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Best History Poems

Below are the all-time best History poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of history poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New History Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best History poems are below this new poems list.

My history by Brannon, Lisa
A BRIEF HISTORY OF HUMANS by bamberger, paul
Yesterday In Billy the Kid History - April 28, 1881 by theKidster, SillyBilly
Today In Billy the Kid History - April 28, 1881 by theKidster, SillyBilly
A VAGRANT HISTORY by bamberger, paul
History will write their Story by Rosario, Madalyn
How I feel about modern history by Raynes, Lewis
History, in Haiku by Broadbent, Robert
A BIT OF UK HISTORY by Ashton, Darryl
HISTORY OF EASTER by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka

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The Best History Poems

Details | History Poem | |

Black Diamond Night

Black Diamond Night (a coal miner’s cemetery) 

Where the ebony, we call “NIGHT”,
Old black rocks sit under the twilight
Diamond shape eyes unclear and lonely, 
Sinister through hostile spirits only,

I stumble across these stones without a bone
A solitary confinement alone,
From a barren zone the light transcend
Only in time, our minds will mend

Endless valleys and limitless stones
These bones- these bones they sit alone
The abyss, of rotten cavities with no fill,
A system no power can unwell the drill
The blood that passed over without a spill
Peaks collapse into a spellbinding chill
They are trapped! They are trapped!
Another diamond in the rough
Is what they left

Obsessed with the dead without a death
A death that impatiently awaited their last breath
Gushing, into the gems of dead chemistry,
Diamonds holding its own intensity,
These lonely graves, on top of sycamore hill
Coal mining hearts that will never heal
If only shiny eyes could see?
These lonely bones inside of me!
Moving in every direction possible
Flowing in every direction noticeable
Sockets without eyes.
Stones hiding under the cobalt skies.
The mad sparkles, the madness dies.
Throughout this mess, we held in the blasphemous
Intervening lots of gems so miraculous
  
Into a stone of self-religion,
A black night filled of legions
Acknowledging the soul's capacity of free
Near the frail bones that sit alone,
Alone they sit in a morbid home.
Through a path unclear and all alone,
Troubled by the visions of my own stone
Where the night takes place in the dark
The ebony rides under the diamond bark
Along with the coal miners who never got to see the;
“Diamonds of another day!”

:) pd

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012


Details | History Poem | |

Forgotten Heroes of the Somme

Over the top lads, for old Blighty! Hold the colours high!
Say a little prayer for me, for this summer day we die.
My brothers from the ripened field and blackened mill, shop floor, 
Your brother in a killing field to fight a rich man’s war.

In bloodied mud and shattered wood, fight legions of the brave,
Unwitting youth, you’ll do your duty until you’re in the grave.
A sergeant greets a fresh-faced boy, “welcome to the slaughter!”
Here you die from three diseases, bullet, gas or mortar.

In arms we fight together and in leaden hails we pass,
We die amongst the filth and stench that once was verdant grass.
“In the morning we will remember them” we hear the leaders call,
Those fickle words of history, will not remember us all.

Copyright © Howard Bull | Year Posted 2009


Details | History Poem | |

It was Beautiful Yesterday



Bha e brèagha an-de
(It was Beautiful Yesterday)


There was a sailing vessel
With many a sail proudly lapping in the wind
A flag of the Celtic honor, in ruin an rented
As all the sailors sing
Of my love for you
From long ago
Before death became our friend
Oh would I be sailing from stormy seas to the Scottish glens
To lay some flowers at your side
Your beauty is now far under
My love ill wait for all eternity
For loves resurrection’s stormy thunder
Our bodies may be under stone
Our memories long lost in tales and fable
Let no man ever lay any such claim
Our love was not the gift of briny seaworthy fame

We be only stones, in a meadow blue
When you come upon our fate
Tiss with this verse, I state my case
The life that escaped our sadly date
Love though was true as sky
For long ago, she bid adieu
Her sadness at my drowning departure
As I her lover was told to be 
Buried deep and under sea


Both sadness and the tossing waves
Took the life out of her and me
So when you look at fading stones
Remember the love that used to be

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016


Details | History Poem | |

White Cane

He walked down Goverment Road West
With a white cane, in shaking hand
Wearing Stevie wonder glasses
People called him the pop bottle man

