Long Writer Poems
Long Writer Poems. Below are the most popular long Writer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Writer poems by poem length and keyword.
I am a writer of words and it has become my life,
my safe harbor away from living;
oh, I found my writing skill quite early,
and childhood grief became poems.
Later, I worked as a nurse and saw death daily,
and held many withered hands 'till a last breath;
so death and I know each other well,
and this dark angel in time has taken everyone from me.
for they are all names cut deep into cold stone,
and my grief has no bounds;
so, I write the sorrow I keep in my heart,
alone in the silent night . . . .
___________________________
August 1, 2020
Poetry/Verse/In The Silent Night
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1275-022-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (16)
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
When I die
Give my poetry to my daughter
I want her to get to know my inner thoughts
To get to really know her father
When I’m gone
May my poems motivate and guide you
Let the pages be my soul
And you can always take me with you
When I die
Just know that each poem
Is a part of me
Pieces of a puzzle
Like a painting you alone were meant to see
When I’m gone
Know that my favorite poems I never put in writing
Instead
Its in the memories of the times I spend with you
In your heart is where you’ll find me
When I die
If there’s anything you take from me
Let it be that your the author of your book
And the writer of your story
D.Christian
Master Designer By Curtis Johnson
An accountant, businessman, psychologist, or teacher?
Great challenging and responsible endeavors, but for who?
What was God thinking when he made you?
A doctor, lawyer. Janitor, engineer, or carpenter?
All good and noble professions, but for who?
What was God thinking when he made you?
Politician, policeman, or judge?
All needful careers, but for who?
What was God thinking when he made you?
Preacher, priest, prophet, or missionary?
Imagine a world without them; but for who?
What was God thinking when he made you?
An actor/actress, writer, musician, or singers not a few?
All decent and respectable professions, but for who?
And what was God thinking when he made you?
At our beginning, God painted the picture, leaving us a clue
He uses many people and things to present the finished you
He invites us to join him, helping him to produce
God, with purpose, designed you to be you, and me to be me.
When we seek him, the portrait he painted of us comes into view.
When we pursue that portrait, we are happy, and our lives become clear
cj11112010
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She told him she really loved him
and she knew he'd be an excellent partner
she worried about the bonds she shared between friends
one's she'd lose by them not wanting to be in the way
the one's who felt comfortable with and relied on
She from her own feelings was also scared that people would simply say
that those uncertainties in relationships
would cause gossip and were meant to unravel she and her partner.
Things spoken like she should have known better
like people have hindsight
or they wanted to marry like there are other
options. Married minded people marry: those how can get by without
commitment are fortunate.
People often wish these two types of people never meet,
due to the carelessness of creating an understanding were it's
perfectly find as long as were together. Without a commitment this is a foolish and unreal understanding.
An understanding that many people day to day have.
Ya'll know I aint leaving my wife for this.
He cool but I love my husband.
It is what it is and my Lover knows me.
It take two to Tango: but the band leader is something specials, this jives with the perfection of committed minded people.
We gonna go til we're through, I aint got no words to break-up a good thing.
From: The Bruised Ego
By: Writer Contempo
What a Lover Should Say
By: Writer Contempo
when I go to the cemetery to visit the tombs of the dead
and I leave the world by stepping through the ornate gate
that leads me on a winding road into the stillness
of scampering squirrels and chipmunks and hidden bird songs
I first arrive at the tomb of grandpa . .
.
oh, he was a wonderful man, I can still hear his laugh
I loved his farm and all the animals and his joy of life
but he died too young . . .
beside him lays grandma, she is the reason I am a writer
she said write it and I never stopped, she thought a cup of
tea would cure anything, a broken heart or whatever, one day
grandma we will be drinking tea up above, she died at ninety-four
I have to take another winding path now, deeper into the quiet
and I come to the tomb and place of tears quietly serene
fitting it is shaded by a weeping willow . . . .
this is where my sister is in repose since she was a child
I will never forget our play and her smiling, happy face always
I have asked God why a thousand times . . . .
Dad, the day you died I was shattered, my whole life crumbled
I never wanted to let go of your cold hand, but I had to let you go,
I came home and wrote a poem about you and that was the beginning,
a poet was born that day . . . .
Mom, there is not a day that I do not think of you, at dawn and when I
seek rest, you are with me always, you were my best friend, when you left
I became a balloon floating in the sky with no anchor to hold me in place
I have things to tell you mom . . . .
and the newest engraving in stone, my baby boy, who never saw the sky
who never took a breath of life, people say God needed another angel,
did he have to take mine, each time the dagger plunges deeper into my
heart, and each visit leaves my heart broken again . . .
my life is ravaged with death, the garden of my life weather-stained
but I am a survivor and as I step through the ornate gate, I re-enter
my reality mourning death but determined to go on . . .
