Long Workshop Poems
Long Workshop Poems. Below are the most popular long Workshop by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Workshop poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear New Poet,
Modern poetry to me engages readers in seeking their own deep or higher meaning to life experiences. It utilizes symbolism imagery and varied verse that speaks to intellect and emotion.
The best advice I have is that which was given to me:
1) Read all types of poetry every chance you can. Make notes of poets you like and why; note poetry forms that appeal to you.
2) Make lists of words, expressions, phrases you find fascinating, interesting, anything that grabs your attention. Also, keep lists of new words and definitions. I use phone apps for notes, lists, thesaurus, dictionary.
3) Write about your own experiences, beliefs, life. Write in a quiet place. Jot down whatever comes to mind, your feelings. Anytime you get an inspiration, write it down, record it. Those thoughts you just know you will remember forever will float away in no time at all.
4) Experiment. Try different word placements, edit edit, edit. Leave it for awhile or overnight. Edit again. Read your piece outloud. Pay attention to awkward points and edit those.
5) Have fun with it. Throughout the day, observe situations and people. Be open to suggestions and critiques. Poets never stop learning.
A workshop assignment led me to poetry at a time when I was emotionally on overload. Besides being therapeutic, writing poetry gives me a sense of accomplishment.
Favorite THEMES include the joy and pain of 1) Love, 2) Family, 3) Sobriety, 4) Death, 5) Nature.
My favorite REFERENCE sources are: 1) rhymezone.com, 2) howmanysyllables.com, 3) PoetrySoup Cliche Finder, 4) smallseotools.come, 5) shadowpoetry.com
Favorite poems I have written are: 1) Grandsons, 2) Absence, 3) Remembering Johnna, 4) Lady, 5) Surrender or Die, 6) Pocket Watch 2, 7) Time Of Us, 8) No More, 9) Girls of Halloween, 10) Halloween Birthday.
My literary BACKGROUND: Always an avid reader, journalism courses led to newspaper editing and reporting. After 25+ years of a successful medical research and transcription career, physical problems forced a change. As a member of a local writers group, two short stories were published, and in the last few years, as an aspiring poet, several poems have been published.
Possible Title - Let Your Poems Say It For You
May 15, 2018
Tips For Modern Poetry Contest by Line Gauthier
Third Place
The absence of hope nests upon my shoulders like epaulettes of desolation,
with its poisonous warmth that has burned my skin to the bone, leaving purple scars,
crimson cuts from endless waiting in the antechamber of miracles that never come,
and yet it's strange how hope extends its hands with free bandages, like a merciful lady.
Despair no longer frightens me as it once did when I was a child hiding under blankets,
it has become the new currency of my creativity, with which I pay for poems and dreams,
transforming ruins into metaphors that shine like the jewels of fallen kings,
molding wounds into colored crayons with which to paint strength on the walls of my soul.
Neither despair nor hope feel like they belong to me in this life anymore,
as if I had inherited someone else's emotions, like clothes worn by strangers,
so now I sit in the laboratory of my heart and repair sadness into fine humor,
transforming pain into jokes that make the world laugh instead of cry.
I am an alchemist of feelings, a craftsman who pours the lead of suffering into gold,
who learns to make from each blow of fate a line of verse that heals,
from each disappointment a story that makes others feel less alone,
from each sleepless night a melody that soothes those who cannot sleep.
In the workshop of my silence, where only my shadow and I work like two artisans,
I take the broken pieces of hope and glue them with laughter until they become mosaics,
I take the threads of despair and weave them into stories that warm frozen hearts,
because I have learned that the greatest art is to make beautiful what hurts.
Perhaps I no longer know which emotions are mine and which belong to the world around me,
perhaps I have become a mirror that reflects others' pain and transforms it into light,
perhaps my mission on this earth is to be the translator of suffering into joy,
to be the bridge between tears and laughter, between despair and hope reborn from its own ashes.
And so I sit, with the epaulettes of hope's absence gleaming on my battle-weary shoulders,
with hands full of bandages that I offer to those who need to heal their wounds,
transforming each day into an alchemy laboratory where the miracle is not hope,
but the ability to make light from darkness and from silence a symphony of understanding.
My silent serene soul softly craves your candles of crystalline calm.
Your gallant greens of golden glow gently beam with bumbles, bashing blissful thoughts in a thundering whisper.
Our chemistry and connection is madly enchanted in ethereal crimson certainty of nectar's new dawn.
I want to own the oceans and you like I hold my butterflies and beliefs.
Rumple my radiant lips on silhouette sheets of your secret shoulder yard, leaving amaranth art of kisses on your lavender chest.
Letting your spikes of spices chase me into a search of serenity.