With a white cane, in shaking hand
At the time he seemed old to me
People called him the pop bottle man
Searching the alleys for his treasures

At the time he seemed old to me
Frail in a menacing sorta way
Searching the alleys for his treasures
Bottles he spotted a mile away

Frail in a menacing sorta way
Us kids all stayed away from him
Bottles he spotted a mile away
I wondered why he carried a white cane

Us kids all stayed away from him
Until that day I took a chance
I wondered why he carried a white cane
Curiosity got the best of me

Until that day I took a chance
That man had been a mystery
Curiosity got the best of me
When I asked him why he smiled at me

That man had been a mystery
A lonely guy wandering the street
When I asked him why, he smiled at me
I handed him my bottle, he said thanks

A lonely guy wandering the street
Wearing Stevie wonder glasses
I handed him my bottle, he said thanks
He walked down Goverment Road West

I watch

Pop Bottle Man
Doing his blind man shuffle
When he sees a bottle 
he moves towards it with ease
Dancing with glee 
a spring in his step
More fluid than a summer breeze

He can see at twenty paces
Eyesight crystal clear
Through dark glasses 
I watch him peer
Collecting his bottles
In plastic bags
The treasure that he holds so dear

Pop Bottle Man
His cane for protection
Illusion is the game he plays
What some see as crazy
May not be the case
If you take time to study his ways

For Gautami's Sketch a  Character Contest.

I was inspired to write more after the Pantoum because of Drakes Comment.
written by Richard Lamoureux on October 23, 2014.



Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014


Details | History Poem | |

The Names of Jesus

_____________ (_____GOD_____) (_____LORD_____) (_____ JESUS _____) (_______RABBI______) (_______TRUTH_______) (________SAVIOR________) (________ MESSIAH________) ________(_______ HOLY SPIRIT_______)_______ ___(_______________ KING OF KINGS_______________)___ (________________ EVERLASTING FATHER________________ ) (__________________ THE PRINCE OF PEACE___________________) (__________________GOOD SHEPHERD__________________) (_______________ LION OF JUDAH_______________) (________ LORD OF ALL________) (______MIGHTY ONE______) (_______HOLY ONE_______) (______ DELIVERER ______) (_______SHEPHERD_______) (______MEDIATOR______) (______ADVOCATE______) (______REDEEMER ______) (______CAPSTONE______) (_______PROPHET_______) (_______SAVIOR ________) (_______THE WAY_______) ___(______ALMIGHTY _______)__ __(_______THE BREAD OF LIFE_______) _ _(____________THE LAMB OF GOD__________)_ (_________THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD_________)

Copyright © Raul Moreno | Year Posted 2009


Details | History Poem | |

Memories Of Bygone Days

Memories Of Bygone Days


O' yes,  how well I remember her still
giant black oak atop big wooded hill
Those treasured days now long flown by
our free spirits flying so very high

Summer days within Nature's fine realm
majestic views that did so overwhelm
Cloudy days in the meadow far below
flowers galore, O' what a great show

My lady and I went up there to park
glorious scene set our hearts to spark
Under canopy of that old massive oak
she sweet words of undying love spoke

Our tree saw our love start to bloom
picture of that oak in our bedroom
Two years it watched our love grow
how was it to ever see or dare know

Life came and flew on us so fast
love came deeply but failed to last
Fate sent us onto far different treks
love destroyed, both lives were wrecks

Now I pass that massive tree on the hill
memory recalls her beauty , what a thrill
Time destroyed the scene it ruled then
O' the love of what should, could have been

JULY 2015



Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015


Details | History Poem | |

Tartan and Pipes

Tradition and dress
A nations finesse
Symbolic in style
By a country mile
 
The drone of the pipes
Tartan clad
Bonnie on the girls
Proud on the lads
 
Highland dancers
In kilted skirts 
Grooms at weddings
Kilt and dirk

But our Tartan and Pipes
Go back many years
Led soldiers into battles
See the enemy fear

After Culloden
Both were banned
A country naked
At the English hand

Our clans of many
In colours so grand
Woven by weavers
Our women's hands

All over the world
Scots are spread
Taking their Tartans
Of green, blue and red

It's a welcome reminder
To the kin of their past
Never forgotten
Designed to last