_________________________
November 4, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/six above
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1300-223-04
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Standard Contest, Six Relatives
sponsor, Caren Krutsinger, Judged 11/30/20
Third Place
Seems I’ve reminisced
The feel
Of a home cooked meal
Ducking the pleasures
Of a sainted veil
A clause in the end
From which finer things appeal
Black jack matches not
To a fisher mans luck
On an antique reel
But on the real
The expectations in this life
Remain a comfort
That refuses to chill
Let your thoughts rest
On an old lads chest
Considering the circumstances
If we make it
We can all attest
And adore this political mess
If not then as victims of stress
Unblessed in this planet
Of slanted chess
We’ll confess
Another night
Another days passes
Do you find it lovely
How nothing ever last
But many men have cured
Their fascination
Of becoming non minute men
Flawed by incarceration
Deep within the dungeons
Of a softer conscience
In irregular form
A veteran lies victim
Of defeated white blood cells
Unresponsive
A child with no home
And swollen tonsils
The dark settles
Flashbacks meddle
Trouble around the corner
As a lunch line unveils
Never was a fighter
Just a swinger
As I found myself catapulted against
The cafeteria wall
The integrity
My sucker punch instilled
Broken glass jaws
Over a 4th grade meal
Or mainly just an individual
Twice the size of me
With an inability to feel
I sat still
As the principal sought
A stern punishment
Not as astonished with
The other kids compliments
For my stomach ache
From a lack of warm condiments
Moral of the story is
I was fighting then
I’m still fighting now
Obstacles tend to ware me down
The inexperience of my peers
Seem to no longer enlighten me now
Have to find new ways to learn
Or disappear into the unclear
Fatigued as a writer
Tend to want to touch on subjects
Closer to lighter
Symptoms of a September baby
A Virgo born of a harlot
With nine children unknown
A none buffalo soldier
A phantom on a Harley
The ghost of Robert Marley
An astronaut in my younger years
Screaming for Apollo thirteen
As the thunder neared
Off my coarse of inspiration
I veered
I sit here waiting for maybe a little appreciation,
I'm not asking for much just a little recognition,
from my fellow poets. I am the poem speaking to
you right now.
My writer has spent grueling hours creating, developing,
imagining, spelling, rhyming, punctuating, you get the
picture. Enormous effort not being recognized.
He is so excited to show me off. Wanting to share me
with everyone. Not one is commenting, I'm so sad. He's
so sad.
I sit here waiting patiently to hear from you. You
see, all this work doesn't mean anything, unless you
notice me, you show me love and appreciation.
I'm going crazy as I sit here waiting. Oh please won't
you take a peek at me. It's only a minute of your
valued time. Just one small comment will bring
joy to me and my writer.
I sit here in torment. All this effort making me
and no one is noticing. I feel for my writer he
almost feels like it's a wasted effort. Prove him wrong
poets, read me please
Hey wait a minute someone noticed me. Oh thank
you for taking the time to read me. Thank you so
much for your comment. I hope someone notices
your poem like you noticed me.
Michael Tor 9/16/2015
Comments mean so much to us poets.
Please show your appreciation and
spread the love with your thoughtful
comments. Thank you.
.
Ana's lips were cunning
as a linguist she knew
how to twist them
and elocution lessons
had done her tongue
a lot of flexible good
smooth and passionate
she explored his mouth
labial passion play
pleasured unknown depth
crescendo culmination
unspeakable joy
the intimate sensation
spread through her body
an intimate mind
caught fire and seized
reason with emotions
she was a writer
but some feelings
cannot be expressed
with mere words
on eloquent thought
further aroused
ink well and nib
happily mingling
she knew that he was a poet
and she the receptacle
of pure poetry in motion
25th August 2021
"It takes a real heart to write forevermore." By Poet
Here I sit with pen in hand,
staring at a blank notepad.
I need many letters,
to make my words come alive.
I thought I was a writer,
but as I sit here I wonder.
Poems come from the love of writing,
writing about the past or about the present.
Poems can be true or false,
some will make you cry and others will make you laugh.
True writers write from their heart,
as the ink rushes through their veins.
Now the words flow faster then I can write,
don't think, just write.
The writer and reader are both in love,
in love with letters, words, sentences and reading.
Now I am writing away,
forevermore.
Our Smith's dorsal in violent recline
Begins to rise from a great decline
A shoulder sets right, up into the socket
A hip sends shivers, boiling up like a rocket
Shapely and stoic, taking up a stronger stance
Webbed feet emerge, formed from the manic dance
Along with the teeth, the fingers and the toes
The digits are now sharing a body with their foe's
Still, without eyes, the journey will be trouble
Still, our Smith, pushes on through the rubble
Still, the Cot, seperates warmth from the cold
Now, the Names, travel through ashes to behold
Our Smith has reached the edge of the Cot
Now a little further from green and red rot
The temperature rises and rises and never peaks
And along with it...small, quiet, swelling squeaks
"ShInEr, BrIdGe, TrIdEnT, JiA, KoLe, NoUgAt, PoRtEnt, QuIlLa....."
Our Smith is shuddering in rigorous motions
The bellows bend, and blow away notions
"MiLnEr, GeRiL, SuIkOpIna, BlItHe, NuMbEr 6, SeEya-"
Our Smith turns their ear to the now silent flame
And finds his current situation a shame
With no way to see, his trek will be tough
So tries to recall what made his meal have enough
The teeth in his face, still gooey and gross
Twist in and out, in absence of a nose
And replaced in the centre of his malforming mug
They line, all but one, in a mouth all snug
Taking the deepest breath he can muster
His chest glows red, without a green luster
And blasts out a shout, into the Cot's cluster
"DiD aNyOnE nOtIcE a MiSsInG Smith?
Up On ThE SeAt? NeAr ThE ZeNith?
WeLl I'm DoWn bY tHe Cot, Stuck AlL oN mY oWn!
PlEaSe, cOuLd SoMeOne wIth eYes Guide tHe UnKnOwn?"
.....................
Bellows bend and blow away ash
Our Smith stands alone, among the trash.