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.
"recently scenes of early life have stolen in my mind like breezes blown ..."
Quote by _Samuel Taylor Coleridge (from his writings)
From blazing fire, bemired and lame, he crept-
in search of rescue, love, safe habitat-
when firefighter-husband towards him leapt!
From blazing fire, bemired and lame he crept-
but, soon that night, in comfort, he had slept!
Next twenty years he was our Charlie Cat.
From blazing fire, bemired, and lame, he crept-
in search of rescue, love, safe habitat.
October 1, 2022
Contest: Writing Challenge - Past Memories - ''T'' Forms
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Past Memories
I'm weary of giving attention to the probability that AI generated poems have inundated the site. I'm reposting something I wrote 7 years ago when I felt legitimate poets were not receiving the attention their poetry deserved. Please, take a moment to acknowledge those who use their heads and hearts to create in their own voices instead of posting the work of a machine that has no emotions. Perhaps now would be a good time to show our appreciation to flesh and blood poets by leaving a comment on poems we enjoyed.
Writing talent is not judged by gender
although the sexes may often disagree
but we should never be an offender
when reading offered lines of poetry
Lines written by the hand of a gifted poet
make us contemplate their words in awe
so, leave a comment, letting them know it
overlook what you might think is a flaw
How many smiles will you offer today
for the clever writings posted by a friend
by offering a rose or a sweet word bouquet
your kind thoughts will be a hand you extend
A concession of time for reading pleasure
a glimpse within a poet's heart and soul
To those who read, please leave a measure
letting them know, "I read you and extol"
originally posted in 2017
When we want to begin healing ourselves,
We finally take puzzle boxes from our shelves.
We begin with identifying every edge piece,
Deciding if what's outside is worth our peace.
We then work assembling pieces slowly,
Working towards center, thinking deeply.
When the picture becomes full and clear,
We then remember people we hold dear.
When we want to know more about things,
We learn all answers are within all writings.
Like a word search, the words are all there.
You just have to "listen," show how you care.
When you feel so lost in any life chapter,
Just remember what you were originally after.
Just as we solve puzzles, you have the power
To reassemble yourself even after disaster.
When our life's here has ended
our writings will still go on
what's been penned on earth
will hopefully be read after we've gone
All of us on AP should remind ourselves
what we've written may eternally speak
to those who come after we've gone
in this world whatever they may seek
Take heart when picking up the pen
you don't know to whom or even when
that piece you've written this moment
will speak with power now or then
The power we have in our hand
to bring into life's a real change
so keep the colourful ink flowing
spread it abound in all your range
(Just thinking of what could happen to our writings after we've gone)
I'm nobody here, etching out my joy and woes
pondering my words with care and time,
to blend and flow in meaningful prose.
foraging them from my wandering mind.
You have your way
in what challenges your thoughts and heart
expressing what you feel and say
sharing the poetry stops and start.
Your name is not least of what appears
and yet I sense both wisdom, joy, love, pain
and in that revelation displayed all hopes and fears
that keeps us wondering if you'll write again.
The poet holds the heart of timeless energies
basking in the phrases and words often strained,
open, wounded and protected by ill guarded sentries
elated and unveiled in each and every poem's refrain.
Write, write, write once and then again
words and writings sincerest
are your dearest, clearest,
best of friends.
Illumination from the entrance
Make it vivid that Jefferson is ‘crazy’
Scripts splatter on the bare floor
Engulf with writings from the mind
Dramatizing the lines with emotions
Aghast! I stand watching the Jefferson
Displaying competency in a dramatics loom
Madness of characterization of the lines make the
Poems visible from his drama the dance steps
in resonance with the utterances as he maneuvers moves stealthily
is Jefferson crazy?
Before I could write the last line
Suddenly, he falls and breathes endlessly
He lay like a tired butterfly…
Have you seen one before?
‘I don’t have a pen’ he recounts
‘I don’t have a pen ‘ he utters breathing heavily
I don’t have a pen too I respond
I was just writing from my mind
On the table I see the line
‘I don’t have a pen’.
1.
Uninvited you come, oh Erato*, you muse of poetry, the
Majority of the times,
Knocking at my soul’s door at any given moment
Insisting on letting you in, your message to deliver
Disregarding at what state my soul is and if she could
With your request, comply
2.
Oh, Muse of poetry, when with my soul’s inspiration
You are flirting all the time
Whispering in her ears words of wisdom, coming
From your divine essence
My soul, mesmerized, tries the words of wisdom,
Lingering in her depths, again to remember**
3.
A difficult task it is; indeed, I admit,
For the language of heavens that my soul, once
Knew very well, now she has forgotten**
Because of her association with her mortal body
For that reason, oh divine muse,
Be patient with her and give her just
A little more time
4.
The time that my soul needs, divine muse, to learn
Or rather to remember
How to talk and to express herself in writing the way
You would like:
In accordance with the universe’s harmony and
Its eternal laws
5.