This plaid of cloth
History enriched
Scottish pride
In every stitch

And like our pipes
From centuries past
This Scottish of Scots
Are here to last


http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php

Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009


Details | History Poem | |

Nothing to write about

I would like to talk about "nothing"
It is a most peculiar word
I have heard it used so often
The way it's used  is often absurd 
I'm told there's "nothing" to worry about
Yet I worry about "nothing" for days
I try to stop worrying about "nothing"
and why "nothing" inside my head ever stays

There isn't another word for "nothing"
With "nothing" only "nothing" can compare
When a woman speaks about all her clothing
How is it possible she has "nothing" to wear
When she tells me I'm "nothing" short of amazing
What in the world does that "nothing" mean
If that "nothing" is really something
If I look will that "nothing" be seen

We are told that everything comes from "nothing"
A "nothing" theory that lacks evidence
A Big Bang and a boom from a "nothing"
If an explosion is something  
Is that why "nothing" makes sense
So if "nothing" in the end becomes "something
Then "nothing" is "nothing" at all
Just a word that causes confusion 
 "nothing" can be big or quite small

If "nothing" can separate us from God's love
Please keep "nothing" away from me
For if I settle for "nothing"
It will separate me from eternity
So you can see why "nothing" is a problem
I am "nothing" if I can't be me
"Nothing" in the end is perplexing
For "nothing" is a mystery!


Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015


Details | History Poem | |

Light A Candle

N ever again will the Tribes of Israel be the sacrificial lamb of man.
A nnealed in furnaces not in Olam HaEmet by the Almighty "the World of Truth."
Z ealots rose from the ashes of the ovens and now defend like Sicarii of old.
I srael blooms and grows in the desert, returned by Allied Forces to the cauldron.
H ome to the Holy Land, sent, shipped, caste surrounded by Arab foe, isolated. 
O vens melted their hearts, striped their forms for their souls held no intrinsic value.
L ampshades and shoes made from their skin, jewelry from the gold in their teeth.
O rders given by The Third Reich obeyed without conscious. The herd was culled.
C hrist-killer the Christian mind said, devil worshiper, their deaths were acceptable.
A nti-Semitism always has been and always will be a threat to Jews everywhere.
U nited, Jews must form a majority in Israel, so Jews everywhere feel safe.
S anctuary will never again being denied, Israel will be safe haven from persecution.
T o a future where all men have worth regardless of race, creed or religion, pray.


*Thanks to Arild Andresen Ertsland for his inspiring
From the Ashes

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2012


Details | History Poem | |

The Rest is Silence

I left her behind
emaciated
I left her
dying
I left her
I left her
I wanted to die there with her
there in the desert
where I left my mother
there where the stench of the dead and the dying 
filled the air
I left her
my other children dragging me on
the solders shouting
threatening..theatening
I had to go on...for the others

I left her
my little girl
who was too weak to speak
too weak to cry
my little girl
whom I smothered
knowing it would be quick
not wanting night to call
the animals to crawl
over her still living body
not wanting her to hear
the death wail of the old and frail
all around
I smothered her
and kept on walking
not hearing
not seeing
not smelling
not living
not breathing

I left her
I left my heart
I left my dreams
I left my tomorrow
and every yesterday
every memory
every hope
of a better day

I left her
and in that starless night
there in the desert
naked and bleeding
starving
shivering
I knew....

"the rest is silence."

Eileen Manassian

"The Rest is Only Silence" is from Shakespeare's Play...Hamlet. I, however, will not be silent about the Armenian Genocide. This is in memory of the 1.5 million Armenians who lost their lives in the Genocide of 1915.Though this is a fictitious write, the events depicted did happen during the Armenian Genocide in 1915 by the Ottoman Turks. One million and a half Armenians were marched into the desert in what has come to be known as the Death March. My mother's family were fortunate. They were able to run away in time. They relocated to Lebanon. My mother was a refugee at 14 years of age. She and her two sisters suffered poverty and had to work hard to make a living for the family. Their fate could have been worse. April 24 marks 101 years since that event. Not all countries have recognized the genocide. Unfortunately, America is one of them. 

