Long Books Poems
Long Books Poems. Below are the most popular long Books by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Books poems by poem length and keyword.
Now the public library in our town contains the knowledge for mankind,
and there’s not much happening ‘round the world, that I cannot find.
I can think of any subject that I like and tell Jenny what I’m after,
and she can find a stack of books that darn near touch the rafter.
The library’s helped me countless times from days when I’m at school,
and I’ve become a handy man with books my back up tool,
but aside from books on lifestyle needs, on fiction some are geared,
and some authors write for little kids, and some write on the weird.
I’ve hired books about our history and read about some shocking wars.
Our garden is designed from books, and I’m obsessed with reading ‘Jaws’.
But crime became my new desire with cases filed from years gone by,
where Capital Punishment was handed down and why some had to die.
Description of the victims sent a chill right through my bones,
right to the guilty on death row with all their over-tones.
I read about their last few weeks, with how and why and where,
before they took their final walk to the electric chair.
One story written by a Warder based in a Southern US gaol,
is penned about a chilling case that for you I will unveil …
Leroy murdered seven folk; the warder wrote down in this book.
For twenty years appeals were held then Leroy’s goose was cooked.
When you’re with someone for twenty years, no matter what they’ve done,
you can form a slight attachment even if a fragile one.
So one week before that final stroll Leroy was asked by Warder Black,
if there’s something special that he’d like, and Leroy answered back.
“There is something I do desire - but it must involve me faithful wife.
“My wish is” Leroy grinned. “Is to eat her meatloaf now for life”.
Well Leroy’s wish was granted and for three meals every day,
he ate the meatloaf that he begged for while the hours ticked away.
On the eve of Leroy’s execution there was tension being shown.
The corridors were creepy now with a ghostly eerie tone.
Forgotten were the seven victims - in the morning there’s one more.
Leroy must face ‘old sparky’ waiting down that corridor.
His final meal of meatloaf was brought before him on a plate.
Said Warder Black with teary eyes “You don’t look worried mate!”
Leroy laughed “I’m not my friend, that chair won’t kill me man.
If this meatloaf couldn’t do me in - I know that nothing can!”
My elementary school was a box full of broken crayons.
You know, the kind that no one likes to use because they fit inside your hands like a hug that lasts three seconds too long.
Me and my classmates wore
hand-me-down smiles.
They were too big for our faces. We figured that eventually we would somehow grow into the sound of our own laughter, put on our happiness like gloves and wear our skin as if our bodies were made by Louie Vuitton, just hoping to be more than tattered pages ripped from the torso of coloring books.
More than the aftermath of two runaway trains headed to the same direction. Our parents drove their affection without insurance, and we are just head on collisions with no coverage. We got shattered windshields for eyes, and tongues made out of safely glass held together by super glue. It’s no wonder we spoke broken English.
With an entire orchestra drowning inside our throats, veins like guitar strings, our voices cracked like the self esteem of single mothers who carried us in their wombs like Molotov cocktails, and prayed that we would somehow find a way to mature into land mines
exploding underneath the feet that have trampled them for too long. These women, they dream in a language only fully understood by the tiles of an abortion clinic on a busy afternoon.
They raised us on top of broken promises made by men with grape jelly in their spines who were too busy jamming to their own
two-cent mix tape that they chose over their priceless women.
We didn’t come with a screwdriver. There is no picture on our box to show you what we should look like when this all is over.
We were just put into this world with a note that read
“Some assembly required.”
We were built inside of a neighborhood that looked as though it was slowly loosing a fist fight to cancer and kemotherapy claimed all of it’s dreams.
You see at a young age I was told that no matter how much furniture you move with a Honda Civic, it’ll never be a pick up truck
but have you ever wanted to be more than what you were made for?
Was there ever moment in your life when all you wanted was to be more than the wounded options that circumstance has nailed to your shoulders?
People question why we even have the audacity to breathe. That’s why when we walk it looks as though we are apologizing for our lungs.
