Long Write Poems
Long Write Poems. Below are the most popular long Write by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Write poems by poem length and keyword.
Alone in your world of solitude, you do not wait for anyone to care
your mind and thoughts are satisfying, and with you do they share
wisdom and knowledge they are your light, what was once far is now brought near
seeking answers for all of your questions, to them guided by your inner ear
Meditating and illuminating, this world is but a testing ground for your soul
you've been reincarnated, given another chance, this world is really your parole
keep in mind with your time here, many above are watching what you do
your life ceasing and again being brought, to a place which no one has a clue
While judging your life, to the hairsbreadth of truth, your actions they will surely
measure
for sins committed will you be punished, but for your good awaits you unforeseen
pleasure
what is it all for, you question, the wisdom of this world is it really part of life's goal
you don't know, but heaven wishes it so, maximizing the rewards to be earned by
your soul
While reading my words and contemplating their meaning, maybe asking how do I
know
what audacity I must have to write all this, thinking I just made up words for this to
flow
then know, if you follow the truth your soul will not lie, truth is only whispered to the
discerning ear
failing to achieve reward for your soul while still here, something really deserving of
your fear
After all has been said, do not regret, it pays to reevaluate your direction and take
note
if you think that after this life you'll be pushing up daisies, why bother trying to stay
afloat
plan and purpose have we all been put here, expectations for us to try and achieve
desire for us to pass this test, to overcome our challenges and just start to believe
I reckon time
By my children’s ages
My daughter is 30
My son is 25
No, this happened
A long time ago
Before I met their mother
How many years was that?
They seemed to be missing
All at once
Stan from Buffalo, NY
Died on some unknown hill
In Da Nang
Little Mac from Chester, Pa
Friend
And alcoholic
Died in a VA Hospital
Big Bob for sure was going
To be a twenty year man
The Texan
Never made it past two.
The memories ache
A burning sensation
That rides and moves
Deep inside
And never heals
Wasn't it just a few years ago
Summer of ‘67
When we fell out for roll call
And waited
Sweat
Slowly rolled down
Big Bob’s neck
Staining his collar
From the corner of my eye
Stan fidgeted
As we waited
Under the merciless sun
Whispering and trading rumors.
The officers came out
NCOs following them
A young Lieutenant
Spoke
Sounding like a rod
Was stuck in his lower back
The NCOs wore sunglasses
The reflective ones
That hid the circles of their eyes
From the shadows
They watched us
Something was going to happen
Just what we weren’t sure.
We listened to names
Like
Saigon
Hue
Republic of Viet Nam
Charlie
Realizing
We were finally
Heading out
On a big bird
Over the Pacific
To swoop down on ‘ Nam
Faces flush with excitement
We hurried
To
Call back home
Check gear
Write last minute letters
No one wanted
To be left behind.
The word was
That it would be over
Before we knew it
We’d be back home
In no time.
I stand alone
Listening
To my breathing
Sound coming in
Going out
Feeling a chill
From some unknown place
In the silence
I ask myself
Where did everyone go?
Frustration, in Poetry comes in many forms.
Sometimes as a looming, dark cloud,
When it seems, I cannot pen anymore.
Sometimes a poem you might think is your best,
Is ignored like stenchy road kill?
But your pen moves on, regardless, that's the test.
Other times you send friends the exact link.
You wonder if they died?
Or do the words from your poem, in truth,stink?
It's a wonder why I even continue...
My eyes are burning and my scribblings avoided.
I don't know how to pleae you.
Aye, there's the rub exactly for me!
Either write because I actually like it...
Or stop doing poetry!
10-23 2020
Poem 5
I write of a man named Edgar Allan Poe,
Whose dark, tortured soul could not rest,
His work is something every poet should know,
These stories are among some of the best.
"The Raven" was never more ghastly and grim,
"The Pit And The Pendulum" which tortured him,
"The Valley Of Unrest" was such a quiet place,
Where "The Sleeper" dreams in peaceful grace,
"The Murders In The Rue Morgue" were a mystery,
"The Fall Of The House Of Usher" had a gloomy history,
"The Black Cat" was dead, but suffered no pain,
"The Tell-Tale Heart" is what drove him insane,
"The Masque Of The Red Death" did conceal,
While "The Purloined Letter" did reveal,
"The Premature Burial" meant for the dead,
"Annabel Lee" was the corpse bride he wed,
"Spirits Of The Dead" found themselves alone,
"The Conqueror Worm" that fed on human bone,
"The Haunted Palace" was wandered by ghosts,
"Tamerlane" written for one he loved the most.
As the poetry flowed from his heart,
One tragic day, death came to his door,
Finally his tortured soul could depart,
He would then pick up his pen, nevermore.
We share a love of nature, of the birds and the bees,
a warm zephyr breeze that blows through palm trees
The seasons inspire us to write of beautiful blooms
so vividly described, you almost smell their perfumes
Depicting a sunset as if painted by Monet in the skies
set down into words, as seen through our poetic eyes
Vast oceans and lakes, huge mountains and hills
These subjects just flow from our poetry quills
Our words bring us together, although we’re oceans apart
A bond we’ll always share, poetry just written from the heart
What do we have in common Contest
kEYWORDS Poetry, nature
5/17/18
Never trust another’s words.
Cursed is he, who trusts his own first.
For the sound of water can’t soothe your thirst,
it sadly can only makes it worse.
For everyone will love you,
when you are what’s good.
Though you wouldn’t stay the same,
even if you could.
