Long Writing Poems
Long Writing Poems. Below are the most popular long Writing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Writing poems by poem length and keyword.
THE ARTIST’S WAY*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*You can write into the air.
You can speak upon a page.
A painting can be a novel.
A story can paint the perfect picture.
Dance can express deep emotion.
Emotions can stir deep movements with a chance observer.
We dream in deep metaphors and visual puns.
We weave them into stories that speak to our very souls.
Artists tell those stories with or without words.
That is the artist’s way.
*Note: Poem originally written for Pen Women Magazine, a publication for the members of the National League of American Pen Women (NLAPW) 9/27/23. (nlapw.org/2023/09/27/featured-poem-the-artists-way).
*Some words abstracted from descriptionari.com
SWEET FLOWER OF PARADISE
Grace ,a very sparkling jewel,
a ring of gold,brings day out of
night,sweet from bitter ,glory
out of shame and turns pebble
to pearls,weakness into strength.
This sweet flower of paradise
dwells in the heart that empties
itself of self.Prayer brings forth the
sweetest blessing,where God speaks
peace and fills with joy.No mercy
is too great for Him to give ,no
mercy too little for we to crave.
Lay hold on mercy for how strong
is grace,and how victorious over sin
From Thomas Brooks writings in Spurgeon’s
Smooth Stones
*A Phrasis is a structured verse where the poet uses selected prose phrases of another writer’s to compile unique poetry therefrom as a tribute thereto,the word phrasis is Greek for phrase.
Listen to me read this phrasis verse of mine on youtube under name ichthychiro
(A lone voice whispers)
As a person, you must know
Deep down
You're part of one of the most spiritually
Illuminating
Literary movements there has ever been
A gift sent to you for self-expression from The Great In-Between
A means to pull down old towers with new or old siege hooks
Open closed doors
By maybe writing a blog or book
To walk through anthills and moors
Of poetic stanzas
To find who you really are
As you pause and really look
For above all things
Magic in poetry is real
A form of rebellion from the mundane
A resolution
A Bonanza
To push back boundaries in a form of grassroots resistance
To power and social control
To be able to purge the destructive nature of humanity and the need to share its beauty
To those watching on patrol
As they go
For you are so gifted
So never be afraid to share your Illumination of the soul
For someone somewhere
Always needs to be lifted
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Image shared under fair usage policy
For years I ran to everything,
gods of lesser … much lesser things,
Desires defiled by forces and clones,
Youth holds a veil that keeps the truth from being shown,
All the walks in the dark and the dances of doom,
Altered my vision, my appetite became venomous perfume,
If I could have grasped that all along you were there,
If I would have known it was your love that cared,
I would not be writing this love poem to you,
For you are the one who pulls your children through,
You love in ways no one on this planet can do,
This is why I am thankful for you.
For years I cried tears of failure and pain,
Thought if I changed a mere guy I would somehow be sane,
All the fights and the struggles to gain some control,
Left me broken and tired with nowhere to go,
If I could have seen I was an "Anything" fiend ,
Striving to become spotless and clean,
I would not be writing this love poem to you,
For you are the promise that has proven to be true,
You love in ways no one on this planet can do,
This is why I stay thankful to you,
This is why I stay thankful to you.
By: Sabina Nicole
written: 6/18/12
In recent daydreams, I bemused
trekking the wild African plain -
herds of hippoes and elephants
petrifying prey with their might.
Envisioning the behemoth
I recall a story about
behemoth’s strong powerful tail.
So my reverie is confused.
An elephant’s tail I see as
a bottle brush, skinny, floppy.
I had heard, read, or seen somewhere
“the behemoth’s tail sways like a
cedar” which immediately
brought to mind the elephant’s trunk.
This trance has the power to amuse
I ponder the thought of a writer
who mistook the front end for the
rear end of an elephant and
in typical dream fashion had
created a new fantasy -
the legendary behemoth.
At this point my head went on cruise
drifting to comic books of old,
where behemoth is a monster
set in the tales of Atlantis.
I recall a trip with puppets
electric eels, whirlwinds, quicksand
from the brilliant minds at Marvel.
For writers impelled by a muse
to pen our imaginations,
dreams make perfect sense while dreaming.
Sweats, rapid heart beats are the proof
when we awake in frantic haste
to get it all down on paper
before our mind reverts to truth.
Words have started terrible strife that has torn the world apart.