But we ate not sorry for living this loudly.
It’s the only way we know how.
My favorite hobby has always been scrapbooking
It's such a creative activity to do
For pictures and poems, I'm always looking
Forever scanning magazines through and through
I look for pictures of people and places
Some happy, some excited, some tired, some sad
I try to find real emotional traces
And whatever I like, to my scrapbooks I add
Over the years many books I have made
Scrapbooks of poetry old and new
Old web sites and online pictures I raid
Some of my scrapbooks are happy, some blue
Certainly, on this hobby you can say I'm hooked
There's nothing like it to keep me involved
No one would believe how hard I have looked
For rhymes and riddles that will never be resolved
I started this past time at our church
Each Wednesday all the ladies would look
Each one in her chair quietly perched
Consumed with finding the perfect hook
Everyone knows that you must create ideas
Inspiring and intriguing to reel in a person
Someone who will cast off all their fears
And stop to read your poem for a life lesson
I love scrapbooking, it's so rewarding
It brings childhood memories back to me
School days when with friends consorting
Times that were so happy and carefree
Often I reread through my many books
Books I've created by myself
Sometimes I find things that I've overlooked
Words that reveal how I once felt
Poems about family and friends so dear
Poems about God's creatures so lovely
Poems about Nature, Seasons, and Fears
Poems about things you can't buy with money
I'm planning on leaving my scrapbooks all
To my kids and grandkids after I'm done
When this life with its troubles are just a sad pall
And all they have left is the legacy I've begun
I never had many pictures or prose
Left me by parents or other relations
That's why I suppose I strive to compose
Scrapbooks to leave to younger generations
I want them to always remember me as
The Grandma that loved them so
I hope they realize that I had pizzazz
Even though I can't leave them much dough
The things that are important in life
Aren't always the things that are seen
When you live through all the sorrow and strife
You'll understand just what I mean
A love of poetry is what I will leave
For my children and grandchildren too
For what is a life and to what will you cleave
If great poetry is missing from you
By Julia Shaw
May 2020
It's about time we talk of ruins.
So, let us talk, for you never know,
How long ears of hope will remain receptive.
Your lips are missing, and your kisses fall,
Like ripe plums and tint my confession,
Like coffee stains with smell of rust.
Looking back, dreams had stories,
About laughters blooming in dews on trembling grass,
With roots growing into layers of blue skies.
That dark sweater you began knitting,
Lies lifeless by a woollen ball,
Like buried half of a rainbow.
My greys are silvery now, and my smile
Looks like a scar, but my heart
Keeps shredding dead skins.
Footprints covered by caddish shadows
Of hubristic tongues,
Never to be retraced, and
The wish to carry your whispers beyond life,
Scavenged by beaks of time,
Is nothing but a piece of
History's torn chorion.
Entangled in my pensive repentance,
Memory of a girl (assuming),
Whose playful steps ruefully erased
Even before she was assisted into the world,
Stares back from an obsolete painting.
I sense blood seething in my veins,
But with no ill-will.
If only i could stop this hour from passing away,
And touch life one more time,
Gently and wisely, perhaps sweet palpitations
Would be heard knocking from within.
Lying in the heap of fallen bricks
Of dilapidated castle of Eros,
Where, once upon a time,
Our romance was folktale for angels and fairies,
I'm supposed to be bleeding the high-noon sun
To feed yesterday's vampiric fleas.
My body no longer lives on bread and grains,
But on tears and prayers, and
Keeps on living, surprising the undertaker and
my foes,
Who begin to think
I am here to stay indefinitely.
So, I labour to hasten my swan song
To gladden those who want to witness my exit.
The yarn with which
I began weaving a flag,
Has been sold to brothels of politics,
Where patriotism is only a slang
In perorations of capricious pimps.
My nights are haunted by ghosts
Of betrayed slogans
I once coined on fisting graffiti.
Standing amidst graves of words
Spoken inconspicuously,
I see soldiers placing putrid shocks and
Ugly boots
On books strewn across the floor
Of my old school's library
Which is now a fortified barrack.
