Long Wordy Poems
Long Wordy Poems. Below are the most popular long Wordy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wordy poems by poem length and keyword.
BECAUSE OF JUST ONE POETESS
I let go of living in sadness.
My life seemed going nowhere,
and looking back now, it all
seemed like madness!
It wasn't because she did
gymnastics with boorish
poetic forms.
Nor was she cute or wordy.
using only the shortest
forms.
I was in search for something
far deeper that healed me with
human warmth and a soul balm.
Best of all, through her, I was
to learn to waltz happily with
shadows of my past!
And to know that love seems
to end, but I found contrarily it,
in another form, always lasts.
BECAUSE OF JUST ONE POETESS
I kept coming back to read her
at the Soup.
And, finally,after a number of
months,
I concluded to sign up and
express myself with my freshman,
weak pen.
I used to write the saddest poetry,
before I came here.
I try now to stay away from poets
who hate my country, or get joy out
of living in lost love or sadness.
And to avoid all who laugh at and
demean myself!
Belittling others in a poem, creates
and furthers world madness.
BECAUSE OF JUST ONE POETESS
Indeed my days have transformed
from gloom to splendiferous gladness.
No hopelessness nor grief can
fingerprint my life any longer.
And in the days to come, may
my words become far stronger.
BECAUSE OF JUST ONE POETESS!
**Her name is known best to the
the humblest of the twinkling
stars and God's ears**
With affection and thanks~
Form:
.
i crossed thuh
um
writer
who'd uh thunk
i'd
shake
squirm in mine
what
the ballast uv mine
where mine rrrse 'tiz
settled
giving mine duke's digits
freeness
explicating
whilst sat in
mine firm
cathedra
here you are
"Fear"
yourn wordy
mistake
Thump
Rrrrr
;|
*For thuh poet who apologized
to thuh one who iz lie'n 'neath
mine feet
never apologize to a lead balloon
')
In colors this canvas reminds me of our plastic card table cover
The one in reds and blacks that helped us to learn bridge
Mom did not need it; she was an avid bridge player
But Daddy and the rest of us did. This is what I saw on first glance.
I had not thought of this card table cover in fifty years!
Next I spied my usual doddles – swirls, whorls, dragon zigzagging spikes
This looks like what I do when I am held hostage on a phone call
Usually by my great aunt, but sometimes by a wordy neighbor
Doodling on speed, is how I think about it.
If I had a nickel for every one of these I have drawn!
The blacks and whites are prominent.
Bits of red seem intentional, not as accidental as the lines.
Not sure where the greenish yellow color came from
Something mixed up by the artist perhaps,
Unsure if it even has a name.
. for public domain
Look Real Pretty
(Short song)
We're not here to look real pretty.
We work hard and we get dirty.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah.
We're up and at 'em 'round four thirty,
chorin' up fences, makin' 'em sturdy.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah.
When done on the day we sing like the birdies,
chug a few down and we get wordy.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah.
So if you come around when the week is done,
toss away the shovel and have ya some fun.
Call on Betty Lou and the preacher's son,
shake a tambourine and rap on a drum,
dance around and sing like the world's just begun,
then git on home afore the setting sun.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah!
(inspired after my first hearing of The Way I Should by Iris Dement)
A whisper tells a story
In a most peculiar way
Unlike dulcet, milky tones
Heard at preschool in the day.
A story told in whispers
Will invoke a certain mood,
Sending shivers down the spine
As dark images are brewed.
Whispered words are lovely
Though often deeply stirring,
Like a sleepy little cat
Curled in the corner purring.
Should you find the whisper trite,
Just consider for a while
If a bellow filled with rage
Will calm a wailing child.
So, whisper certain stories
In a most mysterious way,
To paint the wordy pictures
And spark little minds at play.
© Cherie May 2015
Flinging fond fun,
Reap rowdy run;
Play primal pun,
Soar shining sun.
Greet grand glimpse grown,
Blossoms boost bloom;
Spread senses sown,
Ripe riches room.
Newsy noise now,
Trust touching takes;
Expense endows,
Matter minds make.
Bloom brisk beauty,
String simple song;
Storm sweet sexy,
Stand succinct strong.
