Long Wordsworth Poems
Long Wordsworth Poems. Below are the most popular long Wordsworth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wordsworth poems by poem length and keyword.
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Quote by _William Wordsworth
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August 13, 2022
Poetry/Name/POETRY SOUP
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1479-871-13
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Poetry Soup Beyond Its Name
sponsor, Beata Agustin, Judged 09/25/2022
First Place
Written: November 17, 2023
That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love. By William Wordsworth
_____________________________________________
If just there were a lexis from which to choose.
A magic word to silence the clock in the room.
To turn on lights for just a while and let loose.
Unplug the gloom and watch your face bloom.
A magic word to silence the clock in the room
In my mind, I retain loads of nameless rhymes.
Unplug the gloom and watch your face bloom.
Dreams primed my heart wrapped in those times.
In my mind, I retain loads of nameless rhymes.
By arguing, as if you're the only thing I can say.
Dreams primed my heart wrapped in those times.
However, they can't be spoken to or buried away.
By arguing, as if you're the only thing I can say.
They can't, as they secern the effects and price.
However, they can't be spoken to or buried away.
So I garden, sifting through my memory trice.
They can't, as they secern the effects and price.
Light in the grass, craving the white gull cry.
So I garden, sifting through my memory trice.
In passing, geese waveringly cross the sky.
Light in the grass, craving the white gull cry.
I watch, and it sleeps in solitude, with no name.
In passing, geese waveringly cross the sky.
Life of light seems to scorch anything as a flame.
I watch, and it sleeps in solitude, with no name.
Raised hare on a slope with long, clear ears.
Life of light seems to scorch anything as a flame.
Learn a timeless tune as trees quiver in years.
Raised hare on a slope with long, clear ears.
Avian species exude it and don't need to learn.
Learn a timeless tune as trees quiver in years.
Serve us with no words, and seek none in return.
Avian species exude it and don't need to learn.
To turn on lights for just a while and let loose.
Serve us with no words, and seek none in return.
If just there were a lexis from which to choose.
On lonely paths I often roam
Through meadows and over hills
Like a gypsy cloud 'neath a blue sky dome
And through a field of countless daffodils
I stop to watch this field of gold
As they sway lithely in the breeze
Then I move on as new paths unfold
Heading home through a maze of trees
And in quite moments my thoughts would drift
To that resplendent field of daffodils
To my weary soul they give a lift
This treasure trove of golden thrills
Those daffodils in my mind do gleam
As I slip off in a cloud of dreams
Contest: Prose vs Poetry and the classics
Rewrite of William Wordsworth poem: - "I Wandered Lonely as a cloud"
Just 'fore words formed inside my head
as my mother put me to bed
her sweet voice would rhyme to lull me
tales of children wild and misled.
Who ran and played and sang and danced
deep in teepees as in a trance.
Or climbing atop the walls of castles
dueled with broom stick used as lance.
The children’s hour was our time
to kiss and snuggle laugh and sigh.
And she taught me of Paul Revere
of his rushed ride with red coats nigh.
So many Longfellow tales told
of bold, real or imagined feats
that never did I want her voice
to stop or pause or to repeat.
Tennyson could tell a tale of
charging brigands in full retreat.
But, none could met the glory of
Longfellow’s stories so replete!
*Longfellow wrote Hiawatha, The Chidren's Hour, and Paul Revere's Ride
among dozens of other poem stories. In the 1920's children were taught
history through the use of poetry.
SAMADHI
I am the Void
and THE ALL
I am the pen
and paper
the insertion and hole
the breath, the nostril
War, Peace
Surrender and action
Angelic wings descending
Transfiguration and Embodiment
Lover and Beloved
nipple, nourishment, lips
I bolt, then follow, appear, disappear
Essence and form
Only in my Silent Point of no Return
and no Time
can Shiva and Shakti drown in
Samadhi
Forest floor was prickly hard with dried
leaves and elves
the path to Cave I had to walk
Doe awaited inside the Darkness
a pool blacker than black
the deep unknown of knowingness
her eyes my own Void
trying to remember Yeats or Wordsworth
or Camus or even Ghandi
it was all in vain
I beckoned your I AM
to follow suit to Samadhi
your guitar strings, seas, voice
or smiling eyes you feared to leave
What was His Silent Point beyond the entrance
the endless depth of no Return ?
where was music or feasting or cool waves
where was a mustard lettuce sandwich
or escape ?
I beckoned the bolt, the appearance or disappearance
Doe watched as our Observer both
Transfiguration had you mesmerised
at a mossy fringe
a toe became a stepless step
sinking, sinking
bodies becoming dark water
nothing escapes the Gateless Gate
An event horizon was a fallacy
the Void and THE ALL
tightened all spirals
to silent scream in a Cave pool blacker than black
A pool melting into Doe’s eyes
a velvet not known to Mind
Samadhi was His alone in surrendered peace
Our spirals His ecstatic tools
a mustard lettuce sandwich waited at
another oak table
{POEM READ BY POET ON YOUTUBE @ghairodanielspresence. Check it out ! }
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song
2024
In my New York suburb, I’m mildly fond
Of Helvellyn Road, and Gracemere pond
But the original Helvellyn called...
Ravenglass too, even the name enthralled.
Of Lake poets, I eagerly read
And I found what Alfred Wainright once said:
[chorus]
His words echo across time’s bridge
That always there will be the lonely ridge,
the silent forest, the dancing beck
Though we have fleeting time on a cosmic speck.
Wordsworth thought the loveliest spot ever found
was near Grasmere Lake so I walked it around.
I beat the crowd to the top of Scafell Pike
Saw crags on all sides, what not to like?
Saw the Mourne mountains across the Irish sea
Snowdonia in Wales, steeped in history.