But when I see tombs sleeping like babies,
In quietness of a cemetery,
I beg you -
Don't let me die without a wound, and
Even if it is in pretensive nostalgia,
Bury me with bloodstained kiss.
The trumpet of the Almighty God will blow. Then the whole world will instantaneously
know. That Jesus Christ has returned for his sheep. You may miss this train if your faith has
been asleep. Millions of your loved ones will disappear in the twinkling of an eye. Christians
will be lifted up to meet Christ in the sky. Those left behind have chosen their own path.
When people tried to tell them about Jesus they just walked away and laughed. It will be too
late to repent. Not ever hearing about Jesus can't be your argument. For everyone in the
world would have had their chance; To know about Jesus the Savior in advance.
Unbelievers need to be concerned. Jesus Christ is going to return!
Eventually we will watch the rise of the Man of Sin; He will be the devil incarnate,
wearing a seductive grin. Millions will believe and be deceived that this man is the predicted
Messiah. The Bible warns us in several prophetical books, From Ezekiel to Zechariah. THis
false Christ will have powers unlike this world has ever seen. He will wear a mask of peace
and claim he is the coming Nazarene. People of this world will believe this lie and will
spiritually die! Simply put the world will follow this man blind. This false Christ will do
whatever necessary to get into your heart and mind. This man will rule the One World
Government and claim to end all bloodshed. His actions will be so convincing, he'll even
raise the dead! But this is the anti-Christ, he is not the One. He is not God's Son! Here's
something for the ignorant to learn. Jesus Christ the real Son of God will return!
This One World Government is taking place. Get that Bible down from your bookcase,
and you will see. That everything is happening right now according to prophesy! Beware as
we watch nations turn on Israil. More than half the world will attend it's own spiritual
funeral! Cataclysmic events will unfold. World catastrophe that has been preached since the
days of old The American dollar has lost it's value. A One World currency will be issued to
me and you Millions are currently spiritually deceased. Even thousands of priests. We are
no longer the super power of the East. So prepare to receive or reject the "mark of the
beast." The evil of this world will burn. Jesus Christ the Savior will return!!!!!
Have you ever been on the edge of insanity at once in your life where you just feel like it's the end where you've lost yourself completely in what you trust which is your mind and your heart deep inside your chest and you just can't find any way out of it, I'm not so sure if it's just me or just a chemical imbalance of the brain in the mentality that we all get when things just get out of whack suddenly. I went to the book store today and I strolled on by toward a section of books where Philosophy lied and where Philosophy lied, Religion lied and where Religion lied, Politics lied and where Politics lied, so did Confusion. I have never been utterly so interested in my whole life where these things must have come from oh so long ago and yet at the same time, I probably never will, never will know the secrets of what's to come and even when the question is asked; "What happens after we die?" Ohhh; I don't know, Heaven? Hell? Reincarnation? We turn to bits of dust and grime? Or perhaps just the materialized particles that hide within the ground we walk upon today but regardless, I know that whenever the time is right, I'll figure out the answers when I've adjusted. I've never felt more depressed than what strong beliefs lead from me were suddenly destroyed and brought amongst others in different ways when they have been blind most of their life too like I have. Oh what a shelter society this small city has lead me to, or even worse what my parents have lead me to. How come I was never taught the study of Theology at an early age? How come Politics didn't matter to me by the time I realized what it was? Sometimes I really wish that I was raised on freedom of religion or read more books instead of sitting on my fatass all day with my father, watching T.v and suffocating in one of the many small apartments we called 'Home.' My Dad had never taught me anything, come to think of it. My Mom taught me a bunch of things but not enough. She was such an overbearing mother then again so how could I have stood a chance in the first place? But being so young still and weed messing up my head, I think it's time to somehow move on and continue to absorbed knowledge, grab some patience too and just get myself out of this mess for once; I know I have said this other times before but this is where I seriously draw the line. I can't believe I keep letting this happen to me.
