Famous Long Peace Poems

Famous Long Peace Poems. Long Peace Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Peace long poems

See also: Long Member Poems

 Earth no longer
hymns the Creator,
the seven days of wonder,
the Garden is over —
all the stories are told,
the seven seals broken
all that begins
must have its ending,
our striving, desiring,
our living and dying,
for Time, the bringer
of abundant days
is Time the destroyer —
In the Iron Age
the Kali Yuga
To whom can we pray
at the end of an era
but the Lord Shiva,
the Liberator, the purifier?

Our forests are felled,
our mountains eroded,
the wild places
where the beautiful animals
found food and sanctuary
we have desolated,
a third of our seas,
a third of our rivers
we have polluted
and the sea-creatures dying.
Our civilization’s
blind progress
in wrong courses
through wrong choices
has brought us to nightmare
where what seems,
is, to the dreamer,
the collective mind
of the twentieth century —
this world of wonders
not divine creation
but a big bang
of blind chance,
purposeless accident,
mother earth’s children,
their living and loving,
their delight in being
not joy but chemistry,
stimulus, reflex,
valueless, meaningless,
while to our machines
we impute intelligence,
in computers and robots
we store information
and call it knowledge,
we seek guidance
by dialling numbers,
pressing buttons, 
throwing switches,
in place of family
our companions are shadows,
cast on a screen,
bodiless voices, fleshless faces,
where was the Garden
a Disney-land
of virtual reality,
in place of angels
the human imagination
is peopled with foot-ballers
film-stars, media-men,
experts, know-all
television personalities,
animated puppets
with cartoon faces —
To whom can we pray
for release from illusion,
from the world-cave,
but Time the destroyer,
the liberator, the...
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 When the boys come out from Lac Labiche in the lure of the early Spring,
To take the pay of the "Hudson's Bay", as their fathers did before,
They are all a-glee for the jamboree, and they make the Landing ring
With a whoop and a whirl, and a "Grab your girl", and a rip and a skip and a roar.
For the spree of Spring is a sacred thing, and the boys must have their fun;
Packer and tracker and half-breed Cree, from the boat to the bar they leap;
And then when the long flotilla goes, and the last of their pay is done,
The boys from the banks of Lac Labiche swing to the heavy sweep.
And oh, how they sigh! and their throats are dry, and sorry are they and sick:
Yet there's none so cursed with a lime-kiln thirst as that Athabaska Dick.

He was long and slim and lean of limb, but strong as a stripling bear;
And by the right of his skill and might he guided the Long Brigade.
All water-wise were his laughing eyes, and he steered with a careless care,
And he shunned the shock of foam and rock, till they came to the Big Cascade.
And here they must make the long...
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When day comes we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade
We've braved the belly of the beast
We've learned that quiet isn't always peace
And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn't always just-ice
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we've weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn't broken
but simply unfinished
We the successors of a country and a time
Where a skinny Black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming president
only to find herself reciting for one
And yes we are far from polished
far from pristine
but that doesn't mean we are
striving to form a union that is perfect
We are striving to forge a union with purpose
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and
conditions of man
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us
but what stands before us
We close the divide because we know, to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside
We lay down our arms
so we can reach out our arms
to one another
We seek harm to none and harmony for all
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew
That...
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 White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier 
As we glide to the grand old sea -- 
But the song of my heart is for none to hear 
If one of them waves for me. 
A roving, roaming life is mine, 
Ever by field or flood -- 
For not far back in my father's line 
Was a dash of the Gipsy blood. 

Flax and tussock and fern, 
Gum and mulga and sand, 
Reef and palm -- but my fancies turn 
Ever away from land; 
Strange wild cities in ancient state, 
Range and river and tree, 
Snow and ice. But my star of fate 
Is ever across the sea. 

A god-like ride on a thundering sea, 
When all but the stars are blind -- 
A desperate race from Eternity 
With a gale-and-a-half behind. 
A jovial spree in the cabin at night, 
A song on the rolling deck, 
A lark ashore with the ships in sight, 
Till -- a wreck goes down with a wreck. 

A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day, 
When life is a waking dream, 
And care and trouble so far away 
That out of your life they seem. 
A roving spirit in sympathy, 
Who...
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 Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses;
Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool;
Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses
And the moon to eastward rises pale and cool.
Rose and green around her, silver-gray and pearly, 
Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed; 
For, to wake at daybreak, birds must couch them early: 
And the day's a long one since the dawn was red. 

On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming, 
See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:
Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's booming 
Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West. 
'Sister,' saith the gray swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'
Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes; 
'O' she saith, 'my young one! O' she saith, 'my dearie !' 
Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries. 

Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile stepmother 
Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years; 
Died their father raving, on his throne another, 
Blind before the end came from the burning tears. 
Long the swans have wandered over lake and river; 
Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir: 
Gone and long forgotten like a dream...
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  IV. — TO THE WORLD.                  A Farewell for a Gentlewoman, virtuous and noble.   My part is ended on thy stage.luminarium.org/sevenlit/jonson/invisiline.gif"> Do not once hope that thou canst tempt    A spirit so resolv'd to tread Upon thy throat, and live exempt    From all the nets that thou canst spread.luminarium.org/sevenlit/jonson/invisiline.gif"> I know thy forms are studied arts,    Thy subtle ways be narrow straits ;luminarium.org/sevenlit/jonson/invisiline.gif"> I know too, though thou strut and paint,    Yet art thou both shrunk up, and old, That only fools make thee a saint,    And all thy good is to be sold.luminarium.org/sevenlit/jonson/invisiline.gif"> I know thou whole are but a shop    Of toys and trifles, traps and snares, To take the weak, or make them stop :    Yet art thou falser than thy wares.  And, knowing this, should I yet stay,    Like such as blow away their lives, And never will redeem a day,    Enamour'd of their golden gyves ?luminarium.org/sevenlit/jonson/invisiline.gif"> Or having 'scaped shall I return,    And thrust my neck into the noose, From whence so lately, I did burn,    With all my powers, myself to loose ?luminarium.org/sevenlit/jonson/invisiline.gif"> What bird, or beast...
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 from an officer's diary during the last war

I 

The sour daylight cracks through my sleep-caked lids. 
"Stephan! Stephan!" The rattling orderly 
Comes on a trot, the cold tray in his hands: 
Toast whitening with oleo, brown tea, 

Yesterday's napkins, and an opened letter. 
"Your asthma's bad, old man." He doesn't answer, 
And turns to the grey windows and the weather. 
"Don't worry, Stephan, the lungs will go to cancer." 

II 

I speak, "the enemy's exhausted, victory 
Is almost ours..." These twenty new recruits, 
Conscripted for the battles lost already, 
Were once the young, exchanging bitter winks, 

And shuffling when I rose to eloquence, 
Determined not to die and not to show 
The fear that held them in their careless stance, 
And yet they died, how many wars ago? 

Or came back cream puffs, 45, and fat. 
I know that I am touched for my eyes brim 
With tears I had forgotten. Death is not 
For these car salesmen whose only dream 

Is of a small percentage of the take. 
Oh my eternal smilers, weep for death 
Whose harvest withers with your aged aches 
And cannot make the grave for lack of breath. 

III 

Did you wet? Oh no, he...
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 Rain filled the streets 
once a year, rising almost 
to door and window sills, 
battering walls and roofs 
until it cleaned away the mess 
we'd made. My father told 
me this, he told me it ran 
downtown and spilled into 
the river, which in turn 
emptied finally into the sea. 
He said this only once 
while I sat on the arm 
of his chair and stared out 
at the banks of gray snow 
melting as the March rain 
streaked past. All the rest 
of that day passed on 
into childhood, into nothing, 
or perhaps some portion hung 
on in a tiny corner of thought. 
Perhaps a clot of cinders 
that peppered the front yard 
clung to a spar of old weed 
or the concrete lip of the curb 
and worked its way back under 
the new growth spring brought 
and is a part of that yard 
still. Perhaps light falling 
on distant houses becomes 
those houses, hunching them 
down at dusk like sheep 
browsing on a far hillside, 
or at daybreak gilds 
the roofs until they groan 
under the new weight, or 
after rain lifts haloes 
of steam from the rinsed, 
white aluminum siding, 
and those houses and all...
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 I dreamt a dream the other night
That an Angel appeared to me, clothed in white.
Oh! it was a beautiful sight,
Such as filled my heart with delight. 

And in her hand she held a flaming brand,
Which she waved above her head most grand;
And on me she glared with love-beaming eyes,
Then she commanded me from my bed to arise. 

And in a sweet voice she said, "You must follow me,
And in a short time you shall see
The destruction of all the public-houses in the city,
Which is, my friend, the God of Heaven's decree." 

Then from my bed in fear I arose,
And quickly donned on my clothes;
And when that was done she said, " Follow me
Direct to the High Street, fearlessly." 

So with the beautiful Angel away I did go,
And when we arrived at the High Street, Oh! what a show,
I suppose there were about five thousand men there,
All vowing vengeance against the publicans, I do declare. 

Then the Angel cried with a solemn voice aloud
To that vast end Godly assembled crowd,
"Gentlemen belonging the fair City of Dundee,
Remember I have been sent here by God to warn ye. 

"That by God's decree ye must take up arms and follow me
And wreck all...
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 Part One - The Calling


Let me sleep, for my soul is intoxicated with love and 
Let me rest, for my spirit has had its bounty of days and nights; 
Light the candles and burn the incense around my bed, and 
Scatter leaves of jasmine and roses over my body; 
Embalm my hair with frankincense and sprinkle my feet with perfume, 
And read what the hand of Death has written on my forehead. 


Let me rest in the arms of Slumber, for my open eyes are tired; 
Let the silver-stringed lyre quiver and soothe my spirit; 
Weave from the harp and lute a veil around my withering heart. 


Sing of the past as you behold the dawn of hope in my eyes, for 
It's magic meaning is a soft bed upon which my heart rests. 


