Long Writers Poems
Long Writers Poems. Below are the most popular long Writers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Writers poems by poem length and keyword.
Carols let you in on history and its interpretation,
Church thought and theological progression,
Show that people and writers have learnt the lesson,
Not to believe in god so thoroughly and to be of good reason.
We’ve learnt to move the god meme over to reside in derivation,
To human beings, to people and to their postulation,
In derivation to Jesus, as one of these people, an initiator with a motion,
Who wished for humankind that all the ill were given a kinder notion.
Christinna Georgina Rossetti in her hymn of devotion,
Equated Jesus with nature, not nature with Jesus, obviation,
Because the snow came first according to In The Bleak Midwinter composition,
And the ox and ass were enough for the lord, the baron.
She ended with Jesus requiring our all, not god or divination,
By demoting god to a lesser place, a quieter spot by a dumber meditation,
By stating that our own daily lives are relational to the son, not just a projection,
Not a false image of our personalities that we make only for god’s gratification.
I know this guy, he’s a writer
or at least he claims to be.
We went to the same college
where he was introduced to me.
I told him I wanted to teach
about writers of recent years.
He just smiled and said that he
“Was taking down Shakespeare.”
I thought the man a nutjob,
and I still think that today.
I grant the he does write a lot,
but is rarely ever paid.
The arrogance of it all
really pushes much too far,
to think that a crazy recluse
could ever displace the bard!
First of all, when writing
he is far too fond of jokes.
And several of his novels
feature expositing ghosts!
Then there is his penchant
for throwing in a couple of fools,
who often find themselves the butt
of treatment rather cruel.
And he’s farther fond of using
characters misidentified.
When it comes to endings
too often his heroes die!
When he’s looking for a niche,
for a genre he can ride,
he never seems to pick one out,
he’s jumping around all the time!
When it comes to his poetry
the less that’s said the better.
He seems to have a love affair
with old iambic pentameter.
One moment he is serious,
then tries his hand at comedy.
In two stanzas he will gladly go
from funny quips to tragedy.
I really do pity the man,
obsessed with this foolish quest.
I think he should put down the pen,
and find a new interest.
It’s sad to see him fantasize,
to see that he lacks the gifts,
the man who would take down Shakespeare,
just cracked the best-seller list—
Wait, what?!
That guy wrote a best-seller?
Seriously? Him?
Son of a....
All those who criticize tarnish their image in front of everyone
Criticisms in print are best left undeleted, more they are read, more defamed their writers become
If we ignore criticising people, they will get bored and stop their actions
Those who criticize are surely not our well wishers, they don't deserve to be in our thoughts
Be confident of self, don't allow negative words bring down your self-esteem
Whatever a person thinks about you is his personal opinion, it doesn't mean he is correct
Barking dogs are best left alone. One can never straighten a dog's tail.
Lastly never ever defend yourself and try to prove you are right. You are not answerable to your critic's.
I am writing you to tell you that I am Termanating my Poetry From the soup..
I Feel like that your company has took a turn for the worst.. You have still not told me why
you have Investigated me..
or treated me the way you have.. Its not you Poets.. your Poets are great writers and I
Love them All ... My Problem Is the people who is running the soup.. This place has turned
into more of a soap opra than a poetry sight.. If it was not for Christy I would of left a long
time ago... Plus you guys think I owe you something.. I feel I don't owe you nothing.. I
was the one who wrote all these poems and then your so called people who runs this place
does not care on what I think.. Or can answer my questions... So No hard Feeling to the
Poets Its not there fault... and decides I am moving on to bigger and better things.
What an unfree newspaper writes
According to a leading English newspaper
the alarm is the upcoming election
will labor be back in power
like that would be different from now
England (not Britain) is meddling in the war
in Ukraine, which is not of her concern
England, which had once been a colonial power
has a long tradition in military tradition
going to war against the reluctant masses
this since the cousin of Queen Victoria's cousin
was shot by the communists
and therefore crossing the red line
which is historical
England is a small, but the Nobel classes are a baggage
of arrogance, they won, we are told about
one the last war.
No, that England is a second-rate military
might they not help but think they are relevant
Great English writers were at odds
with the upper classes hanging on to violence
but habits die hard
the noble call to arms by the noble
represented by a dusty kingdom is still
there, it is a call that can't
be resisted, we are still a great nation
not for us to be Holland
Exist in heaven, or the spirit realm,
Which is a level of existence
Higher than the physical universe. ...
God created the angels through Jesus,
“The firstborn of all creation.”.
Are they real, how do you feel???
O’ Lo yon -spiritual being,
Whose ever so real Seraphim.
One of the many arch angels as well as Cherubim.
O’ Lo yonder, Thrones.
Dominions or Lordships.
Virtues and or Strongholds.
