Long Writing style Poems
Long Writing style Poems. Below are the most popular long Writing style by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Writing style poems by poem length and keyword.
I Asked Myself A Rhetorical Question...
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.
Below is a quote written by one of my favorite authors Rod McKuen. He has been one of my greatest inspirations and his book "Listen To The Warm" changed my writing style. I wrote essays about him in high school and have read all his wonderful books that took me on a journey where no one else ever has. Unfortunately he passed away February 2015. I decided to write a poem based on his quote.
"It happens just because we need to want, and to be wanted too,
when love is here or gone to lie down in the darkness and...
listen to the warm.” -Rod McKuen
I hear it so gently; the warmth of our silence.
For me and you, yes us two, we grew…
after all we’ve been through....
Be still, my love…
The observations we saw while sitting in our room,
reminded me of the yesteryears; old days of yore.
Let bygones be bygones and follow the warmth
we created in silence beneath two lover’s sheets.
"I'll always need you, my sweet."
As days go by and the nights come too quick
I hear your heart beat as I lay on your chest.
Ears connected to hearts, and hearts connected into
one, forever dreaming of sweet tunes only we
can sing.
Let there be stillness in our laughter, yet
tears in our smile, expressing all the magic we have
built up over twenty years of warm silence.
I may be clamorous during the day but
as the night closes in I will always be speechless
in your arms.
Lay with me during the cold days and walk with
me in the warm. Feel my hand entwined
with yours as lover’s do so often. The only difference
is that me and you…yes…us two…
will always calmly subdue….
I’ll rest myself on your lap and you can hold
me until our daily routines begin.
Please don’t go just yet, stay with me here,
I need you to breath and you need not fear.
I always had wondered and now I know why,
we were meant to be us since that night in Versailles.
So hush…sweet man…let’s do what only lovers can…
stay by my side, hand by hand,
Tonight we shall lay together as one,
and we shall wake up in the morning
as still as the sun, waiting in anticipation to
hear with readied ears…
~listening to the warmth of our silence~
Written By: Laura Loo
Date Written: April 8, 2016
I draw daydreams devoid of grammar.
Jumble memories with synonyms.
Cook laughter with adjectives.
Flirt with rhymings.
Drool over oxymorons.
My masterpiece is not just another
crushed paper.
Or left stale at the back of a
hotel bill.
Or a long text message
killed slowly
with backspace.
It is not just another word document
punctured with punctuations,
pathetically clutching the clauses,
with wasted verbs,
privileged by pronouns.
It is a canvas hidden with puzzles,
masking the festering wounds,
concealing a story
written in haste and hurry.
Its my medicine that I can't take
for the disease I can't fake.
Ma says I'm a dreamer.
I smile slyly.
She never know I wrote things for her.
How her fingertips rubbing my scalp,
Stifling my hair
brings calm to my storms.
How her laughter to my lamest jokes
brings rainbow to my colorblind eyes!
They say, writers are over thinkers
who weaves drama
connecting sunsets and deaths.
I say YES!
My naked words
quivered with shame
facing your pointy fingers.
So I dressed them with strike offs,
replacing them with meticulous metaphors.
They were as genuine as my freckles.
Also as shy as my face.
Maybe, that's why I covered them
with my hair of laced lies and butterflies.
So never tell a writer
that her poems are plain!
she's not an upset stomach
that throws up thesaurus.
Never suggest a writer
a new Instagram infected writing style!
She'll take it.
And while you smile
She'll break it.
A writer dance for the tune of phonetics.
Plan a night out with personifications
and never think twice to
break up with your judgements
building up a tall wall of ignorance
which lets in only the legit critics.
A writer stitches gore with similes,
Iron it with ironies,
Wears it with the pretense
of happiness.
But when you say -
"It is beautiful"
and walk away,
You killed her with the blunt blade of cliché!