Dry your tears, my friends, and raise your heads as the flowers 
Raise their crowns to greet the dawn. 
Look at the bride of Death standing like a column of light 
Between my bed and the infinite; 
Hold your breath and listen with me to the beckoning rustle of 
Her white wings. 


Come close and bid me farewell; touch my eyes with smiling lips. 
Let...
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  III. — TO SIR ROBERT WROTH.          Art ta'en with neither's vice nor sport : That at great times, art no ambitious guest    Of sheriff 's dinner, or mayor's feast. Nor com'st to view the better cloth of state,    The richer hangings, or crown-plate ; Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a sight   There wasted, some not paid for yet ! But canst at home, in thy securer rest,    Live, with unbought provision blest ; Free from proud porches, or their gilded roofs,    'Mongst lowing herds, and solid hoofs : Along the curled woods, and painted meads,    Through which a serpent river leads To some cool courteous shade, which he calls his,   A-bed canst hear the loud stag speak, In spring, oft roused for thy master's sport,    Who for it makes thy house his court ; Or with thy friends, the heart of all the year    Divid'st, upon the lesser deer : In Autumn, at the partridge mak'st a flight,    And giv'st thy gladder guests the sight ; And in the winter, hunt'st the flying hare,   To the full greatness of the cry : Or hawking at the river, or the...
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 (roundel: variation of the rondeau
consisting of three stanzas of three
lines each, linked together with but
two rhymes and a refrain at the end
of the first and third group)



1.
the blind rose

today's fullness is tomorrow's gone
(the next day after no one knows)
last year's dream now feeds upon
 what blindly grows

imagine if you like a rose
on which no likely sun has shone
a darkness chokes it (just suppose)

the die though's cast - a marathon
of hopes endeavours then bestows
dawn's right to spill its colours on
 what blindly grows


2. 
squeaking

there are so few words left now to grow
green on - my vocabulary's stumped
for a hard-edged phrase to let you know
 my truth's not been gazumped

love itself of course is blandly thumped
each time it suits you to imagine no
fruits are guilty for their being scrumped

if you can't be honest with me - better go
if dumped is what you wish then i'll be dumped
excuse me if i go on squeaking though
 my truth's not been gazumped


3. 
ease of mind

the world spins - today i have migraine
the peace i seek is never less than ill
striving's no answer to the bumptious pain
 that is love's overspill

wanting warmth encourages the chill
relaxation breeds its bitter strain
the worst of all crimes is -...
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 1
TO conclude—I announce what comes after me; 
I announce mightier offspring, orators, days, and then, for the present, depart. 

I remember I said, before my leaves sprang at all, 
I would raise my voice jocund and strong, with reference to consummations. 

When America does what was promis’d,
When there are plentiful athletic bards, inland and seaboard, 
When through These States walk a hundred millions of superb persons, 
When the rest part away for superb persons, and contribute to them, 
When breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America, 
Then to me and mine our due fruition.

I have press’d through in my own right, 
I have sung the Body and the Soul—War and Peace have I sung, 
And the songs of Life and of Birth—and shown that there are many births: 
I have offer’d my style to everyone—I have journey’d with confident step; 
While my pleasure is yet at the full, I whisper, So long!
And take the young woman’s hand, and the young man’s hand, for the last time. 

2
I announce natural persons to arise; 
I announce justice triumphant; 
I announce uncompromising liberty and equality; 
I announce the justification of candor, and the justification of pride.

I announce that the identity of...
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 ("Il semblait grelotter.") 
 
 {XXXVI., December, 1837.} 


 He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. 
 'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass 
 Of leafless branches, with a blackened back 
 And a green foot—an isolated Faun 
 In old deserted park, who, bending forward, 
 Half-merged himself in the entangled boughs, 
 Half in his marble settings. He was there, 
 Pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things 
 Devoid of movement, he was there—forgotten. 
 
 Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts— 
 Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, 
 And, like himself, grown old in that same place. 
 Through the dark network of their undergrowth, 
 Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown. 
 Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night 
 Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist. 
 This—nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood. 
 
 Poor, helpless marble, how I've pitied it! 
 Less often man—the harder of the two. 
 
 So, then, without a word that might offend 
 His ear deformed—for well the marble hears 
 The voice of thought—I said to him: "You hail 
 From...
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 Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 
.
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, 
.
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet 
.
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor 
.
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; 
.
Far off the noises of the world retreat; 
.
The loud vociferations of the street 
.
Become an undistinguishable roar. 
.
So, as I enter here from day to day, 
.

And leave my burden at this minster gate, 
.

Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, 
.

The tumult of the time disconsolate 
.

To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 
.

While the eternal ages watch and wait.II.2.
How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers! 
.
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves 
.
Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves 
.
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, 
.
And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers! 
.
But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves 
.
Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, 
.
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! 
.
Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain, 
.

What exultations trampling on despair, 
.

What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, 
.

What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, 
.

Uprose this poem of the earth and air, 
.

This medi?val...
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