Mystical creature
Gatherings Powers or Authorities.
Principalities or Rulers.
All those for mentions spawn Archangels.
Dance and dream wit me yon twilight skies
In deeming spirituality feminine energy
My childhood and beauty shapes
Fixing broken withered plants
Cousins unto the angels photo kinesis project and control nature and light
Changelings
Little, little people Brownies, Pixies, Leprechauns
Dwarves, Elves, Kobolds
Nature Fairies
O’ Lo yonder, Thrones.
Dominions or Lordships.
Virtues and or Strongholds.
These are just some more of those…
Mystical creature
11/21/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2019
(2 Peter 2:11)
Written for class November 19, 2019 assignment (WIPS)
North Omaha Writers Group (NOW)
i am still at times, in shadows
watching you in the world
stealing glances
when the world has drawn you away
there is a beauty i can clearly see
when the picture is devoid of me
meeting for lunch
i step back from the canvas
pause in the servers' din
shelter behind the flora
drink in your essence
holding that moment
my life with you has been as such
like a glass of fine wine
the aging intensifies the allure
oh i know well why
you never let the magic perish
one of my greatest joys
i never had a clue
so i sit back and watch
as her magic unfolds before me
and for all of my sleuthing amidst shadows
i have been bested by a master
that silly smirk she wears so well
adore fails to grasp the fullness
my eyes behold a path
the bewitchment therein
where dwells the beautiful soul she is
poets know these things
OKC 5/22
The phrases “the eyes are the window to the soul” and “I can see it in your eyes” certainly sound poetic. Many singers, songwriters and writers have capitalized on it. But it turns out that the eyes really might be the windows to the soul.
Google the above and you will discover the Science poets knew millennials ago.
Eyelids heavy with memories
Cover lights and shadows of a hospital in ruins.
A baby with grown-up fingers
Reads the past in Braille
Barely touching the meaning of broken cobblestone streets of her past.
Her fingertips retract like eyes of snails back into the present
Where handsome men - immoral in their animalism -
try to understand LOVE for the very first time.
Great White sharks kill tri-athletes and place them in immortality
as writers reach the end of the journey frustrated by their lack of gills ...
The torrid yellow burden rolls down incinerated crystals between her breasts
She senses people as zigzags with burglarized drawers
rhythmically roaming up and down the Riviera...
The ocean breeze murmurs: “ Michelle, my belle...”, “ I love, I love you, I looove you...”
Invading her nostrils with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee
and the smell of barbeque that, once she could digest.
The sun drops gold coins into the turquoise as they ricochet into her degenerating eyes.
I see myself in her from the above as unscrupulous tides rip open our sandy abdomen
Violently sucking my body's sand sculpture back to the undertow.
It's almost dusk and seagulls fly through me to a secret shelter I wish I had...
I'm scared to fall asleep as I might wake up without wings
while numbness's taking over my bleeding shoulder blades...
"The body of a peddler with broken clocks on sale
was found tonight
on the landing pad of a hospital in ruins"
for Deb's contest "Real, UNreal or SURreal "
Every time I tune the radio I hear a feller's plaintive song,
About his achin' heart and how his womans "done him wrong!"
How he nurses his plight at the neighborhood saloon,
Wallowin' in commiseration with those he can commune!
Singers with voices quiverin' like Robin Hood's twangy bow,
Tell of bein' forsaken by their man and all its kindred woe!
And how she's gonna lower the boom on a broad name Hildebrun,
Who stole her man while slingin' hash at the local Greasy Spoon!
Others sing of forlorn love and lack of decent shoes,
While he blows his meager pay on soiled doves and rancid booze.
How he spends his nights in a honky-tonk at the edge of town,
Consortin' with other guys' wives and tossin' whiskey down!
Others warble about him blowin' grocery money at the casino,
And if he don't toe the line she's headin' for a split in Reno!
He swears on bended knee he'll straighten up and fly right,
But he blows his paycheck again the very next Friday night!
I cannot fathom such tales of misery, mush and woe,
(Tho' I reckon it keeps canny song writers rollin' in the dough!)
Maybe I should try my hand at composin' such a song,
About hapless lovers who claim "they done me wrong!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
I have the whole day to write eleven hundred poems
The paper is crisp and fresh. I sit, poised, waiting.
Nothing.
I try again in an hour. This is my day off.
The perfect time.
An opportunity that comes around not often.
My muse is silent.
Not even laughter.
I go to bed, irritated.
Wake up at three a.m.
A poem is dancing all over the place.
It prances a jig on my back and slides off the bed.
I watch it dance out of the door.
My eyes are blurry, but I have the last line.
It is pretty good.
I crawl out of bed.
Have to go to the bathroom.
Wash my hands, sit poised, waiting.
My muse laughs.
Even the last line is gone.