Words have healed and comforted many a despondent heart.
Pleasing words are better spoken and received by old and young,
Rather than abrasive words of venom, spewed by acidic tongue!
Words of hope are always welcomed by friends who are down,
Easing their burdens and erasing that worrisome frown.
A daily hug and words of love to those of family dear,
Will return a hundredfold the words you'd love to hear!
When loss of friends is keenly felt and words are hard to find,
With dear ones maybe 'tis best just to sit with hands entwined.
For a job well done, 'tis good to hear meaningful words of praise,
Encouraging words, not just a trite and empty phrase.
'Twould be well for young ones to hear the words the Master taught,
To arm them for their earthly trek with many temptations fraught.
Mere poets will ne'er attain the homage afforded David's Psalms.
His words flow like honey, as soothing as an air of Brahms!
Plans will surely go awry should words be misconstrued.
Consternation and confusion will reign, 'tis easy to conclude.
'Tis well to remember that words spoken cannot be retrieved.
Maybe 'twould be best to curb the tongue, lest others be aggrieved!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Isn't life funny?
You spend hours and hours writing and revising
re-revising and rewriting
and then starting almost from scratch again
making sure each line sounds right
each and every word fits,
does what it's supposed to do,
and then of course making sure there's enough
imagery, symbolism, metaphor, and all that there gobbledy-gook
Finally (!) you post your poem
and then you have to edit it three or even four more times
anyway, because you saw something else that didn't quite
work right when you viewed it again...and again...and again...
On the proverbial other hand
You decide that you can't go to sleep without doing one more
so you dash something off in 7 minutes or less
you don't even check it for typos, errors, or omissions
and you figure, "What the H," at least I published another
one before I hit the hay...btw, you sleep like a rock that night...
The next morn you wake up with the nagging feeling that your magnum opus
is mediocre poetry at best, humdrum stuff:
Hmmmmmm
As for your 7-minute rush job -- Ehhhh, Phoooey! Fugettaboutit!
You regret posting it, and vow never to act so rashly again
At work though you reverse course and suddenly can't wait to see how many comments your masterpiece got..
So, after work when you get a chance to check
you find no comments on your you-know-what
and a dozen or so on your hack job.
Form:
They’re mostly frivolous and light
But then one comes along
And so I write
And write
And write
And when I read what others wrote
It burst forth like a song
And carries me along
Like paths
Some short
Some long
But right where I belong
When in my mind, it comes to be
It’s like I somehow see
It teases playfully
And tries to get
Away
From me
But then
I pin it to the page just for a while
And stroll a wooded mile
And smile
And smile
A happy little child
Who never feels his Father is away
What can I say?
And so I play with words
That flit about like birds
Some flee
Some stay
To join the fray
And help me write again another day
Outside the wind howls
Inside nice and warm
A little girl sits
Unaware of the storm
By candlelight
On the window ledge
So engrossed by her book
The characters are read
Butterflies and dragons
Leap from the pages
Captured by the story
As her mind engages
Dragons swooping
As the butterflies flutter
So intense in her read
No words are uttered
The candle dims
As she reaches the end
Unaware of the presence
That her book pages send
To her bed she goes
As she dreams through the night
Reading her book by the window
In the candlelight
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life3.php
I think about the person I thought I would be by now, someone stronger, more fearless, more put-together. Someone who didn’t cry over things that happened years ago. Things that happened last week. Memories from when I first wore a backpack. Memories now. Someone who had it figured out. I’m fifteen, and I don’t have it figured out. I have a boyfriend who loves me, and I love him too. Sometimes we write songs together and it feels like the most beautiful moment in the world. Still, I get scared that one day all the beautiful things I have will slip through my fingers the way other things have. Quietly. Gradually. Without me even realizing it until it’s too late. I don’t know if what I feel is regret or just the quiet grief of unmet expectations. Both? Neither? Sometimes I catch myself wondering if I’m already too late to become who I want to be. I know that sounds dramatic, and I know I’m still so young, but it doesn’t stop the hurt. I’m not writing this because I want someone to fix it. I don’t think anyone can. I just needed to admit it, to put it somewhere outside my head so it doesn’t echo as loud. Writing it down makes it feel less like I’m drowning in silence. Even if no one reads this, even if this letter disappears into the void, I’ll know I said it. That has to count for something.
With love and sorrow,
Your Amanda Nolan