When this blessed hour comes, my soul able
Would be, poems to compose
But
Her writings, her creations, and her poetic epics,
The work of you would be, oh muse,
No credit would, my soul, claim
For
She knows very well that only an instrument she is,
Oh muse, into your godly embrace,
Just to be used according to your desire
Because only you, oh muse of poetry, know
How
The universe’s poetic language should be used
And how, in verse, it has to be
Delivered!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
30 SEPTEMBER 2014
* Erato, one of the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (memory ).
She is the Muse of lyric poetry, love poetry, and marriage songs.
** Socrates, Greek philosopher 469-399, believed that the soul knows the truth but because of her association with the body, after her incarnation, she forgets therefore what we call learning is, in reality, a process of remembering as it is indicated also by the name of Erato’s mother, Mnemosyne, (memory).
A poet should always follow Erato’s instructions that come in the form of inspiration, in order to reach the desired result. This is because Erato’s knowledge is unadulterated for it is divine!
and the story goes like this . . .
I walk up the dusty, dark staircase that had been my favorite place,
playing with my dolls, make believe, dreaming of meeting a prince;
Wanting to grow up, but that was many years ago, many heartbreaks ago,
my reason today, Grandma has left this world and all in the attic is mine.
The door has not been opened in years, it creaks and groans as I push,
I stand in the doorway, finding the courage to enter the dampness;
The sun filters in through a small window, dust drifts, cobwebs lace the corners,
the atmosphere silent, like death, echoing of the past as I look about.
No one else wants any of this, they call it junk, only I know the treasures,
passing by an old lamp, a stroller, a rocking chair, a chest of drawers, a bed;
Portraits of ancestors long forgotten, dusty old things, treasures from the past,
a peacefulness comes over me but I am searching for something special.
And there it is pushed into a corner, an antique chest, long forgotten,
it holds the vintage clothing, jewelry, and writings of the child that was me;
Things I had treasured playing dress up, pretending, making up stories,
kneeling, my hand touches the ornate surface brushing away dust.
Slowly, I open the lid, peeking inside, everything is there as I had left it,,
my eyes fill with tears, memories swirling in my head of that little girl;
Dressed up in Grandma's old clothes, writing stories on the attic room floor,
stories that will become poems for I have found my lost treasure chest.
___________________________
July 21, 2013
Poetry/Narrative/Let me tell you a story
Copyright Protected, ID 07-494-069-21
All Rights Reserved, 2013, Constance La France
Submitted to Premier contest, Your Best Poem,
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton, Judged 07/2013
Second Place
______________________________
Submitted to the Standard contest, Any Old Poem #4,
sponsor, Skat,
Third Place
__________________________________
Submitted to the Standard contest, Treasure Chest,
Anthony Slausen,
Fourth Place
Marvels of the World I wrote.
Fantina, Bellela and Moretta will gloat.
These are my three daughters who kept me afloat.
They never did accompany me on travels or boat.
I saw the Mongol Empire and China too.
Recorded my exotic exploits and travels in 1292.
My books number over thirty-two.
So many to some, but so little to a few.
I was a trade, an explorer and writer in my day.
Christopher Columbus asked for advice along the way.
I met my true love Donata in the month of May.
What else could I tell you? What else could I say?
I traveled The Silk Road and met Kublai Khan.
He got an enormous kick about the road I was on.
Some of my original writings are totally gone
But some of the stuff is as brilliant as any sweet swan.
I only wrote about half of what in my travels I saw.
I traveled to China and Japan, and I was totally raw.
I drew some pictures, but I do not really cleverly draw.
One thing for sure, I stayed on my toes, and was always in awe!
Too long spent in deep shadows
prevented my eyes from seeing
why the lights were so dimmed
why I had the need for freeing
Verses written by candle light
but not signed with my name
with one step out of the shadow
my first poem went up in flame
No lack of inspiration to fuel
a captive poet's sensitive ire
he reached for my written words
I torched their corners with fire
A ray of light through a small crack
the dungeon door he didn't close tight
stimulus kept me awake and writing
penning until darkness of the night
Words of anguish and freedom I wrote
morning shadows danced on my face
he came once more to taunt my soul
he who buried me in this tomb-like place.
He reached for my writings on the table
I stubbornly shook my head, turned away
clutching my night's work to my breast
I bravely said, "I must see the light of day."
Carried from the cavern's earthen ground
I looked at him near the edge of the river
he reached again for my treasured verses
into the rushing water, my writings deliver.
Hands covered my face in fear of reprisal
his strength brandishes strikes with clout
eyes shielded from the sun's blinding rays
I waited for him to take his thrashing rout
No clobbering fists or slaps given in anger
no harsh threats to bring forth my cries
no monstrous shadows looming over me
freed from my shadow by opening my eyes.