Form:
I was looking over my stuff here, and itseems I've lost the talents I once knew here.
I write ancedotes for my column. I do journalism- always some deadline or project that I work well under the pressure of it all.
Writing is what I truly love!
There is just so many varied types I do, my poetry is suffering.
I enjoy reading the great writers here.
Sometimes I do not comment or remark because it is art and I'm at a loss of words.
It's just been enlightening to live such a full life, and to be right here, right now amazes me. I'm searching for some old therapeutic writes. I was on alot of medications at one time.
A victim of spousal abuse.
I came back up North severly medicated, drolling and my family would whisper, she'll never be right again.
Post Tramatic Stress Disorder aint no joke.
To be me, knowing what I do, and how very long it took me to recover...
When some never do.
Many men were nice to me along the way, poetrysoup has the best men in the world, they will embrace your differences, and encourage you to keep your chin up, and keep your pen flowing.
Vince I love you! Frank, you are the best friend that a girl to ever have! You've sent me so many books of stamps to write you back and also send you the latest edition of the magazine I am featured in monthly. Everyone has those times in their life, when nothing goes right. How you knew without me saying a thing.
Are you alright? a concerned letter in the mail when I was having it rough- and the presents that made me cry. It may have been a framed poem, but it meant the world to me, and still does.
And lastly John,
Why oh why did I pick the most just man to give the hardest time to?
He has put up with so much from me over the years. I love him with everything in me. If not for being a true servant of God where would I be without him.
I remember 5 or six years ago, and his lady, whats your problem?!
Well John, you are the very sweetest man I've ever known in my life... without you I would still be cold to the Lord. So many years and mile stones along the way. I can leave here, but just like the sands of Florida, you'll always see me back.
Thank You All, for reading me, but more - to support the struggling writers that fall between the cracks in society.
I love you Frank. I love you John. Don't ask which one more, because John is single and Frank is not hehehehe
Form:
OF THE COMMON SEAS
"We must come down from our heights, and leave our straight paths, for the byways and low places of life, if we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought upon our fellow-creatures by accident, hardship, or vice." **
Truth need not be found
in philosophers' musings,
or complicated by thoughts bound
with theorems and words, fusing,
nor within the intricacies
of mathematical proofs,
as one and one may indeed
not equal two; un-truth is truth.
Truth becomes vast in life,
and like the pearl, can be found
as beauty captured, in seas rife
between the common oyster's gown,
Or found within the common leaves
of books written by common men,
discovered by those literates who read.
Truth is simple, now and ever been.
I stumbled on such a prize
In Dana's autobiography;
of common men on common seas
living truths of common humanity.
** Dana, Jr., Richard Henry, Two Years before the Mast, World Publishing Company, 1946, p. 283
1
Like a moth to a candle flame
I pondered the perceived right
of those of wealth, culture, piety and fame
to control and lead the common blight -
(the average, struggling and forsaken souls);
yet have never descended to the lowly station
to learn the culture of these earthly ghouls,
their dreams, their pleas, their damnation.
As gods atop their cloud draped mountain
how dare they, in their empiric quackery
force the masses to their impure fountain
to drink of the laws and life that they decree,
yet having not trod the tracks of the plebian path,
having never felt the sordid plebian passions,
but worshipping instead their comfort and wealth,
adorned in decadence and richly clothed fashions,
how can they govern those they do not know,
minister to anguish they have never felt
or heal their sickness of body, heart and soul?
How can they play the cards, to them never dealt?
Are they leaders, statesmen, kings and lords,
or simply counterfeit men full only of themselves,
vainglorious peacocks, strutting hordes
deceiving not a common man, only just themselves?
We have them here, in this land of the free,
politicians, preachers, corporate men and judges.
None have suffered and worked, you see
yet dare to rule, when by common men begrudged.
Form:
"melliflous birds are still cooing in the forest of my amber dreams " (by poet)
a gift from my father - on the first day of college,
"Golden Treasury"...A book of poetry...
the first poem I read... "She Walks In Beauty".