Soul samples signs,
Words will wild wine;
Deed dear design,
Beach bursting brine.
Amass apt ale,
Beer booze bubbly;
Prompt pulpy pale,
Appeal aptly.
Make madness moot,
Reason rips rhymes;
Smell spreading soot,
Calm crystal chimes.
Death defies deed,
Mood mind mingles;
Stillness spurs seed,
Touch treats tingle.
Voice vibrant verse,
Reach rude ruffle;
Tickle taut terse,
Mood moves muffle.
Spread sexy smiles,
Pray pretty play;
Gain grouchy guile,
Stillness styles stay.
Gloom governs greed,
Pinpoint pure please;
Nimble nude need,
Listing life lease.
Word wordy word,
Pain planting pain;
Herd healthy herd,
Gain gathers gain.
Leon Enriquez
05 May 2014
Singapore
I feel fine dear friends to find with joy here
That the bubbles I raise in my small glass
Can come across your eyes my dear reader
To wet in your garden some blades of grass
I have only a few good cups with me
And that too not always subservient
Even if I can keep me mostly free
Colored bubbles hardly find easy vent
Though I want to be under your wide eye
My cups being fixed I hardly can do
Raise as many drops as would underlie
And spread my wordy grin my dear to you
Still this bubbling from my limited bowls
Remains a joy job to my starving souls
__________________________________
The heart is a language
of feelings, the mind a
language of wordy debate
let my heart transgress
always lead my poetic fate --
let the spaces between
suggest so little as mere that,
this, and such
but never clearly
too much –
through the
blessed fog of creation I will
bravely be led, the language
of poetry, a wild predator, always
in pursuit, dangerously un-fed
let my erratic emotion
cause composition commotion,
let me fearlessly scribe works
both soothing and those irritating
needing lotion
let poetry be my prayer as well
my devotion...so God please
delay my heaven-bound hearse
till I have penned, to take with me,
a sh't-load of pungent verse!
Seconds to go.
I am locked away, set aside.
Throat opens, body twists.
Face distorts, voice roughens.
The tangle man wakes up.
He is twelve, seventy, eighty.
Sick and lame.
Trembling and tight.
Blank eyes peruse him.
There will be tears, mania and lacerations.
There will be trauma, suffering and death.
Shall we begin?
Spit and panic catapult malignant declarations over open hearts and minds.
The targets are welcoming, knowing, bored.
Stinging verbal percussion slaps bloody daydreams into existence, leaving mental brandings smoking like cigarette burns.
Temples of his stories assemble and collapse from tongue to word as Gods and puppets arise through pages, letters and memory.
With a heaving gag he births a scene onto the stage and watches as it bites through its umbilicus and begins to suckle at the congregation’s teat.
The milk is thick and spoiled but the narrative reflection is a ragged lesion that will weep for days, maybe even weeks.
Their number is too small for hushed, safe exits so they remain trapped and immobilized as putrid projectiles shower them in the malady of his tale.
They are beginning to see what isn’t there and to hear what wasn’t said while he screams, giggles and grunts through his stained euphoria.
I don’t want it, I don’t like it, I can’t take it, it’s too much, it’s not enough, it makes me sick, it’s too dark, It’s too wordy, it’s not funny.
Are you all right?
Are you all right?
What’s wrong with you?
At last he is tightly swathed in the translucent skin of their propriety.
He can now anchor his tale and draw nutrients from their discomfort.
His parasitic imaginings have found a host and his triumph is now germinating in his own humiliation.
It’s not fair; all we wanted was a nice night out.
What’s so wrong with that?
from "To My Wife":
So love by love we come at last,
As through the exclusions of a rhyme,
Or the exactions of a past,
To the simplicity of time,
The antiquity of grace, where yet
We live in terror and delight
With love as quiet as regret
And love like anger in the night.
----- J. V. Cunningham
We meet infrequently --
sometimes every other week --
because we have in common
a curious thing: we write.
But, more than that, we think.
We feel; we do not judge
for condemnation, but
as a process of selection.
We speak as though
we understand that flash
of insight that can end
our speech in sudden chill
and labored breath --
a sporadic thrill we value
for its rarity when seeing,
or producing, something worthy
but not wordy.