Long Writing poetry Poems
Long Writing poetry Poems. Below are the most popular long Writing poetry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Writing poetry poems by poem length and keyword.
To The Brink For The Ink Crack Like Fissures
Another page scarred with ink. Upon her page, I see red ink
branded by the thoughts I think. Tattooed thoughts, that make me think
My mind imprisoned, feel the burn, Within intricate patterns, my heart it learns
past the point of no return. As I slip off her ledge, my spirit churns
Faces bob like buoys in an ocean, For her mind, it is an ocean
I'm sea sick to societies motion. I'm lost upon, her wave like motion
Clutter intoxicates my brain, Intoxication, it fills my brain
filling me with failure and pain. Strange impressions, as I view her pain
Forcing sleep deprivation muse, bubbling from my mind, feelings break loose
cigarette, pot and coffee abuse. I'm transported back, to my own abuse
Five A.M. and the pressure is strong Crack like fissures, emotions strong
to make these words move along. I feel I've known her all along
My audience awaits but I'm still She grants me audience, within places still
writing rhymes against my will. Her rhymes resonate, until I bow to her will
Blocked by need I'm suffocated, lungs filled fully, never suffocated
my joy becomes what I've hated. She’s one transcended, not filled with hatred
I can't escape the vines I've grown, a climbing flower, I've see how she's grown
notebook prison, I cry alone. With her notebook open, she's never alone
All this angst and misery, She transcends angst and misery
all for the love of writing poetry. Within her glowing landscape of poetry
Casarah Nance Richard Lamoureux
September 14, 2015 September 14, 2015
Dedicated to the Artistry of Casarah Nance
Form:
Retired life
I’m not going to say
I’m lazy but,
I do nothing
very well.
After marrying
the love of my life.
I am living and loving
the retired life.
You don’t know what
retired life is like,
until you don’t
have to get up
and go work
the next day.
Or on any day for that matter.
The retired life is like
long weekend vacations.
Everything that you put off
until the weekend,
you now have time to do.
You’re not sure what to do first,
you get busy and turn around,
and everything’s done.
Then you try to be content
with a honey do list.
Around the house my wife
calls on me to do a few things.
And I get things done,
before she calls me few things.
Don’t get me wrong.
We are all good at something.
I don’t fish, play golf or bowl.
other than writing poetry,
I do nothing very well.
let me find
solice in my
thoughts but
they weren't
thoughts at
all but turned
out to be
feelings
perhaps she
forgot about
me just for
the day for
i'm easily
forgotten
not very
special
but it might be my
old school reception
like the black and white
television that she never
conceived could be really
real that i would need to try
to see if the rabbit ears would
bend just right or a little to the
left to upset the
frequency just
enough that i
would have
the ability
to see a
little
more
clearly but clearly i'm
going to need to
stand as if the
hanged man
of the tarot
deck except
i'll not be
hanging
from one leg but
standing and
with proper
winds and
direction
i should
be able
to
receive at least if
just a limited bit of
communication from
her to me inspirational
enough to write at least
one of your poems as you
breathe into me what a muse
does or does do with her poet
by chance let's go on
a trip and take a first
step non romance
meeting hopefully
meaning or
meaningfully
as seen by
the result
of no one's fault
but fate that we
would sate each
other's thirst for
life and for
wellbeing
discovering
the true feeling
of watching
a sunset
together
Form:
Constance, what is in my name . . .
Unique, unforgettable, sophisticated, friendly, spontaneous, beautiful
Daughter, sister, friend (wife and mother) poet, and survivor of tragedy
Lover of writing poetry, viewing art, and nature, life, and my old fashion name
Who feels sorrow, grief, and beautiful words from a dripping pen to paper
Who fears not finding heaven, a vast voids of nothingness, evil, hateful people
Who wants to embrace all those engraved names in stone again
Resident of this short earthly realm called Earth (make each day count)
Also known as a writer of sad poetry, a dreamer
a poet born
_____________________
November 22, 2015
Poetry/Bio/Modified/Constance, A Poet Born
Copyright Protected, ID 15-728-675-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Whats In Your Name,
sponsor, C. T.
Third Place
I love breakfast. It is the best~an open window, the glory of God's sun shining in! Just walking in gratitude houseslippers across a shiny, wood floor.
Wondering.....in what small way, I can make this world better today?
I do know small actions, truly pave the way, I always ponder!
Gratitude is a must on the floral table!
That Candian bacon is just the best. Eggs and English muffins,scrumptious.
And French coffee, is a must!
Writing poetry fills my soul. And I am sure, yours!. It is my passion, my
way to communicate. Then, I can read yours.