If you want to read an account of those days, read The Sandcastle Girls. Read of how woman were tied to stakes as the soldiers rode past on their horses and decapitated them. Read of how the orphaned children were gathered at night and put in caves and burned alive. Read of how the woman marched naked...their wounds festering, their hair matted...almost inhuman. Read of how women committed suicide rather suffer rape while others disfigured themselves to go unnoticed. History cannot deny the genocide. If justice is not served here...it will be....one day. God told Cain..."the blood of your brother Abel is crying out to me." The blood of these martyrs cries out today for recognition.

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016


Details | History Poem | |

It is Written in a Star

.                                                                  *
                                                                   *
                                                                   *
                                                                   I
                                                                  am
                                                                  the
                                                                 star
                                                                 that 
                                                                shone
                                                               brightly
                                                             in the East
                                                             that night
                                                            so long ago
                                                         A heavenly light
                                                     that guided wise men
                                                  to the place where He lie
                                             In a manger on a blanket of hay
              *  *  *  *  *Christ -Immanuel - a radiant child - a gift from God*  *  *  *  *
                                           His only son who died on a cross                                        
                                                 for teaching us to love and
                                                           help one another
                                                                for this is
                                                                 the only
                                                                   way
                                                                  there
                                                                    Will
                                                                    ever
                                                                     be
                                                                  peace
                                                                     on
                                                                  Earth
                                                                      *
                                                                      *
                                                                      *

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2009


Details | History Poem | |

THE VAMPIRE

For I am death, the personification of pure evil,
The grand godfather, of legions of unnumbered generations.
Behold thy disciples, baptized beneath my crimson waters,
Of blood.
Then reanimated as the living undead, in mine own image,
These are my forsaken children of the Night.
Kissed by the angel of death, I'm resurrections insurrection,
Spawned in hell a creature devoid of heart or soul, yet do I
Exist, biting at the exposed throat of humanity, leaving it
Drained completely dry.
Does not the white lily turn ember red, within this the
Valley of damnation.
My throne is a black coffin gilded in golden refinement,
Residing beneath the wooden lid, the beast sleeps,
Waiting to be embraced by the darkness of night.
Slowly, emerging from mine cryptic mausoleum,
I'm famished for the taste of the living essence
Of mankind.
A gentlemen reaper of the fallen, deeply do these
Fangs penetrate into the soft flesh of humanity,
Tis a dark blessing's supernatural gift, have I been 
So given, to take life then to restore it.
Raw beasts of instinct, clinging to the ethereal
Moon, that hangs above illuminating this,
Our unholy abyss.
Welcome to a shadow nation of the unseen,
Whose roots extend backwards, to an older country’s
Unconsecrated soil, called Transylvania. 
On mine legacies crest, a red dragon with talons
Extended reaches out, grappling for powers control.
For I am Dracula, born of royal blood in life,
But in death I am a king, let these castle walls
Bleed on forever, and the hounds of hell,
Sing outside my rod iron gates.
But beware mortal flesh if you so enter,
For I will enjoy every trespasser,
Whom dares to venture within my
Sacred territory, with a fiendish smile
Upon my hungering face.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014


Details | History Poem | |

The Maid of Orleans

Reflecting in her garden sits a winsome little maid;
She holds a purple flower like the circlet that she made
And wrapped about her braids to grace her forehead like a crown;
Her thick and shining braids that are the shade of chestnut brown.
A soft and dreamy smile lifts her lips of cherry rose
As she so elegantly lifts the flower to her nose
To smell the rich and heady fragrance rising from its soul-
Upon this day in early May, her heart with joy is full.
But look! The heavens open wide, and joy is changed to fear,
For Michael the Archangel in the garden does appear,
And with him stand Saint Margaret and Saint Catharine, sent to seek
This girl of twelve, and in her frightened youthful ears to speak
Words form the Lord, of how someday, somehow, she'll have to save
Her native land, her land of France, from lying in the grave.
When in their bright angelic garb these saints to heav'n returned,
She knew they had been sent from God, her heart within her burned
With strong desire, with heaven's fire, to do her Father's will;
Her heart beats hard, while all around is silent, calm and still.