Form:
My vocabulary might be a little bent and dented but its mostly twisted,
a self-made dictionary with a little dark thought and white light in life and craziness itself mixed in it,
I get up in the morn ready to take the day on after just one egg on a pancake biscuit,
I got the recipe for verbal insanity just give me the egg beater and with this vocabulary I'll mix in it,
break the word batter down like a plumber leaking water until I re fix it,
I got one of kind writing style its too unique for any typical fool to ****en miss it,
I got the entertainment on writing just ask me for one and I wont sell it I'll just give you a free Se7en King ticket,
I get your mind thought high so high in the sky lifted,
I can give a two flying ****s if my haters say I aint got talent because these words they self so freaking gifted,
I make poems shake like earthquakes fools cant you see how my words already got your mind shifted,
This poem is my girl I kiss it,
This poem is just like my weed i roll up and ****ing hit it,
This word written *****is so addictive,
Drugs and alcohol so self-conflictive,
now how can this king ever, ever quit it,
These words are dying I better get some gas for this verbal car like weed everyday I better get it,
I live the life of a young Shakespeare I write like I cant ever regret it,
I put this poetry *****on the line with my own life dont think I wont bet it?
So **** you, they, them, her and even me, yeah there I done said it,
letting go of poetic gun shells firing poetic unleaded,
shooting cowardice poets like paper shredded,
where many young lost crooked souls go unfed den,
watch where your two feet may be treading,
you got to watch your surrounding so much they circle around the same setting,
**** Life until death say's otherwise,
I'm just kind of crazy like that I'm just a little TWISTZTED.... TWISTIFIED...
RESPONSE TO RUMI
Tell the Friend I’m coming, with a wine sack and a thirst.
Been too long in solitude, got a sickness in my bones.
Pray? Where was Shams when my need was so great?
“Suffer the pain…it’s the only rule”, you said.
When governed by nafs you are like the dry mule
Being steered away from the trough into the hot sun.
To become a garden one must, first, be a desert;
To become a lover one must, first, be a seeker.
The Master says, “Love is your true health…
The wine we always mention.” And the Dervish
Dances, a dust mote in this “play of presences”.
He knows the door to reality is an illusion,
A delusion…one drink away…and he dances.
So come with me, my Sufi friend, and heal me,
Take this empty goblet and fill me up!
Let’s get totally sick and submerge ourselves
In the sweet springwater. Let the wine flow!
Let love flow! Bathe our “body, soul, shadow”.
Dec. 3/16 ~ for contest Response to Rumi quote:
"If you desire healing,
let yourself fall ill,
let yourself fall ill."
- Jelaluddin Rumi
NOTES:
All quoted passages are Rumi himself, mostly form his Rubai quatrains. The word nafs is from the Qur’an and refers to the lower self, the ego.
This is really a dialogue through a third party to Rumi (until the last five lines when we do meet) using his teachings and writing style (or as close as we can get via translations ~ Coleman Barks does the best for me), that is, laying out the problem, discuss the viewpoints and then find a resolution.
Sorry about the tail-rhyme, you can replace the word flow in line 17 with spill but I think you’ll find it carries more weight as a rhyming couplet. Actually, I worked very hard not to rhyme, there were two others that I was able to erase from my original draft.
Belleville Boys
- by Bob Atkinson
walk the streets of
our old town
thoughts of fame not
unfounded
tell us if our
hearts conform
with success to be
adorned
here on those
sidewalks laid for
us
by streets of
asphalt drawn from
dust
lights which shine
for us at night
below the stars of
heavens might
we desire to succeed
we develop from
another breed
we transform
ourselves again
into a newly formed
music band
names will change
along our path
some come along,
some don't last
some add to our
candle power
some step back, some
stand for honor
Connie sang the
"Sorry" song
Bert and Harry had
penned so long
ago, seems ages, but
was nice
when she our hearts
sliced with a knife
Tommy dreamed of
success
as did Nick and
Frankie, Bob
whom Joe presented
to the guys
as wonderment in
writing style
Shorts had success
in history
Cheri started the
money tree
life goes on toward
open progress
twists and turns
leave some
despondent
for the memories
these guys made
as we went through
our phases
their style, their
efforts well
appreciated
from this side of
life's directive
we thank them all
for their work
their toil, their
songs written in our
book
those memories now
folded into
the fabric of our
grasp of future
to those who have
not seen the sights
of minds expanded by
these guys
we present them as a
legacy
of dreams
accomplished with
energy
When I was a small child,
my life was filled with grief, sadness, and tragedy;
and in time my thoughts and words turned inward,
and I became fascinated with nature.
There were times I was found talking to flowers or trees,
and the past called to me from old crumbling buildings;
when I was a small child.
Written in my poems,
are experiences from my own personal twisted life;
oh, at the beginning words just fell onto white,
but later my writing style became more meaningful.