You are my wind in the wild storm.
The whisperer, wanderer in my mystical melodies.
You are the tempting thoughts in my tempestuous tides, thrilling the turbulent twilight of my heavenly heart.
The mesmerizing midnight memories in the infinite brain of my independent heart.
I'm nightfall without your luminous laughter.
I'm dateless without your conducive calendar of pink promises.
I'm the death of a wasteful war and torn tears from the endless screams.
Be the pondering puzzles of my relentless reasoning.
The savoury solitude in my sour soul.
The hibiscus honey and roasted peanuts in my poetic pantry.
My rustling reckless reflection in muttered excuses.
And I'll be your rainbow, your Rosa Juliet.
Your chocolate cosmos. Your scout for love in the jungle of jasmine spring.
I have fondly found fleeting fragrances of happiness from the ryhming rheum in your eyes. It is daring densely, hallucinating hazardously, making me stare still till I blindly bleed in haphazard hues.
Till eternity my love, your secret silence is the riff in every song. It is the splash of every sound. The hair on my stirred skin. The pulchritudinous phases of pain in astrological agony.
Stand, stand my sublime king so thou shalt see the height of my love for thee.
Listen, listen my charming prince so you shall hear my painting in every voice.
So you can feel the breathless bath of the present and the tickle in the tapestry of our voiceless vows, viciously channeled through the thighs of our bond and the sync of your seductive grasp.
So I can smell the wind of your hands slowly stroking my sensitive skin and the attention of my hairs saluting your stemless grasps.
My soul critically craves you my workshop and I your tools.
From mouth to ear across a lifetime lived,
traveling strings tying lives together thread on thread.
Every one word building lifetimes;
bonded mud of bricks to house
our broken bags of trailing flesh.
We will hold each others heart,
we will hold each others head up high.
Better or worse for the word or two that has made,
will forever make, and always is,
the difference.
Speak this word or that, watch the matter of it all unfold,
past lives shaped and shaping now
in crucibles of all our conversations.
Words to bridge and touch this world,
like knives or axes falling,
slicing moments each peeled back,
revealing bullets spent and sailing
on to wounded tearful souls.
Comfort words,
words of love,
different shapes and sizes wrapped
in different voices heard.
Inflections, accents, whispered,
loudly shaped intense of spirit,
colored by emotion to enforce.
Chosen words of purpose:
dispatched, planned,
let fly in haste,
erecting endless layers to our waste.
Tools of our intention common to our time,
reserved and planned, chosen with meticulous care,
whose definitions matter more than when or where.
Piercing silent dreams,
floating on the breath of every God,
making mysteries of all we seem to be.
Mirrors made of silence once,
we soon are made of words that move us
through a doorway, joining into life.
Today, a workshop for the poet. Write about a cup.
Standing empty, purpose unfulfilled.
Imagination startled as I smash the cup inside my head.
A million shards of broken pottery lying on the floor.
Broken poems and promises lying on the floor.
Shards thrown out of context as are we.
Broken souls from out a shattered God.
Each shard, a refugee. You and me.
Metaphors attached to all the brokenness we own.
Cups of purpose seeking our fulfillment.
Joined to make a whole of all we hold;
become a cup our truth will then unfold.
What began as empty, filled with our life’s portion,
sharing, sipping, spilling all along the way.
Losing contents we may label dear
until the final tipping of a cup left upside down.
What words escape our pens that are not truth.
Whose content change the soul from which we bleed
Whether subject cup or love, or other siphoned dalliance,
at our finish will complete a lifetime’s cupping need.
I want to believe
In that enormous green tree
Appearing here, alive in the spring
Foliage, decorating its thing
Bark firm and strong
I sit under, pondering life’s wrongs
Its shade, cools me
While I sip summertime tea
Watch and wonder
Afternoon storms arrive, declaring thunder
Wet
I do not get
Umbrella branches
Protecting me as the heavenly water dances
When the shower calls it quits
Ending the daily tantrum fit
I endure our sloppy, muddy setting
Enjoying an arbor relationship consecrated wedding
That will never break
No matter the stake
Calendar date flips
My tree starts to strip
One leaf at a time
I start to whine
Why? Why?
Are you starting to die?
Winds start booing
Chiming, ‘how are you doing?’
Then emerges a star
A friend from afar
Guide me my northern light
I ask this visiting galactic bright
Glowing in the dark
Proclaiming a hark
“You want me to cut down my tree,
Bring it in the house, for all the see
Dressed up, displayed ever so nice
My darling paid the ultimate price
But now is the center of attention
Did I mention?”