The years pass by, now seventeen, her hour is fully come,
And what is now but distant fancy, dull and throbbing hum
Will be her life, her joy, her pain; her darkness or her light:
For God and country, king and freedom, must, she must needs fight.
The chains of England must be broken, young prince Charles crowned:
A source of hope, of inspiration must for France be found;
For civil war rakes raging claws through weary, hopeless men,
Who fight and die, and sacrifice, and lose their homes again;
Their gardens, flocks and herds, and treasures, all are swept away:
With nothing left but life itself, and naught to do but pray.

God heard their prayer and sent her there for their deliverance,
To lead them on to victory through every circumstance
Of treachery or deviltry that loomed on every side.
Urged on by all the saints above and martyrs who had died,
She bound her armor to her body, helmet to her head;
A troop of eager soldiers to the Orleans siege she led.
Without a fear she faced the battle, banner held up high;
It filled each fainting heart with spirit, waving in the sky:
Unfailing, never falling, always standing at the fore,
And filling every weary soul with courage to the core.
Though wounded by an arrow striking close beside her heart,
She still pressed on to victory, she played her vital part.
The Maid of Orleans did her best, she held back not at all,
But risked her life at every turn to heed her heav'nly call;
She fought and bled and braved the beast until her king was crowned,
And even then she carried on, she traveled all around:
Each city gained broke off the chains of power-hungry kings,
Who killed to gain another's land, his citizens and things.

Alas! She met her fate at hands that should have helped her cause;
The countrymen she battled sold her to be judged by laws
And men that all disfavored her, yet still she firmly stood,
Proud head held high, two gleaming eyes; she answered best she could
Each twisted question meant to trap her clear but simple mind:
With wit and art she answered each; they really could not find
A cause for death, but death must be for such an enemy
The fate; who sees such visions full of vile heresy,
Of saints and angels revelating mortals with God's plan.
They also charged her with the sin of dressing like a man,
But it was of necessity she donned a soldier's guise;
For all throughout the war-torn realm roamed pairs of hateful eyes
Who did not heed a woman's cries, but did what pleased them best:
They killed or maimed or stained for life from eastern France to west.

So thus it is, not twenty years, they chain her to a stake-
The final chain that no amount of bravery can break.
Within her dress, hugged to her chest, she tucks a wooden cross;
The symbol of the Son of God, who faced such early loss
Of life, and like her was betrayed and mocked and led to die
Without a cause, without a crime, without a reason why.
Ten thousand people press around; she feels the burning heat,
As flames grow hotter, ever hotter- licking at her feet:
But on one thing and one thing only both her eyes are fixed;
Upon the figure held before her- on the crucifix.
And she is thinking of a time that seems so long ago,
When as a girl she used to sit and watch her garden grow;
She'd pick the purple petaled flowers, braid them in her hair;
Her life was simple, pure, and sweet, she hadn't any care
Until Saint Michael gave her calling to her way back then.
But if she had another life, she'd do it all again,
For God and country, king and freedom she could die this death;
And so it was that thus she died, and with her final breath
Her soul and body parted ways, and while her body burned,
Her soul went on to realms unknown, her soul to heav'n returned
Into the hands of He who made her, to the arms of Christ the Lord;
Who made for her a better body, more than just restored.
Here ends the troubles of this maiden, gone are jail cells dark:
Forever live the Maid of Orleans, known as Joan of Arc.



{Written by Isaiah Zerbst. For the first time published on October the 13th, 2014.}

Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2014


Details | History Poem | |

A Perfect Storm

Beyond the bay the sun peeked over waves.
The calm belied what destiny would tell.
A statue peers where young men served and gave,
so far from Gloucester shores where seagulls yell;
so far from sheltered harbor's gentle swells, 
undaunted sailors dared the Flemish cap,
too far, as nature mixed a hopeless trap.

Like hungry beasts tempt fate to catch their prey
and stray beyond their tribal hunting grounds,
the George's Bank was left to stern that day
to go where surely greater catch abounds,
but while their hold was filled with bounty found,
two angry storms swirled in a deadly dance
and left the Andrea Gail without a chance

Her captain turned for port but could not know
such wrath of nature blocked their pathway home
and all the crew on wings of angels glowed
the face of God to trust, and not to roam.
Though oft in tumult's grasp they will bemoan
and think to sell their souls in Devil's waves,
yet safe in Heaven's grasp they will be brave.

