A literary genre that comprises of poems of a considerable length. Though there is no concrete definition of a long poem, this genre has the power to build on the theme in the most explanatory method. Ancient epics are the best examples of long poems. You are sure to get drenched in the theme and rhythm completely.
The whistle blows to sound the charge and over the top they bustle and barge, covered from head to toe in mud and soon tainted with flesh and blood. Up the ladder with slippery rungs, a scream of rage from
To come crashing through the gates of hell, look the demon in the eye and casually yell! Total defiance in every breath as you stare down into the dungeons of death. Never before have you shaken my goals or been
Gaze into the mirror at the face behind the mask and wonder if it’s really you, or don’t you dare to ask? Who can know what lies beyond the mirrors fragile face, reflections of another life; another time or place?
I am ﬂesh and blood and feelings Amongst other things.. But I am ﬁrst and most importantly ﬂesh.. skin, bones, muscles, blemishes, pimples, scars freckles, moles, and dry skin and blood – running through my veins, gushing out of scraped
Away in the distance on a cold dreary night The horizon is lit by flickering lights From storm clouds as black as the darkest heart The lightning tears the very air apart The grumbling mass of swirling bile The silence,
I remember a time when life was alive with wondrous mysteries of carefree design; when clouds were fluffy and brilliant white with planes soaring high and then out of sight. Innocence of mind and a happier soul as we played
The promise of peace the fable of tranquility the desolate landscape of desert not even a single blade of grass no life, just cold come oh sweetheart of mine come oh angel of death and kiss my lips take away
Northumberland to Newcastle And Cumbria’s lofty hills. Durham down through Cleveland To Yorkshire’s misty dales. Across to dear old Lancashire It’s Mancs and Scousers too. Cheshire, Staffs and Shropshire The Severn lands of dew Across into the Midlands Leicester, Notts,
The train has already departed, From the country that they call yesterday, Into the territories uncharted, Leaving behind the remains of the day. Leaving behind the sobbing hills and churches, And nurseries full of sighing, And forests of ashen pines
The stains upon the bar tell of many sad tales of love, loss and tragic lives; and drink to drown out the wails. Another washed out soul seeks the solace of the glass, to wash away the memory of another
Years ago our forefathers had a vision That one day, their descendants will bear the title of their own To represent their ancient glory And value it at heart. Praising the mediums like our fathers did And ululating in procedure.
Time flies, gentlemen I know! Those days of pleasure and satisfaction Those moments of mischief and appreciation Those times of puberty and perseverance All those hours have gone But remain in the mind, to be remembered tomorrow. Those days of
The pages of a book, the leaves of a life. Pictures of a love overcoming strife Moments in time, captured for posterity Reminders of a past filled with love and hilarity Memories are all that the pages now hold Dreams
If day’s had been much brighter and the west wind far less biting, with paths sufficiently straighter and avoiding fruitless fighting. If clearer thoughts pervaded with our goals so set in stone, if the tyrants and dictators would just leave
The minute that you meet her she will tell you she is ill She keeps all her medication upon her windowsill And I have to say It makes a fine display Her grandchildren are fascinated by their colours, shapes and
As I remember my remedy in the natural scent of humanity, I am reminded the chewed kisses stamped on my forehead applauding my addition to the Zimbabwean population. I remember my first time drowned and dissolved in the newness of
An innocent face redness in eyes wild tresses made more wild by the blowing wind a pained expression smile that is lost laughter like a brook lost somewhere for now lost she looks incapable she calls herself torn by love
Imagine a world of love and laughter; of fun filled days and freedom till after the tea time call or the playtime bell, get back into line or you’ll catch some hell. Imagine a world of wonder and jest; of