You’ll be replaced,
after all you have faced,
with a person who claimed,
a love with no end.
Even so, I just send,
all of my best.
Though love can dry,
if you leave it to rest.
It is a flower,
a rose, that can harm.
To worship for a moment,
they cut them all down.
This is not poetry,
these words are not art.
It’s something I’ve stored,
deep in my heart.
Though it was so hard,
I believed like a child,
naive and with sparks,
somewhere in my eyes.
I suppose we become wise,
the further time flies.
Though, these words that I write,
as a feather are light.
They leave my mind,
right through my fingers.
Land on this page,
for all of my readers.
I love you, she said,
these words even lighter.
They fly through the sky,
for someone to find her.
Though by now, I am tired.
my words fall weak,
just peace I desire,
yet still I speak.
I’ve been rowing the boat,
in hopes that I reach her,
but the waves that are born,
drowning the dreamer.
I met once, one preacher,
whose God was the sun.
He yearned for the heavens,
and flew just to burn.
I waited and now it’s my turn,
to walk away, as I’ve learned.
Words mean nothing,
when trust must be earned.
Fin.
poetry crawls out of my dreams and shakes her head
she entices me with a line that wakes me up in a weird way
disoriented, all I know is that I need to grab a pen or a computer
she gives me no freewill; I am her captive, her prisoner.
My fingers are itching to either write or type
we do not care which anymore; but poems are making noises
shaking shimmering shabby chic missives exploding in our mind
I say our, so I can include Trixie, my muse, who is persnickety
She insists on getting paid credit. To not do this would be suicide.
I would die a slow death, under her warm tutelage.
no one has a muse any more persistent or insistent than Trixie.
She forces me to do her bidding; I am her minion.
Happy to do it, Trixie, truly, I am.
Snicker Snicker
Under the enchanted curtain of the night, where the stars whisper ancient secrets,
I no longer desire everything, just an ethereal caress,
A stellar thrill and a minor love to soothe my dreams,
Fragile desires woven into the dance of silver shadows.
Now, I stand at the edge of time, waiting once again,
The years unravel like the fabric of an old tapestry,
The radio softly sings the songs of yesteryear,
And the kitchen walls glow in the yellow of a setting sun.
I toss empty bottles to chase away the evening ghosts,
Listening for invisible footsteps that might break the silence,
Hoping that death harbors something gentler
Than this endless waiting, this heavy silence.
At my fogged window, I write stories with my fingers on the steam,
About quiet pains and half-open joys,
In a small universe where dreams float on calm waters,
I no longer seek everything; I stay with these ephemeral fragments.
The moon, a silver queen, weaves her veil of light,
And under her diamond rays, I find my sweet peace,
An immeasurable moment, a suspended magical time,
A brief stillness in the vastness of my unfathomable past.
Others sleep in their sacred silences; only I remain watchful,
In nostalgic waiting, dancing with the shadows of the night,
Begging for a minor love, a stellar caress, and the thrill of desire,
In a small universe subtly vibrating under the canvas of infinity.
In the secret silence, each moment seems to slip slowly by,
The years become thin like silk under the full moon’s light,
I seek consolation in the simple art of waiting, listening to the depths of the night,
Hoping that death carries a lighter burden than this lonely life.
In the magical light of the moon, I embrace these passing moments,
My desires transform into falling stars,
And in the melancholy of life, I feel the enchantment of eternity
Revealing itself subtly, in every whisper of the night, in every dream.
The humble cook
Once upon a time, a cook was a person who prepared food for hungry people, simple food like meat cakes in gravy and boiled potatoes
one needed not to be a genius, but the person knew how to fry eggs or scrambled eggs
could read and write in order not to mistake rat poison for garlic powder
It was a whole profession, like being a butcher
a baker, house painter, or a barber
Times have changed in occupations like these, and something
more is expected, like art? Are you serious
The cook is now a chef, highly paid for transforming
food into a work of art on a plate to let taste buds run
amok, should you eat the food and not take a photo
of the dish, hang it on the wall, food/art made by
a famous chef who has lent his name to other things
and is now a millionaire, often appearing on TV
Should you find a hair fallen off a beard or some other orifices, wrap it in plastic, and sell it on eBay?
~ IN THE STYLE OF NICANOR PARRA ~
I write as my heart dances or cries
whatever I like whenever I want
______as crinkled leaves fall from trees
undressing twigs for winter’s battering
only to dress up again in pink
blossom
sap lubricating lips
I write anything
I want to breathe again
words shower from clouds
form as homes when I’m cold and hungry
unsheath when window panes
suit me not ….to fly forever and away
it is only that my veins need to run clear
and joints not creak when oil is sparse
may my poems strip all pretence
all contest…all division
poetry and physics
embracing where existentialism floats above our heads
so we may root flesh in ground
and a l l eat bread fresh
So let my verses trigger or
soothe as cream we sometimes lick
soles still touch loose sand grains
wrinkled skin blemished by dark of turmoil
or knots or waiting _______
run on lines with ancestral winks through seas
docks, spaces, ages, blotches, steps
— —+++ to jam sandwiches
I seek no pomposity or accolades
let them fly on raven’s gloss
I greet you always in the name of the unelite the unpoetic who trample sidewalks
barefoot poets
splotches in air….. sun damaged
with alphabets singing far or near
let each poem hasten unpretense
hail margins of cities, farmyards
where aged and hungry hold back the waters of tomorrow
sucking seconds of time in threadbare
trousers
take it or leave it …
so may all despair swallow this poem
my care sleeps now