Copyright © craig cornish | Year Posted 2015


Details | History Poem | |

Gettysburg Hauntings

Gettysburg Hauntings

When General Meade met General Lee
At Gettysburg in 1863

Sons of the South battled Northern brothers
And neither side has ever recovered

Fifty-one thousand lives lost in three days
Of a summertime swelter, July haze

Souls rose not to heaven from bodies piled
On blood-soaked battlefields spanning 40 miles

An on-scene photographer moved fallen men
To snap better images with his lens

Hats off to Alex Gardner if you please
Today picture-takers’ cameras freeze

At a large bouldered site called Devil’s Den
Sharpshooter hid, killed unsuspecting men

Travelers at night on Pennsylvania roads
Claim they see soldiers, hear cannons explode

A century after the Revolution
United our states to wage war as one

Virginians were forced to choose blue or gray
Mason Dixon Line divided that way

If only Tom Jefferson’s wise notion
Had not been struck from the Declaration

Slavery, the impetus for war and hate
Would have been quashed before State versus State

Gettysburg might have been a peaceful farm
Where soldiers had never succumbed to harm

But restless spirits, faces pale and gaunt
Never retreat from their Gettysburg haunt

Our nation’s darkest hour plays out each night
And passersby still marvel at the sight

Where sons of the South battled Northern brothers
For neither side will ever recover

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009


Details | History Poem | |

Where the Flag still Waves

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The echoes of that day,
Choke the flow of moving on.
Tattered memories...encased,
...of loved ones who have forgone.

We miss our sons and daughters,
But the Good Lord called them home.
We must embrace Thy course of time,
For the winds of change have blown.

Though America still weeps,
We’re still the home of the brave.
I’m proud to be from this land,
Where the flag still proudly waves.





____________________
For Nathan's 9-11 Contest

Copyright © Raul Moreno | Year Posted 2009


Details | History Poem | |

Slavery in Haiti

Haiti, the home of voodoo practices
Seventeenth Century Spain cedes to France
Catholic Spaniards trembled when they saw
“Dead” men revived to wander in trances

A vile poison can make men appear dead
Revival requires an antidote
But perhaps there is more to zombie lore
An explanation to why these souls woke

Brutally treated slaves worked sugar fields
Captives from Africa known as “Maroons”
As French aristocrats sat and grew fat
Blacks sweated for “sweets” in the tropic sun

Buried guilt deep at night still festers
For conscience is God’s gift to each man
Some may suppress it for just a short time
‘Til magical night envelopes the land

Spirits of those who were taken in chains
Are given by God a chance to rebel
Stalking the living in deathly pallor
Haunting their captors with visions of hell

“Zombifications,” Maroons erected
Spreading the horrors of slavery with anger
Showing the French what their evil produced
And putting their sanity in danger

So please put the voodoo dolls back on shelves
The needle-sharp pricks of remorse can sting
Enslaved Maroons prevail in heaven’s court
Our Creator’s eyes aren’t missing a thing

Magic, black or white, God sees no color
Love is bestowed on men of all races
And those who question the Lord’s intentions
Should look in the eyes of living-dead faces

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009


Details | History Poem | |

Movements of Beginnings

                                                                   written on time’s page
                                                        with finite syllables of dust
                                                  he spelled my heritage
                                           from earth to sky
                                     along an umbilical line of faith 

                                 we fluttered from the lips of fingers
                           fully form for purpose
                       written on an invisible calculus
                that bring monarchs where birth mark lingers
            and salmons somersaulting sluice and streams
      turtles, penguins, and herons white wings
netted in design with nested tabula rasa  mind 

I have an argument
   against the beginning begotten from a bang 
      before atom or element
         I have an argument against force and natural laws
             at work without mass or embodiment
                 for embryonic gravity or forces weak or strong
                    I have an argument
                        that the singularity could not become more than fragment
                           of energy again if a single atom explode 
                              its forces flocking away from fusion
                                 for energy fission to explode

                                  a theory 
                         flimsy as spiders web
                  dethroning my majesty gulped 
          in primeval slime unlinked history from love
  minimizing the particular time of our becoming on ships 
that met the stagnant eyes of swampy thoughts … shuddering 
                                    in vain
                     the whip cracks louder than pain -
             and on our black blistered backs … crumbling 
soils in desertification threw some syllables skywards for mercy
                               starvation winds with sickle clouds of rain  
                                 they lie again ... leaving us without inheritance
                                    for all our labors, lost, and grievance
                                      what bang can buck the strain 
                                          and bring us broken souls to glory again?

Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2009


Details | History Poem | |

The Seamstress of Time

I have a special story I wish to share
About a seamstress beautiful and fair

She would fade away turning into smoke
Of her amazing beauty, no man would joke

The spiraling smoke would then re-form
I know only an angels face could be so warm

Before her a beautiful quilt was spread
Upon it the story of my life was said

As she once again started to dissipate 
She said, “Mike this quilt records your fate”

As the smoke traveled over to a new place
And then formed together creating her face

Looking over her shoulder back at me
She said, “This area will hold what has yet to be”

Most of the quilt looked like twisted evil tattoo
Simply because, my life’s quilt was quilted true

I looked the quilt over and then met her gaze
She was so beautiful in so many different ways

The last part of the quilt way over to the right
Showed the beauty of someone changing their plight

Upon her beautiful hand, which seemed so nimble
I noticed she was wearing my grandmother’s thimble 

From a young maiden so beautiful to see
My grandmother appeared right in front of me

I guess up in heaven we return to our youth
My grandmother was beautiful; such is the truth

I thought of the price grandma was asked to pay
The shame of knowing I had turned out that way

I thought of her sitting there stitching my shame
My grandmother didn’t deserve an eternity of pain

She said, “Michael be still with the pain in your heart,
Your story encourages others to make a new start.”

“The deeper the wrong the stronger the right
I always knew my boy would take up the fight”

With a smile much brighter than an ice covered sea
She said, “I love the man my boy has grown up to be”

As she turned to the quilt and started to sew
She said, “Michael, its now time for you to go.”

“Believe in your story believe in your truth
For Salvation is the true fountain of youth”

One night in a dream, which I’ll hold forever divine
I learned; my Grandmother is now,” The Seamstress of Time”


When I was a boy I would help my Grandmother roll
her quilt, find her glasses, as well as, her thimble. I 
never thought about how amazing her art truly was.
From a pile of rags she would make the most beautiful
quilt's. I sleep under one of her quilts to this very day. 


Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2011


Details | History Poem | |

Dinosaurs

~Dinosaurs~


------------
X-FILES
------------
fossil of all time
creatures of mother nature
mysterious death
~~~

------------------------------
SHOW ME THE MONEY!
------------------------------
bones found in the dirt
deep under the Earth's surface
museum makes money
~~~

--------------------------
RUN FORREST! RUN!
--------------------------
tyrannosaurus
no pity chasing down prey
sharp teeth, full belly
~~~

-----------------------------------
THE VELOCITY OF INSANITY/
------------------------------------
evolution change
cascade into the ice age
Life found a new way
~~~

