Long Workwrite Poems
Long Workwrite Poems. Below are the most popular long Workwrite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Workwrite poems by poem length and keyword.
Where does one begin to write,
away from the streets' nioses and children's screams,
forgetting those bouts of loneliness
that evade the inner peacefulness?
One starts with a pad, jotting down appealing ideas...
never having to fear they'll be lost.
I have a private place where I compose
a new poem, then read it aloud to myself;
such a place has a window that opens
to the brilliance of a blessed day,
and sunlight impinging, highlights its words
to amaze me of a would-be greatness.
After midnight I refuge to this quite corner,
when most people sleep and the luminiscent moon
projects her beams to enlighten my dreamy face,
I stare back at her and wave as I do with friends;
moon as eternal as unseen planets more colorful,
do you have the faintest idea why I indite?
Some write for fame, others to empty their souls of painful reasons,
or to glorify Heaven and love for their continous existence,
but invoking death instead of life is so detestable and inexcusable;
and from their voices I reckon the useslessness and torment...
may I never become like them, to burn hope in blazes of smoke,
watching its incineration until it turns into hot ashes!
I write out of an urge, which swells inside and needs to burst out,
leaving my psyche, to let it land on prude hands that welcome my gift,
until I pulsate with satisfaction, and purging those who show dissidence...
might raise questions for them who are easily aroused to anger;
I create more in quietitude....not being disturbed by airplanes' roars,
or trains speeding on tracks making all windows vibrate.
From the ancient to the modern poets, their intellect is stimulated
by urban or rustic sourroundings, and I have choosen them both in my writings,
and they manifest themselves glowingly, enticing this reason for existing;
open my pages and read all the passionate verses exciting the eye and pleasing the soul:
these are from the mind to the heart, a testimony of an enthustiastic life...
streaching out to every boundery and race, making everyone savor my delights.
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
In Shakespeare’s day there is no doubt,
There were fewer poets, they were weeded out.
For few of them had a will like Will,
To write their thoughts with ink and quill.
With computers at our beck and call,
We can type it out, we can say it all
And then add some more another day,
Even though we don’t have much to say.
How many plays would he have written,
With a word processor to help him write them
Is something we will never know,
Because he lived so long ago.
He lived to only fifty-two.
That’s not much time in which to do
All those famous plays, but without a fuss,
He wrote those wonderful words for us.
And to think he wrote them all by pen,
And just like other famous men
Of yesteryear, he didn’t shrink,
From writing everything in ink.
So listen now, ye men of prose,
Do you think you could have written one of those
With only just a pen to do it
And no word processor to help you through it?
If so, you’re a better poet than I,
For the truth is that I wouldn’t try
To write for my posterity
Burdened by such austerity.
by: Joyce Johnson
Sometimes it is hard to know what to write or when to write when you have just about every
thought possible flowing through your head. I wonder, "Should I please the public with
how "poetic" I am or should I please You? I know what the answer is but at times I'm
worried about being liked or whether people get me. Is my belief in Your Son too far
above their heads or will they get it? Should I even worry about public opinion? Of
course I know as a follower of Christ, sharing my testimony and telling them about the
Lord is what I'm supposed to do. On the other hand, have I become to preachy and
dull? Am I shoving my beliefs down their throats? Then I realize, didn't Jesus make
himself of no reputation? Everybody thought that He was weird, blasphemous and not
qualified to tell them anything when it came to how they were living. I'm only here to do
what He wants me to do, nothing more, nothing less. If I do my part, the right people will
hear it, love it and appreciate it. All I should do, is write the word and leave all my
"rambling worries" to Him.
I write to relive the pain that's inside
To express all the feelings that i hide
You don't understand and you never will
you move too fast and i stand too still
Never once wondering what it's like to feel
control and discipline to close at your heel
never crying or cracking a smile
too worried about the working style
completely the opposite, how did it come to be
that someone so regimented is related to me
I enjoy what I do, it's my life and my passion
but it's not your style, it's not in fashion
irrelevant, unimportant, stop it you say
but as long as my hands work you wont have your way
you can scream and you can shout
but you don't understand what I'm about
to write is everything, always in my dreams
more difficult to achieve than it really seems
it's the effect you put in that really counts
So now it seems the end. I'm breaking out