Short Manuscripts Poems
Short Manuscripts Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Manuscripts by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Manuscripts by length and keyword.
Ignored, forgotten singed and blackened
Manuscripts of misguided thoughts
Tossed to the fireplace but forever
Impinged on brain cells expelled as billowy smoke
Transcripts, Manuscripts,
Dog-eat-dog, cut-throat,
Get ahead or say
GOODBYE
To tomorrow
Who stares me down,
Menacingly it approaches.
Waste not, want not,
Waste brain, no gain,
No survival
Not cut out
To be breadwinner.
The greatest skill a writer learns
Is licking stamps on envelopes,
And what goes out, too soon returns:
A boomerang of battered hopes.
Revise, rewrite, submit once more,
Until your tongue is dry
From posting manuscripts that bore
The editors who (won’t/can’t) say why.
Forest was partisan
lilies blushing,
moon was parting the milky way,
on the terrace
the absurd man, and the spaces
missing,
the house locked in,
are left
wrecked manuscripts of attempts
to save the translations
of life’s books
Give me some language
to read again
from the walls
SATISH VERMA
Form:
My nerves are like a typewriter
pressed on bones of keys
wrecking deadline hours after beats
of caffeine throb on soiled manuscripts.
Boss says, " keep the news more harrowing
than the murder." I steam the facts,
boil it into water,and grate lines
but only perspiration flows; the scene too common.
For A Contest
Manuscripts.
Exquisite Sublime.
Excelling. Glorifying. Adoring.
Religion. Exaltation. Devotion Mankind.
Praying. Believing. Extolling.
Celebration. Divine.
Veneration.
Molly Mitchell made many manuscripts
and all were mighty,so full, and meaty!
Combined, they covered all the ground
and their reasoning was very sound.
Trimmed with an artisan's unique design,
they were oft delivered to the needy.
All were orderly and divine indeed,
and were never-ever weedy!
Thank you, sweetie!
McCuen Copyright October 2008
Form:
Improperly furnished with words alike the proper onstage guffawed and remarked, slighted and sent ribbons for acts that blanket at dusk with the manuscript rack, heaving against the pages like a concubine the throes of these pages batches of wine, like those that are deleterious these are cursed the same but they struck from their pages, the unequal dim range.
The robot fancied he could write,
And so he scribbled through the night
And without fail sent off each tale—
Soon the world would know his name!
His levers clicked, his motors purred,
His gears and little wheels, they whirred—
But all came back with printed black
Notices that read the same.
At last the robot hired a “ghost”
Who fixed his manuscripts till most
Of them were placed, and soon they graced
Magazines—for cash and fame!
Woody sonnet
I tried to be a carpenter, soft wood
and a screwdriver to make shelves for
I have many manuscripts that I have not
the heart to throw into the flames
In case what I'm looking for is there
The girl in the shop said I could not
carve a name on the shelves, she
handed me sandpaper to erase
The titles I had given the shelves
Failure one and failure fifty-four
She, the girl in the shop, gave me
a plastic hammer for free
Mellowing muted miraculous memories,
mildly mannered, meticulously minted
manly mirrored, mostly mastered
messages, massaging misleading
Manson Mongoloid measures, minus
milktoast Mozart minuet membership
monotone manuscripts, manipulating
many manakin malignant mind melds.
Might mindful micro mineral mankindedness
marvel my molecular madness mediating
medicinal meditative metronome
mattresses manipulating magnum
malevolent maelstrom monstrosities?
Mother mayI?
While in my parent's attic, years ago
I found a dark brown, tattered, leather box
and wondered what strange gift it might bestow
therein, as I released the two brass locks.
Inside, were grandma's paperweights- two rocks,
a lantern-like desk lamp that lit her page
for stories she had crafted through old age,
and fountain pen, well used, to scribe her years-
her past and present- there for me, onstage-
through gifts of manuscripts- I held with tears.
June 21, 2020
I sit in a dungeon
of dusty manuscripts-
(so little light, so much knowledge)
and I have turned to review
the years spent in hellish waiting-
pondering my reluctance to escape
needing desperately to leap beyond
the pseudo-boundaries placed here
by my own psyche
Fear?
You walk between the shadows-
the finite/material and the
infinite/spirit (ual)
often, mediocre days of enduring
and isolation
but-
the plastic smile works well,
fools many- even you?
Sometimes...
A rocking horse is a child's toy, usually shaped like a horse and mounted on rockers similar to a rocking chair. Predecessors of the rocking horse may be seen in the rocking cradle, the tilting seats used during the Middle Ages for jousting practice as well as the wheeled hobby horse. The toy in its current form did not appear before the 17th century, though some conflicting sources note medieval manuscripts including references to carved rocking horses, presumably of the toy kind.
The numbskull brigade was in town making us feel intimidated.
Running over manuscripts over which we had been elated.
Our tender feelings were hurt, they did not like our wording at all.
And they were mean and blustery, and about sixteen hands tall.
You make publishing impossible, we little writers screamed.
They laughed at us and threw us into triple cake all creamed.
We came out loving the frosting, which made us feel better.
Here's our advice they said. Try first to write a letter.