-----------------------
THE  BREED
-----------------------
fur on new breed
Mammoth hide for the cavemen
elephant cycle
~~~

~SKAT~

Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2011


Details | History Poem | |

Montage Poetry

The words we use become pictures into lives
Pictures from words spread out for all to see
This is what becomes of our poetry
Has the makings of a montage to me
With words we complete many pictures
Pictures then arranged to fit in closeness
And so with our poetry I do believe
We create a montage for all to see

Copyright © Carol Sunshine Brown | Year Posted 2011


Details | History Poem | |

Pride of the Motherland

Riding an elephant
Down the narrow trail looking triumphant
Scanning the golden landscape
Like Hannibal with enemies in flight
Sight from a lofty height
King of the jungle moving
With lioness by his side

Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro
Guides by my side with packs on their backs
Some paths steep with rocks
Boots slipping below our tired feet
Beautiful birds in unison flight
Moving with terrestrial light
Stunning sunlight summit on the peak

Praying in an Ethiopian Church
Preserved in rocks built by humans’ hands 
Never touched by conquest plans
Protected from the invaders’ footsteps
Queen of Sheba and Solomon’s nest
Touched by Arch of the Covenant
Mary, Joseph, and Jesus once slept

Eating yam, sipping palm wine, and tasting milk
Freshly squeezed by experienced hands
Taste of life in the mosaic grassland
Sustaining and soul refreshing
Cradle of humankind adorning
Invaded for its gold, riches, and human capacity
Birth of life on earth with tenacity

Respecting its living and arduous journey
Essence of life once was and is again to come
Riding a camel across the hot Sahara sand
Once wet now dried, exported gold from Mali…
Treasures from the hearts of once African empires
That which was, is, and shall forever be
Africa the birthing Motherland
We still love and respect thee!

~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~

Seventh Place Winner
"African's Pride" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Adeleke Adeite
June 30, 2010

~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~

Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2010


Details | History Poem | |

- The living and the dead -



Halloween is a time to let the imagination run wild 
Halloween is a holiday shrouded in darkness 
linked to the supernatural and known for inspiring fear 
Dress like your favorite fantasy creature 
or tell ghost stories in a dark room 
But Halloween is not just about 
to dress up in costumes and ask for candy 
A favorable time for predictions about marriage, 
happiness, health and death 
An evening of spiritualism, ghosts, vampires and goblins 
From old time it was a holiday steeped in folklore and customs 
Poisoned candies to vampires and goblins 
Carving pumpkins to trick or treating at your door 
Masks and costumes to scare away ghosts 
or to be recognized by them
Happy Halloween and good luck







31.10.2014
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved 

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2014


Details | History Poem | |

Battle of the Sexes

battle of the sexes


~~MONA LISA SMILE
Picture Oil painting worthwhile 
Leonardo DA Vinci, look out!
What is she really smiling about?

(((The popularity of the Mona Lisa increased in the mid 19th century 
because of the Symbolist movement. The painting was thought to 
encompass a sort of feminine mystique.)))



~~JAMES EARL JONES
His award winning voice, rough like stones
Darth Vader, Mufasa, stuttering jubilee  
When I die can he be the one narrating my eulogy?

(((I love James, I'm a star wars freak... <--- yup that's me)))



~~SADDAM AND BIN LADEN
Were very bad, bad men
Causing chaos throughout America & Afghanistan,
HATERS OF THE USA: they should be called the Arab ku klux klan

(((Occupation: Terrorist~ makes me wonder if they went to the same school.)))
                                                                   


~~ADOLF HITLER
The world worse killer
Commander of the oxymoron  Nazi  
Losing at his own game of Yahtzee 

(((The Most Hated Murderer of all time)))



~~YOUNG ANNE FRANK
Her diary worth more than any bank
Famous Jewish victims of the Holocaust
Her legacy teaches that hate is an exhaust 

(((Anne Frank's diary remains one of the most moving and widely read 
accounts of the Jewish experience during the Holocaust.))) 



~~JOAN OF ARC
Angel in an era so dark
an epic hundred year war
her visions is what she payed for.

(((Joan of Arc, also called the Maid of Orleans, a patron saint of France 
and a national heroine, led the resistance to the English invasion.))) 



~~BB KING
Can really sing
Stand by me...
But, can he sting like a bee

(((BB KING~ could not help but wonder if he was a lover and a fighter.)))



~~LADY GAGA
Is no piano sonata,
Madonna wannabe, is she.
Watching her videos make me laugh till I pee.

(((Lady Gaga is Unique as can be!)))


by;p.d.

for battle of the clerihew

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012


Details | History Poem | |

These Red Brick Walls

These red brick walls have stood for nearly 100 years,
they have seen and absorbed happiness and tears,
if these walls could talk, just imagine what they could say,
a lifetime of cherished memories have not faded away.

I wonder, if 100 years from now, will I still be around,
maybe a part of my secrets will be waiting to be found,
my written words are embedded in the room where I slept,
all of those midnight thoughts and dreams will be here kept.

The window that brought new inspirations into my soul,
and the closed door that opened to my heart's empty hole,
from the wooden boards of the floor and up to the ceiling,
these walls of red bricks hold secrets that need revealing.

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014