I carried that book throughout my life, even when I stopped reading poems...
even when poetry wasn't the priority any more,
Instead I looked at recipe-books - how to improve my culinary skills,
and became almost a champion chef in a few months.
Wordsworth and Browning were far away from my thoughts,
Coleridge? Oh No! Porphyria's Lover, and Ancient Mariner...
did not exist in my world of reality!
how many glorious summers went by ~ how many frosty winters ~
Delicious food, excellent company,
chasing after active children, stressing about job-opportunities,
exotic travels, grandiose entertainment ...
had time for every little trivial thing in the world...but no time for
the book my father imagined his daughter would embrace the most!
then one miraculous day...when even my father gradually forgot
the girl who used to blossom in the world of words, and poetry....
I found my precious friend collecting dust,
neglected, discarded, in the corner of a shelf.. couldn't believe it was waiting for me with a beating heart ~
each and every page came alive with a magical touch ~
still my name clearly visible, handwritten with my father's calligraphic dexterity !
almost shaking to spot my long-lost treasure, I cried!
overwhelmed with emotions, tears fell!
as if a candle burnt and melted.
every drop of tears brought back the lavender memories ~
of an exhilarating past... my passions, my yearnings,
tender dreams of lilac hues never attained, the abandoned path I was supposed to tread ...
a path strewn with lyrics and verses, ballads and
sonnets like blazing auburn leaves of autumn ~
now shockingly empty and despairingly barren.
the forgotten aspirations and never-met goals...the tremendous sense of loss,
of crushing heart-break, of torturous frustration,
all flooded in!
many lonely years have gone by!
melliflous birds are still cooing in the forest of my amber dreams
ultimately my first love has returned !
First Place
May 15, 2021
Inspired by “ He gave her a book” contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
At work
I slave away
And during the day
I read, I watch
I plan, I dream
Setting goals
Making everything seem
That in a few years it will all come together
But in a few years will all of this matter?
I’m a jack of all trades
But a master at NONE
I slave away
Until the day is done
But for what?
For who?
Am I doing all of this Just to have something to do?
I ask, I pray, I watch
No time for fun
Not until ALL my work is done
In hopes to better my future
In hopes to better myself
Not leaving my dreams to be lived by someone else
I’ve read all the books
I’ve done all the classes
I’ve listened to the masters instead of the masses
7 steps to wealth
12 steps to riches
The “keys”,
The “wisdom”,
The “knowledge”,
The “tickets”.
The tickets to the money train
The keys to the treasure box
I’m overwhelmed by all this “want this” & “want not”
Who am I?
Who will I be?
I guess only God can look in and see.
Maybe I’m overlooking all the important things
Maybe my “riches” aren’t exactly what they seem
Maybe it’s love, patience, giving and kindness
Maybe its overcoming life’s struggles, chaos, and madness
Maybe it’s in the strength of my mind over the dismay of the world
Maybe it’s in my parenting of my sweet, baby girl
All this time I thought I had failed
I thought my ship to success had already sailed
I thought I was a jack of all trades and a master at none.
But my kid said, “No, Mom, you’re wrong.
You’re a master at one.
You raised me right, you raised me well.
You’re a great mom! I can tell.”
Whoa, well people do say
You can’t buy happiness
And I’m one of the few
That believes this is true.
For all the work, learning, and adding action to plans,
I’ve found that I’m rich in character, integrity, and helping my fellow man.
So I stopped thinking of all this “wasted” work I had done over the years
I realized that through the blood, sweat, pain, and tears
That my efforts, dreams, and goals weren’t in vain
Instead of money, homes, cars and other material things
I got something that money cannot buy,
A daughter
Beautiful, smart, and wise.
Yes, I’ve mastered something
And this something is great!
And here I thought it was way too late!
Yes, I’m a jack of all trades
But now I’m a master at ONE!
In all my years
I’ve become a great mom!
I’m truly a success
Because of you Jess!