from the people born truth,
turn to natures sin in purpose of youth.
Belief met bravery in hand of defeat,
rush to the opening of a church in large fleet.
Memory reconcile with death fortune placed,
sanction granted to power in need of erase.
Intelligence fought sympathy in the war of troubled mind,
am I useless without leadership if my demise meet unkind?
Body built to the soil cursed by I man,
colonies trapped in brutality of gods plan.
Beggar, theif, and humanity at hand,
Are criminals to be punished if future lie in the sand?
Is truth upon belief of a system unpredicted,
the structure a temple yet torture left unrestricted.
Mind place of memory to the mistreatings underway,
if I hold power to speak why should boundaries get a say?
Free speech is a right in the rule book of law,
however issue runs deep with dictatorship to core.
Does a cry of babe not rustle in your mind?
A predator to be freed yet a crook to be fined.
A god of justice is spoken in scripture,
but thy neighbour is thought on suspicion, never close to a sister. Harmony sung in words comprise,
dealings from the devil while society treat to infantilise.
If a body is a right to the owners spoken truth,
why should societal exception meet way to the youth?
For a pasture, a priest, or a saint of country name,
would allow such action to ignight as if flame.
Then action should compromise the wrongdoing upon mass,
the power of performative government is as fragile as glass.
Must you leave again?
Your strong, capable hands
rest naturally upon my
curvaceous hips
masculine against feminine.
My world explodes with your
seductive, electrifying touch
as your inquiring blue eyes
penetrate mine so deeply.
Knowingly, you scan every
inch of my body and face.
I melt, as your well formed
lips curve into a faint smile
as you explore with restraint.
My hands glide over your
tanned, muscled arms
feeling secure, as they
wrap around my small frame.
I silently plead, stay with me
always, and never let me go.
Must you leave again?
Written on 3/7/2016
Sometimes studying the mirror I'm overcome with chagrin
Feeling disappointed by this shell I'm dwelling in.
With my slightly too thick midriff there above my underwear,
I'm more the rotund apple than alluring luscious pear,
Making ludicrous comparisons to girls with waspy waists,
And my nose, Lord, Pinocchio's, upon my pleasant face
With its odd small accompanying hump placed what!...To accentuate?
Later, however, on better days, my focus redirects
To reviewing my favorite qualities, and what I see reflects
A somewhat shapely figure; Legs lean, well-formed and strong;
Lovely eyes, lips and breasts, and lashes that are long.
So I'm obliged to acknowledge with accepting certainty
My temple, though flawed, was gifted by God
(And there's always rhinoplasty)!
For the "I Am" Poetry Contest of Frank H.
When there’s more writers that write
Than readers that read
Does the future seem bright
Or,
Perhaps poetry’s in need?
Was the melody mangled,
when the words lost their beat?
Was the common man strangled,
by the highbrow box seat?
_____________________________
Once weaved upon a well formed path
Before structure fell, in disarray.
Prose a casualty to a hectic world?
Precious time has claimed its prey.
Shall verse be trapped inside a card
Twisted inside an ad campaign
Power of words eternally scarred
Excepting in song, tinged in disdain.
Did amateur poets misuse their voice?
An internet pillage of chance.
Nothing to savour, digest and rejoice
Divide and subtract, but never enhance.
Will mankind once again enjoy,
subtle pleasures of the poem?
Will a modern poet attain celebrity,
as did the greats once held a throne?
*No offence intended. Just a thought piece
Nothing stirs the languid souls of folks like a hometown parade.
Friends and neighbors uniting to form a colorful cavalcade.
Any special occasion will do such as Veterans or Independence Day,
To uproariously celebrate and put on a spectacular display!
The parade is led off by aging vets proudly carrying Old Glory,
Stepping lively despite expanded girths and looking rather hoary.
The mayor is next in a flashy convertible exuding all of his charms,
Grinning inanely and greeting folks with his out-stretched arms!
The local high school band marches slightly out of step,
And playing a bit off-key but tooting with mighty pep!
The equestrian saddle club prances by in well-formed troops,
Followed closely by a couple of clowns wielding clean-up scoops!
Anxious moms herd a troop of Brownies so small and so cute.
Here comes the Hometown Queen - isn't she a charming beaut!