I have lingered long with form, rhyme, and syllables,
and have pondered the writings of the late great poets;
and wrote my poems.
Their writing inspires me,
but, I rebel like a wild vine growing in nature;
oh, I like my poems untidy and messy, uncontrolled,
perhaps I write non-metrical on purpose.
My poetry repeatedly tells a true story,
and each day I study the style of late great poets;
and I write and write.
At last I have found my Zen,
I can see quite clearly the entire map of my life;
with those past destinations so dark and scary,
but, some so lovely and wonderful.
I have the power to select where my mind wanders,
yet, would I change one single day of my life- NO
for it has made me a writer.
_________________________
December 15, 2017
Poetry/Verse/'I am a Writer'
Copyright Protected, ID 17-1151-013-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
University was intimidating at sixteen,
But I decided to take the plunge, and join anyway,
A passionate bookworm me, fond of reading and writing
Prepared to leap in an ocean of knowledge!
First few days were exciting, joyful, but unsettling,
Until I found the irresistible presence of an amazing teacher,
Who with his sense of humour and booming voice
Won hearts of many, in an instant, no wonder mine!
He taught us literature - Charles Lamb and Eliot,
He taught us Virginia Woolfe, the mysterious woman writer,
He introduced us to her unique writing style - stream of consciousness…
I was captivated and got immersed in the world of creativity!
Literature, both prose and poetry alike, was my passion,
Hours and hours passed I stayed completely hypnotized
Listening him recite, the most compelling lines,
As if those powerful lines belonged to him - he was the owner !
A tragedy struck in my third year, when
The professor was going on a leave, and mentioned surgery,
But the next day we were informed he was no more,
This incredible personality had left this earth for a heavenly abode!
That was the first time I encountered death very closely,
And was shattered...losing him was heartbreaking, an irreplaceable void,
I felt his absence for a very long time, even now I do,
He left a lasting impression on the way I find solace in literature!
I gulp a flame of desire
At the sight of your ecclesiastical attire
Being proxy for a pacifier
That elicits a comfort for my quagmire
Your smile, your smile
A sun in a darkened profile
A moon that illuminates the eventide.
Oh lily of the while
You let your movement twist my writing style
And your utterances, parch my bile
Your cheek,
Comely and with a perfect sleek
It brings forth my devotion like to a holy week
My arteries gape and tweak...
When your eyes greet my eyes in streak
And I feel your eyes can unbend an oblique
When you call my name, l inhale peace
Right from the direction of your sheen anatomical masterpiece.
It flows into my centrepiece
And makes me say "how I need this! "
This aura of hightened affection
Induces my heart's rhythm section
My pulse beats to the sequence of your rock n' roll session
Your complexion,
Makes me want to have no objection
To any of your imperfection
But to uphold your perfection
Your entirety is graced
Euphoric and grippingly fun-aced
Your pulchritude is emphatically embraced
And your probity, well showcased
Appeals to my aftertaste
Once have you spoken, twice have I heard
Like you stole the password
Securing my ghost word
From where I will fangle your byword
Please don't make it your watchword
Rather let us build on the foreword
Words Inspire -
They create imagery
Words flow on the paper
Is there a dactyl?
Coming together into a chorus
Freedom of ideas grow
Time after time
Free thoughts flow
A poetic rhyme
Seeking to enlighten words
Can then thou create
Inspired by love of verse
Visually permanent
Each word to find
To diversify language arts
From the flow of the pen
From which it starts
transpired that the sound
Of the rhythm
Metrically with style
Not to misconstrue
The reality of that
The true poet in you
Skilled at the choice of words
Forever be
Creative thy be
in genuine thoughts
Forever be!
We see the words of still - Wait?
love - thoughts of peace
Actions against hate
Definition of a poet
Eloquence of writing style
Making all those words
All worth while
I write - I contemplate
Beauteous ! I create visions
Imagery - as I state
The views in my head
My mind of reflections
Yes beauty indeed
Rhythm and blues
Mental beauty in my soul
I plant the seed
Sometimes argue
The idea ! I write
I bring the words to sight
Mesmerizing with thought
The mind where I brought
Your feelings so deep
And yes indeed in the twilight
I see the heavenly stars
Shine through the night
I am the author , I the poet
That eats lives and sleeps poetry
In a dream too
Breath - breathing words
I share the light!