Also, I read favorite poets of note. For me, it is EE Cummings and William Wordsworth. Add the sonnets of Shakespeare.
Do wish that you, my friends from PS were here! How I would love to hug each of you.
You know very well who you are. If I could I would fly on my own to meet you! You have impacted my life, forever! Thank you.
We did not worship at the shrine of tears;
we knew not to believe, not to confess.
And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers,
we wrote off love, we gave a stern address
to things that we disapproved of, things of yore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We did not build stone monuments to stand
six hundred years and grow more strong and arch
like bridges from the people to the Land
beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march,
pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe.
We played a minor air of Ire (in E).
The sheep chose to ignore us, even though,
long destitute, we plied our songs for free.
We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
At last outlandish wailing, we confess,
ensued, because no listeners were left.
We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less
divine than man, and, like us, long bereft.
We stooped to love too late, too Learned to whore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
My bucket list was easy
Own my own orphanage
not yet
Own an animal farm
I have rescued nineteen dogs and twelve cats
Be a grandmother
I have ten grandchildren from 21 to 5
Live in the country
I live on six acres and can hear roosters
Goats live behind me
Two cows live next to me
Write for a newspaper
I have written for forty-two of them
Be a secretary
I have done this
Be a race car driver
You should see me drive to work
Play with children
I am an elementary school counselor
I did not know I would love these things, or I would have added them
to my bucket list: cartooning, painting, drawing, and writing poetry
Dear Santa, will you make my dream come true?
Although a little costly it may be,
I still believe there’s nothing you can’t do.
So could you please provide a cruise for me?
I’m not too picky. Any cruise is fun.
However, there’s a plan I wish to hatch.
It has to be a cruise with everyone
who matters most to me, so that’s the catch!
To take a cruise is easy, but whether
my sisters, spouse, grown kids, best friends and mom
could somehow at the same time come together
would prove quite hard, yet it would be the bomb!
I know that it’s a lot to ask because
a little naughty this past year I was!
A little naughty this past year I was.
I told my friend unneccessary things,
but no one gets me like a best friend does,
and so few share the comfort each one brings
me when I’m feeling down, and there are days
I blab too much. I fear I’m pestering
good friends who must endure my whiny ways.
Releasing woes, I stop their festering!
I’m also lazy, for I hate to do
my housework. I would rather watch tv,
and there are projects I do not get through,
for I’m online or writing poetry!
Dear Santa, is my naughtiness too bad?
At least I try not to make people sad.
At least I try not to make people sad.
I try to always live the Golden Rule.
I don’t go out and follow every fad.
I think I do good working at the school.
I simply want a cruise with family
and also with best friends online I’ve met.
I’ve made great friends through poetry, you see,
but face to face we have not talked as yet.
To eat, see shows, do kareoke, dance,
and tour with those most precious, one and all,
would be a dream! I have but this one chance.
Is this an order, Santa, much too tall?
I’d love this cruise. My life it would renew!
Dear Santa, will you make my dream come true?
Dec. 27, 2017 for Phillip Garcia's "From Your Lips To Santa's Ears" Contest
(These are done like a min-crown of sonnets, which to me is much nicer
than having to write a lot more sonnets than three!)
Nobody wants a well, when there is sadness...
A few drops are enough, to bring on rain!
The world is full, of sorrow, and of madness!
Nobody needs the bottom of the drain...
The purists count emPHASis and sylLABles!
They like to see beans laid out, in a row!
They have no patience with an one, who babbles!
Believe the Sun should not put on a show!
But... we need purists, for they keep us clean!
Demand a higher standard of the lazy!
They state: 'it's not enough to be serene!'
(And unneeded enjambment
Drives 'em crazy!)
But we can only meet their standards, if
The while we write, we're clinging to a cliff!
Songstress
by Michael R. Burch
for Nadia Anjuman
Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw?
envenomed, fanged?could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.
Nadia Anjuman Herawi (Nadja Anjoman) was a talented young Afghani poet who died at age 25 under highly suspicious circumstances. What were her crimes? To be a woman and dare to be a poet? To speak her unmanacled mind freely? To become an advocate and spokesperson for women like herself?women who loved literature so much they risked death by reading censored writers right beneath the snoutlike noses of the Taliban? Ireland may have hurt Yeats into writing poetry, but Ireland didn't kill him for having the talent and audacity to be published. And while it may not be possible to say Anjuman's position and stature as an acclaimed female Muslim poet directly brought about her death, the mere fact that such an eventuality seems plausible should give the world pause.