Long Writings Poems
Long Writings Poems. Below are the most popular long Writings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Writings poems by poem length and keyword.
Holding her head high
with a resolute look;
possessing dauntless courage and wisdom,
She never feels subservient.
The emerging modern woman
fabricates her own traits,
by obliterating the customs
of engulfing in murk named ignorance;
and suppresses the routine
of living a melancholic life.
******
This is the translation of a verse from Mahakavi Bharathiyar's poem "MODERN WOMAN". He envisaged Modern Woman as a leader, law maker, savior and an independent person. Women were treated as domestic slaves in ancient India and his writings kindled women empowerment and gender equality. Remembering him on his death anniversary(Sep -11)
The original poem was written by Bharathiyar, one of the greatest Indian poets.It was written in Tamil. I am an ardent fan of him. He died so young(39).
He was fluent in many languages including Bengali, Hindi, Sanskrit, Kuuch, French and English.
Wikipedia:
Subramania Bharati (11 December 1882–11 September 1921) was an Indian writer, poet and journalist, and Indian independence activist and social reformer from Tamil Nadu. Popularly known as "Mahakavi Bharati", he was a pioneer of modern Tamil poetry and is considered one of the greatest Tamil literary figures of all time. His numerous works were fiery songs kindling patriotism and nationalism during the Indian Independence movement.
"recently scenes of early life have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown ..."
Quote by _Samuel Taylor Coleridge (from his writings)
Gatherings and parties I attended
when I was young are memories so dear,
for they’ve endured as treasures most splendid!
My friends from school inhabited one sphere
that mattered to me when youth had begun.
The parties with my school chums brought such cheer.
The birthday parties – oh they were so fun -
like those held at the roller skating rink -
a rush of pleasure loved by everyone!
The parties where we didn’t sleep a wink
were oddly labeled slumber parties! We
would party, but we gal pals did not drink.
We got high on laughter and repartee!
Such girly girls, we’d gossip and we’d squeal
at ghost tales until dawn’s first light we’d see.
Another part of childhood – a big deal -
was family. I looked most forward to
reunions, meeting cousins with great zeal.
What fun to see my cousins all anew
since rarely did I see them all year long,
so when we’d meet, there was a lot to do.
I loved when cousin Steven came along
(a crush of mine!) Off we’d then run and play.
With relatives it felt cool to belong.
A great buffet we’d have on Christmas day,
and Secret Santa gifts we would receive.
No other Christmas seemed a better way.
My memories of these times do not leave.
Friends and family are precious, I believe.
Oct. 7, 2022
for Brian Strand's 'YOUR PREFERENCE' Poetry Contest
What Is A Poet 5
With heavy thoughts always scrambling
Words echo enchanting
Each short story is meaningful
Perhaps you were born to be a poet
Sometimes , a simple stroll alone walking down a narrow side walk
Taking time out can be therapeutic
Everyone's writings can be monumental
Look past the impulsive naysayers
Be true for who you are
For the jealous will never be you
Don’t lose your way
For poetry awaits
Henced-forth with amazement
Write in your own perspective
You have an eagle eye for detail
As poems rhyme drifting and scattered across the clouds
Show encouragement and ambition
For we are truly isolated in the dark
bloated girth deceased,
not surprisingly packed orotund
size appetite conveniently weighted
gravity helped fell
giant gourmand chowhound
demise linkedin automatically tightened
neckerchief doubled as noose clothbound
neck, the luckless bard dead -
poets society he didst cofound
oh captain my captain compound
suffering no more, departure doth not confound
those familiar with ravages of pennilessness
although glum spouse doggone bewailing
analogous to melancholy coonhound
inescapable woebegone travails decompound
constituted complex challenges
doom also depressed petsmart deerhound
four footed friend invisibly yoked, where
writings witnessed scrivener
daily voluntarily deskbound
unsuccessful chicken scratch disbound
dispersed newpages feted
German, Oriental and American cockroaches
courtesy proffered grubhub,
wet precipitation courted mildew,
and mold beheld fancy feast dumbfound
ding maggoty parasites riddled
treasure trove discovered earthbound
corpse hungry flocking carrion
heralded all points of compass - eastbound
most popular, hence route crow did house,
cutthroat beasty boys
aided, devoured, gorged...,
among which canine corps elkhound
leader of pack tacking course enwound
roundabout path barking commands
ruff lee didst expound
slinked sly as foxes -
shushed kindred brothers
up ahead wolf gang,
thence took faux minute paws
aware fresh meat fairground
survival of fittest edict woof lee decreed,
when sudden thick terrain fogbound
not impossible mission, though
totally opaque foreground
keen sense of smell and hearing aid found
dead reckoning, i.e. ground zero.
Graffiti frames the tunnel's tomb, beneath the city's core
where writings stretch upon the wall in dialects profane
A hallmark of the day's routine, but often shares the scene
where silent fears have set apart the lives that mingle here
The masses wait in every shade, each one who shares the grind,
And day, by day, the same routine, they wait, but never see
the writing on the wall displayed, each life so out of touch
Too occupied for reaching out to be the other's friend
No glance, no chance to say hello to the stranger by your side
A wall has grown to come between the hand of humankind
They board as one, but coldness churns through veins beneath the ground
Habits honed have deafened ears to echoes all around
Distance tumbles through the aisles, small words too frail to say
"How are you, what can I do to help you smile today?"
No hands to grasp, no questions asked, just eyes in downward glance,
A phone in hand, whatever land, beyond all human touch
As seasons pass, left in the dust the silence breeds and feeds
more apathy, that beats the heart, as cold and hard as stone..