Vintage cars and John Deere tractors put on quite a show,
But a Model T Ford stalls causing its owner misery and woe!
The Rose Bowl and Macy parades are planned with great ostentation,
Designed to entertain TV audiences across this great nation,
But small town parade committees are just as proud as they can be,
To plan and sponsor a pageant to please local friends and family!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Soulmate oak trees with curly branches
grew next to each other, in the Kentucky meadow.
Communicating through squirrel squeaks
Bird beeps, and the whistle of the wind
through their well-formed branches.
They uplifted each other
enjoying their golden moments
as well as their unique love story.
The optimistic meadow rejoiced with them
in the fall spinning around them in ambers and oranges
announcing the forthcoming coolness of winter
when Jack Frost would surround them in sparkly, shiny diamond whites.
A romantical, yearning, young cattail revered the soulmate oaks
I wish I had a love like those two, she said with a long drawn out sigh.
The equally romantic cattail to her left gave her a gentle kiss.
You do now, he assured her, you do now.
They call you Thalia, muse, your realm is comedy,
Though I have to admit that much of your humor
Is mostly Greek to me.
But we've been friends for years, since 1963,
And I hope, although, I'm no longer acting,
You haven't forgotten me.
I'm sending you this text now, please read it sans delay,
And R.S.V.P., "Jim, I'm on my way!"
Thala, be my muse for tonight.
You're the muse I choose to use for this write.
The stanzas are well-formed and lined up,
Now I need a solid wind-up,
So, come and amuse me tonight.
I'm begging you, please, one more time
'cause I'm really stuck for a rhyme.
You're a walking jokeapedia,
But I don't have time to read ya,
And I only need one lousy line.
The subject's rather controversial:
Is it okay to marry gay?
They're talking, pros and cons,
Quite a lot on the news,
But, are that many "cons" really gay?
Then, Thalia, when we edit this gem,
There may be one small item to trim.
There's a joke you may well weep at,
But if you laugh, we'll keep it.
Good reviews if you'll muse me tonight.
With ups and downs and rhythmic gait,
they dance together with their show.
No way to rest or hesitate-
just keep on swinging, high and low.
At night they glisten 'neath moon glows
as they move on in measured ways;
together, merged in well-formed rows,
to blindly dance through blinding haze.
At times they gallop or may prance
to varied rhythms that they feel;
yet know the purpose of their dance
keeps everything on even keel.
And, so they reach out to the shore-
now rising taller- see their prize;
once there, collapse, rest and explore-
blindly retreat, again to rise.
Like waves, we also roll freehand;
we blindly dance to what's in store.
Our waves both high and low will land
on what life grants us to explore-
and blindly dance with faith and hope
we find that well-deserved long rest,
to know our rhythm helped us cope;
that our dark dance has met the test.
It was the sound that first drew me
to the low street-facing window.
I cleared a small spot in the grime
and was rewarded by ankles.
Clickity-clack, clickity-clack.
Joie de vivre discernible
in the rhythm of her hurried pace,
that's only broken when she skipped
the crack in the concrete pavement.
Clickity-clack, clickity-clack.
The fashionable red high heels
heralded slim, well-formed ankles
which could only lead to good legs
powering the mesmerising
clickity-clack, clickity-clack.
Perhaps a secretary or
working at reception nearby.
Her stride was confident, assured,
as far as the high heels allowed.
Clickity-clack, clickity-clack.
One could set one's watch by her and
it appeared someone did just that.
Jeans-clad and brown brogues appeared
from the opposite direction.
Clickity-clack … clickity-clack …
Not breaking her determined stride
he had to fall in with her pace.
Old acquaintances or new friends?
There was a slight skip in her walk.
Clickity-click, clickity-click.
Glistening in the morning sun
the gold ankle bracelet shone new.
Brogues in close proximity
to her, shortened his longer strides.
Clickity-clack, clickity-clack.
The summer heat did not entice
her to swap high heels for sandals.
He wore story socks with sandals -
a marked difference in dress code.
Clickity-clack, clickity-clack.
As cool autumn approached, so did
the distance widens between them -
the former rapport's now broken.
The staccato now hesitant:
Clickity…clack. Clickity…clack.
When the first flurries of snow fell,
her lone high heels sought purchase on
the thin black ice on the pavement.
The bracelet's not in evidence.
Click-clack, click-clack …