Wordsworth liked walking when mists veiled the sky,
Mists add variety, they distort, they magnify.
Hugging emerald meadows and tarns and becks
The mist lifts, to glorious backdrop effects.
I've often gone to where the grapevine led,
And I remembered what Wordsworth said:
[chorus]
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
than all the sages can.
I'd like to be on an airy ridge, seeing far
It would be cool to climb steps up a limestone scar
then stride to a big-sky panorama
Maybe join a fell runner, in nature's drama.
Follow Wordsworth where the rugged trail led
Recite once more what the poet said:
[chorus]
A deep delight the bosom thrills
Of these fraternal hills:
On top stones like bones the earth left alone,
But on those stones lichen has grown
Colored between the rocks and sky
The Lake District kind of high.
At the foot of Saddleback, while its brow appeared
A sad purple before cloud-shadow cleared
To the left I saw the jaws of Borrowdale
On the pure lake a standing man with a windswept sail.
There’s a confession I should make
The trip to Cumbria I could not take
I could only watch videos on my PC
Experiencing the region vicariously.
I make room in my mental space
For the good times of those who visit the lakes.
I think of sunset on a ridge, a hiker’s face aglow,
And that somewhere this exists is comforting to know.
An imagined eyrie where spirits fly
And fell runners reach that Lake District high.
I may well dream to be someone I’m not,
Wing my way to become Wordsworth or Frost,
And lose my roots, get in a lifelong rot
To lose self-worth and live a life of ghost,
On board a bullet train of becoming,
In world of books, still bogged down on page one,
Not my own, but play an alien inning,
And lose the game that I could well have won.
If only I try to be not but me,
None else but one designed by destiny
To play a unique role like none any,
I would have made my Creator happy.
No one hath He e’er made in idle mirth,
Let me pursue His will, my unique worth.
_____________________________________
Sonnets |01.06.2023| dilemma, life
Poet’s note: Each moment that unfolds is a place man has not been to. He should stay there as much as can and try to be one with it to find himself. One cannot ‘become’ without ‘having been’ in the first place. To become a butterfly might be worm’s ultimate destiny. But can it happen by the very morrow? Everything passes to the process of becoming, but only having been before. It is the law of change. To be what we are comes long before becoming what we are capable of. That be the only end in life. Let me hasten slowly not to get stranded in the world of becoming. This be the dominant note of this sonnet’s melody.
Mankind is filled with many beliefs
they would be sincere there's no doubt
but sincerity alone won't be enough
so life's so complex what's it all about?
One feels for that pagan so honest
but makes up a god all of their own
can such a god do anything for them?
where's the evidence? can it be shown?
Of course there on the other side
one who rejects God's evidence
despite the authority of God's word
in his own ability is his confidence
God is very big having real authority
He sent his son to buy real salvation
mankind needs to believe God's message
listen well to AW Tozer's quotation
The real existence of God
is in the heart of all His own
His love is full beyond measure
being truly their chief cornerstone
(Quote:
"I sympathize with the mood of the poet Wordsworth when he wrote to the effect that he would rather be a sincere pagan who believed in a god that did not exist than to be a sophisticated Christian who disbelieved in a God who did.")
A.W. Tozer (1897- 1963)
"I wandered lonely as a cloud"
William Wordsworth.
I wandered lonely as a puppet thru Reno
Like a weathered kite without it's tail
My feet take in a casino
As I followed that beaten trail
O'er the sea of green I splash
With a wrinkled dollar in cash
I find a table and take in a chair
With my three back packs at my side
Happy I am amongst the stare
Eventhough my lot in life's a low tide
Three patrons pinched their noses
If only they knew how it goes
The dark side of living on the street
A constant bobbing thru skid row
Where every pocket filled with defeat
Twenty four seven, I have nowhere to go
Save for a treasure in the thrash
I find a half eaten burrito to add to my stash
To the other street rats I fear
They'll steal my sandal
Take my cardboard box and gear
And part with my coins from a panhandle
I'm used to being knocked to the ground
But I can only whimper and not make a sound
As I snap out of my nightmare
The dealer ask if my money play
I look down at my bet and say a prayer
Lord, I urge, let this be the day
Let the daffodils spread and spread
The ball lands on black and I'm seeing red
9/20/2022
I Wandered Lonely As --- Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
7th place
*Image of Hallmark Channel by Giphy.
Chimed Upper Room
Chimed new day shines...eagerly corrects an upper room looks,
An attic improving rapidly...promotes roams of diligence,
Lacks found bordered leathered album...trapped topped a cornered desk.
Cutting edge mounts an Everest...Grand Canyon grooves a pass,
Emptying a corridor...grants patience traces of sweat caught brow,
Weighty whatnots slothfully shift...relief of prized treasure.
Lives confined--stilled in a photograph...bound neath grained-hewn film,
Reviving breaths aids wiping palms...adjusting dust rules idle air,
Widen pupil's gaze...proffers freedom to locked memories.
A leisurely dance of fingers...entertaining a page,
Courses from staging consequences...flips driftingly e'er so oft,
Cherished persevered poignant times...plus occasional laughs.
Age feebly trades a gentle glance...to sights of swept-up youth,
Niagara Falls revisit eyes...interlude recalls Wordsworth,
Rousseau swells the lulls...till Longfellow's maiden turns a page.
A soothing thoroughness applied...o'er sovereignty once claimed,
Delighting a soul wanting remembrance...effervescence inched rise,
Bestilled processing images...icons pageants the heart.
Strokes into yesterdays...fulfill a distant emptiness,
Once existed in certainty...consequently in dreams of need,
Now physically held...persuades rising tips of a mouth.
2020 July 30
*2nd Place*
Dusty Old Memories
~~Constance La France: Judged 2020 August 06