The sound of silence just rumbles on, until the walls come down
__________________________________________________
The Wall Contest:
Sponsor Anthony Slausen
A dedicated verse to CURTIS MOORMAN---IN WRITING HIS PRAISE WRITE ON
O’ beautiful humanity
Fellow brothers of iniquities, yet saved graciously
Write on, write on
Rolling heaven clouds, soar
Let not hands and fingers never still
Be alive continue to write peace be still
Keep mindful of God’s quills
Remember thought
Redeeming times be witness will
Pen in hand
Hand on keyboard
Write on, write on
Share those the words from co-creator God
He whom gives to us one and all
Freedom surely becksNcalls
Write on, write on
Rest not the testimony
Your testimony for the peoples
Raise high your hands write those pieces
Of letters stern ever firm full of grace places smiles on faces
Reprove, be moved by love not choice
Write on, write those encouraging verse
Be loud, be Godly proud
Write a verse, nev’er stop
Even least one in good times or bad
Write on whether happy or sad
If the gift you choose God given you
You won’t use
Use it before you lose it mankind needs you
Let not the wind still
In writings always praise, praise
Praise, praise, praise, praise, praise
HIM
Write ON, Write On,
Write ON
1/6/2022
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
Pitifully, it seems my volcano has erupted—Somerset Mougham
Awaiting ink and feather to perform, my volcano has erupted
Gloomy den, I listen to crackling fire, nothing of worth to pen
Suffer to produce work that last forever, an unwritten rule inducted
Cupped in hand, a cobalt bottle, I rub it, and call on its Jinn
Last resort, I sort out the day’s events, journals I’ve constructed
Graced ideas and creativity dead-ended, no nativity, a blank page
The ink has dried, writings seen under scrutiny, in a fishbowl
Sorcery a bitter end, acquire a student, mentor, what I now wage
Appetite gone, blithe verses, Chicken Soup For The Soul; soulful
Poetry to please; plush oriental magnolia’s, birds of paradise, sage
Speechless, lost in words of little sense, strained thoughts, struck dumb
Poet's bemoaning what's penned in a year, should've taken a week
Muses ebbed, Coleridge, Dickenson, to writer’s block they'd succumb
Inspiration depleted, curtains drawn shut, I may never again peak
Gloomy den, a chilling season, I listen to the wind, comfortably numb
SAUL NOW PAUL Now Paul GUARD the GOOD DEPOSIT of FAITH
Lo! I forgive me for who I am
As He forgives me for what I've done
Christian soldiers, Holy Roller they comin for ya!
I not a judger, nor a leader
Yet I come forth to misdemeanor
Reference the prevalent
We are who we are who we am
Saul/Paul was not a follower of Jesus
Before his crucifixion. The narrative 7 years after the crucifixion of Jesus
Saul, I mean Paul
Paul in shaping the faith of the early church
Due to the amount he wrote,
But also because his writings are possibly
The earliest historical witness we have to be
Jesus Christ and His gospel
Paul had preach to gentiles
Apparently out of his own revelatory experience
This was the mission that had been given him
By God when God called him
Function as a prophet for this new Jesus movement.
Ahh! Yes, O’ yes Paul confess
He addressed, he says, he said
Jesus is, He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.
Oh, yes. Remember first born here.
Prior to His beheading by the government
Soldiers, Holy Roller they comin for ya!
Government I not a judger, nor a leader
Yet I come forth to misdemeanor
Reference the prevalent
Lo! I forgive me for who I am
As He forgives me for what I've done
We are who we are who we am
Saul now Paul was a follower of Jesus Christ
6/14/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
As the pencil is being sharpened
And the ink is being refilled
The pieces are coming together
As the memories are being emphasized
And the truth is being revisited
The picture is showing itself
What a poem?,
It is man
Who had capabilities
A life full of possibilities
It is a father
Who had dreams
A life full of accomplishments
The seed,
As the writing becomes writable
And the writer acknowledges her writings
The pieces are showing an individual
As the recollection of events are coming under the surface
And the thoughts are being revisited
The picture is showing the owner
What a poem?
Last winter, I refilled my blackened quill with
a dose of your sensual sonnets,
allowing your soothing voice to be the maestro
of moaning moonlight,
reawakening a cathartic infatuation.
Drunk on symphonies that you’ve orchestrated,
a throbbing thirst instills
tantalizing tercets into my trembling veins.
I submissively let every ounce of my skin
be stroked by your titillating tongue,
tracing the milky quartz trails of
goosebumps you’ve ignited,
leaving me intoxicated in your
mellifluous world of poetic pulses,
where your honey-dipped fingers strum
the script of my love-struck soul.
Awakening fervent fireflies to flutter,
flickering luscious sparks,
while cocooned in electric feathers,
caressing the internal warmth
of wildfire whispers.
Yet, there is something about
the way the skies burst euphoric writings
on your untold rivers~
never revealed, forever lost
in the silence of sultry suppression~
luring me to follow the magnetic rhythm
of your restless roseate runes.
I will someday kiss you into written poetry,
when I take a breath
to climax as couplets intertwined,
screaming caffeinated stars in hypnotic cadence.
The seeds of your love
will illuminate pining petals,
pressed between velvety sheets
of lunar-glazed pillows,
and the cinnamon sun of a sage dawn,
awaiting drizzling diamonds
with sinful secrets etched from sweat and tears,
teasing the melted twilight
that flows behind periwinkle prose.
So place me on your empty canvas
of nocturnal stanzas.
Paint me with tender rhymes,
flowing like fluorescent ink,
bleeding from your aesthetic baton,
so effortlessly,
forever aligned as soulmates,
tied to the gossamer tunes of timeless harmony.