I thought about this suggestion
Decided saving money, due to a planted shrubbery recession
Axe I handled
Feeling wax on my candle
Going the festive way
My tree will have one last say
Planned the attack
Took only one whack
Out went my back
Sending my love to the ground
Hearing the deathly earth bound
Sound
Music occupied the air
During scheduled holiday affairs
Creating memories my tree and I will share
Until one morning
Without any warning
A stranger put packages under my tree
Glittering with glee
Realizing what was done
We started to have fun
Throwing wrapping paper around
Cherishing the merchandise we have found
Days later new year joined the party
Everyone stayed upbeat, not sorry
I stared out the window
And what do you know
Another tree ready to grow
And bloom
Wanting my companionship soon
Humming our favorite, seasonal tunes
Greetings to you all
I exclaim, dragging my spruce honey down the hall
"Father does not see the mournful sad tears,
that fall on a mossy stone;
O, my broken heart weeps.
And I recall running into your open arms a little girl innocent,
you were the first man I loved, and will always be special;
the older I get, the smarter you seem to have been back then,
my anchor, my rock, my protector, my security, my Dad.
Can I ever forget our walks hand-in-hand, in parks and woods,
you taught me to love nature and to see with eyes open;
hours we would sit on a park bench watching life drifting by,
and I would ask you all kinds of silly little girl questions.
Even in death you are my guiding light, my safe harbor,
you left me suddenly I never got to say, I love you Dad;
tearfully, I asked you to forgive me as I held your cold dead hand,
if I hurt you sorry, I forgive you also for all harsh words.
I remember bringing you hot cups of tea out to your workshop,
sitting beside you at your dusty, cobwebby workbench;
admiring your many rows and rows of tin cans and old bottles,
you were always asking Mom for some kind of container.
Mom said, you kept every nail, screw and bolt you ever met,
and I would add- and every board too, and we would laugh;
it was me who cleaned out the workshop, O, the stabbing pain,
I lingered there for days touching things you touched.
Dear LORD, please take care of my Daddy till I get to heaven,
Dad, I brought you a dew-kissed yellow rose from my garden;
of all the flowers Mother grew, you loved the yellow roses best,
laying it gently down on your tomb, I walk away with pride.
It was on that same workbench that I picked up your pencil,
on the day of your death, I wrote a poem about my Daddy;
and that day I left the child who was me behind and became of poet,
an hour after your death in that workshop- I found my Muse.
____________________________________
December 31, 2015
Poetry/Kimo/Verse/Daddy
Copyright Protected, ID 15-740-246-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Tell Us About Your Dad,
sponsor, Judy Konos
First Place
"Father does not see the mournful sad tears,
that fall on a mossy stone;
O, my broken heart bleeds."
And I recall running into your open arms a little girl innocent,
You were the first man I loved, and will always be special;
The older I get, the smarter you seem to have been back then,
My anchor, my rock, my protector, my security, my Dad.
Can I ever forget our walks hand-in-hand, in parks and woods,
You taught me to love nature and to see with eyes open;
Hours we would sit on a park bench watching life drifting by,
And I would ask you all kinds of silly little girl questions.
Even in death you are my guiding light, my safe harbour,
You left me suddenly I never got to say, I love you Dad;
Tearfully, I asked you to forgive me as I held your cold hand,
If I hurt you sorry, I forgive you also for harsh words.
I remember bringing you hot cups of tea out to your workshop,
Sitting beside you at your dusty, cobwebby workbench;
Admiring your many rows and rows of tin cans and old bottles,
You were always asking Mom for some kind of container.
Mom said, you kept every nail, screw or bolt you ever met,
And I would add, and every board too, and we would laugh;
It was me who cleaned out the workshop, O, the stabbing pain,
I lingered there for days touching things you touched.
Dear LORD, please take care of my Daddy till I get to heaven,
Dad, I brought you a dew-kissed yellow rose from my garden;
Of all the flowers Mother grew, you loved the yellow roses best,
Laying it gently down on your tomb, I walk away with pride.
It was on that same workbench that I picked up your pencil,
On the day of your death, I wrote a poem about my Daddy;
And that day I left the child that was me behind and became of poet,
An hour after your death in that workshop I found my Muse.
____________________________________
December 31, 2015
Poetry/Kimo/Verse/Daddy
Copyright Protected, ID 15-740-246-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Tell Us About Your Dad,
sponsor, Judy Konos
First Place
In the basement of our house
Was a workshop
Of gray tools
And the smell of 3-in-1 oil
There under the steady glare
Of florescent lighting
My father
Worked.
Whenever he called me downstairs
It was to talk
About something important
Or a mistake I made
After every few sentences
He would adjust his glasses
And pause
To make sure I understood every word he said
A habit
He had until the day he died.
Speaking with determination
He told me never to lie
You may think people don't listen
He said
But inside they do
The mind
Works
Like a sponge
It remembers everything
Even when we get tired and forget.
So remember
Nobody likes a liar.
I first saw Susan walking
Down the street
Head held high
Graceful
I tried catching up with her
But she was quicker
Than I was
We met again when she dropped her keys
Picking them up
I told her
She was the most beautiful woman I ever met
A slight exaggeration
An innocent white lie
But a lie nevertheless.
Soon we were together
Clothes on
Clothes off
The new found
Thrill
Of intimacy
Was intoxicating.
In small bits
Day by day
Freedom evaporated
And our lives
Became hopelessly twisted
In an undertow
Of life, money,
Apartment
Problems and future
I wasn't honest with myself
And deep down inside
I never knew
What I was hiding
Or how fragile a relationship could be.
One night she asked if I knew
Anything about roses
I barely stammered a what?
Roses symbolize love, sympathy and
Elegant beauty
She said
But they're one of the most fragile flowers
Ever
They can turn brown and die
From a chill in the air.
I fell asleep on the couch that night
Getting up in the morning
I saw the made up bed
And in the kitchen
Nestled between coffee and sugar
Was an envelope
With my name
Scrawled in clear
Bold handwriting
My hands shook
As I reached for the envelope
The urge
To leave it unread
Was strong
Until suddenly, I tore it open
And read it through
From top to bottom
Over and over again.
Catching my breathe I sat down
Enfolded
In the strange quiet
Of an empty apartment
Wondering how different things might have been
Had I not told white lies.
I am misunderstood. I am an artist.
I work with my heart through my hands;
a concept not accepted in this unforgiving society.
This cruel world was not meant for a person like me. I am different; my work is not recognized. They call my sanity insanity. With a flick of the hand I can cause pain, or soothe it.
Why won’t my art sell? Only my precious Red Vineyard at Arles has flown from my flock. Incandescent hues of Sunflowers and Irises lay scattered in a dark workshop.
I stare up at the night sky from my cell. My window is narrow, but my mind sees it all. A vast, canvas covered by swirling winds and bright yellow lights. All these stars! They are shining brighter tonight. As if they understand my raw loneliness. I must capture it before it runs away. As I caress the paper with streaks of blue and grey, the voices go away. They are always here, in my mind. I beg for them to leave, but on the morrow they will return
Warm liquid gold runs in between my fingers. Oh on this Starry Starry Night I do not feel misunderstood, And yet, morning will come, stars fading while solitude rises with the morning sun.
Still a poor man; still haunted by invisible voices; still a burden to my brother.
I raise my paint stained hand to my left ear and remember. La tristesse, this sadness, will last forever.
Form:
A template swap is a switch over to a swimming sword. Swordfish are very pleased at this and dunk their noses into goblets in a godlike fashion. Such etiquette in a swim. Formational framework finds format. And even a small pinnacle of cake icing could dance down the highways. So ignoring the wraths and word of woe it is wise to take out a pretty smiling biscuit. Place it carefully on a plate. Then climb up the hill and over the rope bridge. Very high altitude causes biscuits to be afraid so they must be calmed with soothing words and beats of breath. When the other side of the mountain is reached the biscuit must be harnessed securely using over twenty ropes. Then and only then can the abseiling begin. Wow aren't they travelling with speed, courage and optimism but optimism is neither an original orifice nor an octagonal oversized overspill objective. It is really then the sway of a ninety thousand foot toothbrush that can announce the time with no need of amplification via a microphone or a tannoy system. Wow. How intriguing is the belligerent hard yard of a semi dressed riddled jester? And how time consuming is the ongoing rashers of tinned and sliced ham? How delegated are the powers that are worn around and around and adjudicate the environment? Thus thwarting life in its structural natural weave. And a giant beehive hairdo must be re worn as a signal to a hive. Hide then. Hideous hags having heaping heads. And legs like little tables spin and rotate via remote control. Similar to a plate of writhing meal worms and a workshop of controlled chapel chaos. Big birthday balloons bring balls banging. Circumference of circulating capital charms. And a diameter of a diagram is a dare in the deeds. Castle that then fortify but do not attempt to fry for to fry is to form fiendish frolics. And to frolic is just not a fashionable way of wearing a peel is it? Hahaha the sausages are listening to their cousins today. Hahaha I want a cup of tea and a toast too said the little bluey green lamp. Xxxxxx parasympathetic parody xxxx xxxx etymologies z z z z z at twenty one full meals of porridge in a bread pan to twenty sequences of serving cereals to a six inch bowl. Z.
Form: