Long Voyage Poems. These are the most popular long Voyage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Voyage poems by poem length and keyword.
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MY PRINCESS OF IMAGINATION
You are an empress of Heaven who descended on earth
A dear angel of God has taken birth
Your presence brings an awesome fragrance of joy
You are more beautiful than the Helen Of Troy
You resemble a symbol of peace, calmness, wonder and cheer
Like numerous scented flowers engulfed the entire atmosphere
Your presence enthralls the atmosphere with such an ardent passion
Flowers bloom, birds sing, oceans roar, Heaven rejoices in a supernatural fashion
Being a stranger but yet so familiar is an experience of mystery
I wanna be with your present, wanna be with the dreams of your future but never become your past history
I know nothing of you... but your life is a holy book written so well
Synonymous in nature to a religious novel
Every word of which would be so pious and divine
Their utterance will strengthen my soul and make it purely refined
And every word of which I wish you would share with me
And I would keep on listening with extreme curiosity
Hope this book of your life is so lengthy never ending and complicated
That while explaining me with clarity, your entire life is dedicated
Going through your inspiring life will make my mind so captivated
That in things of the world my attention will be never diverted
I would sync deep into your thoughts dreams and emotions
Explore your life like navigating through the depth of mighty oceans
The facts of your life will be as delightful as your nature
Synonymous in experience with a lifetime adventure
to be remembered forever
I wish I was a memorable entity always alive in the vicinity of your thought
Some one who gifted u a special feeling which is beyond the scope of being bought
Spiritual connection with you is magical pleasure. My soul rejuvenates a lot
Your life is extraordinary, it is an eternal bliss
Similar to such a wonderful voyage, the bitter past I shall never reminisce
Your soul resembles heaven's beauty filled with an angel's grace
I wish to find rest and comfort in such a sacred place
Worldly creatures are mesmerized by your supreme fragrance of serenity
The peace u provide, the calmness u bring resembles an heavenly entity
Synonymous to a medical replenishment of decaying souls to repair all their defects
Such that all disturbance, grief and sorrow are conquered and lose their effects
By the holiness of your spirit every evil existence shall perish
This divine revolution will leave behind only sweet remains to cherish
You bring forth the delight of eternity, a heavenly aura and shine
Which enlightens, encourages depressed souls, their lives renewed and new hopes defined
The everlasting impact of your presence inspires me to build an immortal attachment
And reside under your shadow which symbolizes an abode of holy settlement
I observe a pattern of silence in your behavior
I am unsure if this is part of your natural gesture
What is the reason for this sense of melancholy strain?
May be there is some trauma which brings you pain
Some moments of life you spend in mere solitude
What made u acquire such a lonely attitude?
I pray in your life there must not be any sorrow
Even if there is, I would willfully like to borrow
Any cloud of darkness over your life is beyond my tolerance
No power can besiege your holy throne of reverence
Alas and at last, there is something to say
I am striving with a pathetic feeling of dismay
Why I am so helpless that can not talk to you
Why are you a stranger? Am I some one so new?
Albeit a stranger, why I feel myself so close to you
Its my dream to talk to you for indefinite moments
To disturb this peaceful conversation, i would'nt prefer ugly opponents
The passion of my imagination is beautiful far beyond the facts of reality
Where in I understand your holy life book in the sacred place with sanctity
I believe you live on earth but exist in the wonders of heaven
Alas your presence in my life may be something I am against hope hopen
Wish for an opportunity to express myself to you
Seems an awkward desire as u consider me so new
In the vision of my imagination, I will always find you near
Your divine presence eliminates any syndrome of fear
And I promise to cherish your presence in my memories till my days are over
I recognize your adorable nature rather than your beautiful look
I already defined you Synonymous to a precious holy book
Wish these feelings on your mind will have a profound impact
Finding acceptance in your life is still an unknown fact
Unknown is whether I bear that supreme fortune to experience your acceptance
Or Else you would consider me unimportant and indulge me in repentance
Wishing you all the best in your future endeavors
To honour my thoughts, please do me some small favours
Give me a true promise that you will forget me never
Request you to cherish these thoughts in your memory with pleasure
And edify yourself as heavenly princess as you are an eternal treasure
Words come to me like spring.
They set free, they shed the shroud,
open with all their glory, beauty and sing.
They stand tall, they ring out loud,
from a life that blossoms with life’s renewal,
with its continuation and the energy it will fuel,
taking all living things, from their creation
to exotic places, the place of their final destination
and that of their destiny.
And destiny for you and me.
Words are my stairway towards the breasts
of heaven, its waiting arms and its protective nests,
where there is nothing that harms
- as one snuggles in its enfolding arms -
one on his journey down long winding roads
he has to travel with such heavy loads.
Words are the steps I have climbed, they take me
on adventures – and many, they have been – to see
me through the doors, ( doors of perception ) of my mind,
those places, where it is, I spend most of my time.
These pathways I have chosen to embark upon,
seem to linger on, and on, and on
through to the subconscious that doth confirm,
to consciousness, the light and I do learn
from the words, the life, the thought
flowing like meandering streams, into raging rivers,
rivers into seas, into oceans and ought
to take flight, light up the livers
of life on their voyage towards heaven above
where all might be pure love
for a soul and for that soul to know
what is unknowable to conscious man, what doesn’t show,
of what is not known to life, in its everyday living.
Words, for me, are knowledge, are for wisdom, for giving
to all of whom want to know for all those who want to grow.
B. J. “A” 2
March 21st 2002
Melanie, Dear Melanie !!!
My heart, Melanie, is aching.
My heart, Melanie, is braking
from the attitudes that never seems to cease.
They just seem – to me that is – to ever increase,
taking you ever deeper and deeper into ?, and further away
from who you are – what I feel and what I pray,
is not where you are at and what you are heading for.
It seems that there are few days left ?, before you are out the door.
B. J. “A” 2
March 21st 2002
My hours tremble, they shake in their passing.
The minutes I live, are pressing, they are oppressing,
for the thunder that rages, that is your presence,
I have no safe haven, no shelter, I have no defence.
To become completely silent ?, never to sing out,
to ring the bell that tolls of your life, turned about
expressed with anger, in the hostile words you shout
at me, words that let me see into, know something is amiss
in our little world, that once tasted the sweetness of bliss,
but now, has been destroyed, taken away !,
by what ?, by whom ?, who has lead you astray.
B. J. “A” 2
March 21st 2002
I have felt, for some time, and do feel the light
within you flicker, yet does not quite burn bright
for long, but one day, may just take flight
on your butter fly wings, not dried or out of sight
and carry you passed all in life – BAD – you tried, in darkest of night..
B. J. “A” 2
March 21st 2002
I have reached out !, I have tried to touch you Melanie !,
but have found, not but vapour, mist in my hands,
passing air, on the run, to an uncharted, unknown sea,
to far off, barren, dusty, desert lands.
I offer you, - my Daughter, my Child, - my time, my ear.
I would like to know, to understand, to listen, I want to hear,
but silence is all that comes to me, upon the turbulent wind,
on the run, in the air, stilled by this horrendous sin.
B. J. “A ” 2
March 21st 2002
Melanie, !!!, your fall, I find hard to conceive.
It is a picture, a movie that I do not want to believe,
yet it is all around me, but if I would perceive.
B. J. “A ” 2
March 21st 2002
A black hole
My life is caught up in this vortex called living.
This whirl pool, called life, sucks me in,
spins me round and around, giving
nothing, just drawing me ever downward, in,
into this it’s empty black hole, pierced by it’s swards,
laying my heart wide open, bleeding on my thoughts, my words.
B. J. “A ” 2
March 21st 2002
My eyes flow, they swell with red
rivers, in vain as painful waves
of tears, tears full of fears fill my head
as the pain, from within, fills the caves,
the hollows, the shelters in my mind, never put to bed
B. J. “A ” 2
March 21st 2002
Much to much time !!!
It seemed that I had too much time on my hands to reflect,
Too much time on my hands to project
to much time on my hands to infect
my days, my nights with what I did suspect,
and now the years have slipped by like lightening,
and all that once was frightening
has, with the passing of time, become clear
as time has shown, elevating all that I did fear.
B. J. “A ” 2
October 12th 2013
'We have a future king to make,'
Said the deep, resounding voice.
'But it is not a proper fit for everyone.
For a king must know first how to obey than to command,
And to abide rather than reign.'
'And thus, I need a volunteer.'
The eager little voices swiftly gathered ‘round.
'To have a throne and my own crown,' said a little voice with delight.
'A great palace for my home,' cried another, 'or a castle with tall ramparts.'
'I’d be above all others,' said yet another, 'that would surely ease one’s comparing mind;'
'And best of all, to be revered by everyone and through all time!'
'Don’t fool yourselves with thrones and crowns,' said a little voice from the side,
'Do not haste into a choice you may regret for all your life!
I’d rather risk oblivion and even want, but be free to choose my fate,
What is precious life for but to discover one’s gift and thirst?
You take that crown and throne, and you forever renounce the greatest prize you own!'
There were no volunteers at hand for that grand, distinguished life.
The once lively little voices now stood silent, with cautious glances in their eyes.
Yet they began to move a little, but not to volunteer their fates;
Someone was slowly coming forward all the way from far behind.
Soon, one single little voice stood ahead of all the others, and with a thoughtful stare, it spoke:
'I overheard a story once
Of a vast and balmy river
That braves across cold, stormy seas
So it can meet a fabled shore
And become one with it.
'Wearied from its long voyage,
It crashes beneath the sheer cliffs.
And as its froth caresses the jagged rocks,
It echoes the green, velvety meadows above
Which gently cuddle the harsh precipice.
'The wee, babe-in-arms coming king
Will hold that fabled shore in him.
For he, though one sole man
Will stand for an entire land.
And in choosing this destiny
Of that fabled shore I also shall be,
For it will be a part of me,
And I, humbly, of it.
'And then, there is the brave lad who in sheer fright,
Gathered all his nerve and leaped into the dark night
Over the unknown enemy’s laird.
Oh, how I would leap into the dark along with thee!
Though he is now long gone, he will live in me,
And I, humbly, in him.
'And the family who huddled deep beneath the ground
Through the terrifying shudder of the enemy’s raging rounds.
Then, to rise again, and not concede.
I was in that shelter along with them,
And so were a million others who were yet to be!
'Such as the young boy now walking to school on a quiet country lane,
To learn his Scott, his Shakespeare, his Milton, and his Keats.
I will follow him close behind, and my own feet shall grow within his footprints.
It takes no less than each of them to make a king,
And not more than lacking one to lessen him.
For a king, though one sole self, stands for all,
And all do stand for him.
'I know that in choosing this path,
I’ll forever relinquish command of my compass,
And may never find out what I could’ve become on my own,
Or what my true talent may be.
I will follow, instead, a course that has long been set,
By others, and not by me.
'But I have a strong hunch
That if I don’t put myself first,
Or what I feel I’m entitled to do and to have,
And choose, instead, to be fair, as best as I possibly can,
To those for whom I’ll be honored to stand,
I’ll eventually know who I really am;
And will meet, one day, the man I am meant to become.'
'Thus, I volunteer
To be the child who’s one day to be king.'
A newborn day blazed in the distance,
And a transformation was about to take place,
As momentous as the invasion of spring,
The rising of the harvest, or a mighty winter gale.
Nearly two thousand babies were coming to life on that land,
From that land, to that land, for that land,
And a single one amongst them exalted all.
Half a world away, a vast and balmy river
Was setting out on its long voyage to a fabled shore,
And nearby, radiant sunlight battled gray, stormy clouds,
So as to break through and paint in brilliant and broad brushstrokes
The lofty Highlands below,
And thus, be reborn as shimmering glens and moors.
Metaphor of outrage, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : Metafora del desafuero
( In celebration of a birthday)
for Andrés Amoros
Having been outside of you, yourself, dizzying voyage
the quiet, beggar
of your conscience, hermit
in the desert of your inaction, believing
only in the cactus/thistle, in the excessive stone,
without a hole from which to drink, without food, without bread,
miserable and without grove
like a boat struck by tempest
but a tempest not particularly disruptive, without the grandeur
of this sum of experience
in a sea, now, later, monotonous, without end, monochromic,
with greying water,
or, better still, without it, sailing on it in its non-colour,
sailing in the not-water, with continuity in the never-monotony,
or in the midst of ruins after an earth-quake
that leaves everthing low,
rather in a place where there was no house nor where they put up
neither was the floor split open, nor were there cracks,
there, exiled, without the remembrance of a lost country,
dumb, without the notion of a language ido*
all the shine shorn off, all persuation, all complaint,
irremediably left alone, but without solitude,
yet you hadn’t any memory of any earlier companionship,
there, where no form of evocation could touch you,
even if to accomplish this, you had to be precise with the previous
there, there you were with your back to your own being,
without seeing, without seeing yourself,
even if sometimes the opposite took place and you began to think with
who knows if for his (sic) condition, that is, principally,
which happened, during this period, to occupy
the totality of your attentions and which grew (perceived then as of
a short distance) with it,
your enormous knee, your extraordinary foot, your great foot,
stepping on the treeless plain with resonance,
in a clatter like the rattle of a tambourine,
your gigantic foot,
your treacherous leg, rotund, which grew longer, alone and
autonomous, to a point where nobody could ever reach it,
and after that, but only afterwards,
your entire body made up of indeterminate materal, of noise, such
that your skeleton without peer,
your terrible skeleton, advancing with great strides
towards no one, towards nothing,
everything of a sudden began to diminish in size and returned little
by little to its initial state,
and every part of your body began, by slow degrees – yes, this – to
absent itself :
first the flesh and the skin disappeared, and then your erect sex :
impenitent, the object of ridicule,
even if the nails continued with indifference to grow,
attentive exclusively to its pre-occupation with its strange sense
of avariciousness in an effort to acquire much more :
the hair, the beard, without paying any attention to how
parsimoniously it proceeded,
but, following which, that in itself, subjected to such a state of
enrapture, obliterated itself, and arrived punctually on the
generalization of the scrupulous duty to obedience,
which is to disengage itself, in all precision, without any exception
whatsoever, nor leaving even an iota of dust on the polished
surface of the piece of furniture,
the chaos of not being seen, the scandal of invisibility, of confusion,
there, on the obverse side of truth, on the other side of lying
on the frontier which it was deemed not worthy of being demarcated,
this area without topography where truth and lies appeared
as the self-same answer to the question that you didn’t pose.
Oh ! Beggar of your conscience ! Oh ! Scrutinisor !
Oh ! finicky Explorer !
Oh ! Celebrator of the unfortunate !
* Ido, cf. Idus, meaning the « Ides » of March, etc., in English. I don’t quite know. Could the poet be so kind as to enlighten us ?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Drifting on the clouds I lie
With my head pointing
To yonder skies
In a sea of dreams
Where mind and spirit
Igniting natures prize
To feel like you are heaven bound
But feet standing firmly
On hallowed ground
But in the clouds you drift
As the cascade shifts
Your feet no longer touching
A lift off to a peaceful place
an Ease from pain
Heading to heaven
On the now train
No heading back
Settling in your own time
For the things that beset us
Riding our backs
Painting the surfaces
Filling the cracks
No longer weary
Nor hearing sounds
of hungry cries
Heading to glory
With the echoing of lullabies
Off on a voyage
With an opt out clause
Given by nature
When we stop and pause
And inflicted pains,
Looking for a redress
With sweet Refrains
eyes wide opened
To a beauty and a guile
Painted by nature
By the clouds on high
So I decided
to pause for a little while
Taking nature in my stride
in the clouds
artist at play
Mixing the co lours
Painting a picture
Inviting a crowd
Having her say
Without uttering a word
How the lines are drawn
The bold highlights,
And intricate designs
In shades of grey and pastel blue
With the turquoise borders
Depths of indigo
How can I not be taken in
Blending with unison
Of a presence and a place
Is it not inspiration?
That brought me here
My resting place!
That there is peace and harmony
In yonder skies
Wrapped in a woolen shroud,
Floating on high
As on a cloud I now reside
While in the depth
Of an azure sea,
over yonder a tide does wake
Surging to inner shore
A surfers dream
Riding its waves
Horizontally, I must glide
To cross over in spirit of the other side
I am at a time and place
Where though imagery
we can foretaste
Although somewhere different
in time and space
It must be like being in heaven ,
when nature take its place
At the cent re of the stage
revealing its beauty
So humble yet so almighty
There is complexity in every art
the very corners and intricate parts
Inviting the eye
Taking time out on a page
Syncing with beauty
Looking from the sky
Floating on high
In a woolen casket
Drifting on by
I am in no race
Just run life’s race
Off on another journey
A different time and a different place
An escape from the rat race
To find a new place
Full of joy and grace
That I would always be floating
from the skies
While the north east trades go wonder
Pushing on by
to open the seven seals
blessing my eyes
See what picture is painted
And the wisdom that it derived
In secrets of the wise
Recovering lost virtues
From failure to realize
Imbalance of the senses one cannot deny
But to approach beauty you have to switch off others
for another to come alive
Its not faking reality
But letting spirituality in
To be sublime but not yet ridiculous
But moving to another realm
Enjoying earthly blessings
While wishing changes in
In a land, far away, once upon a time
An ancient place, deep in mystical forests
There lived a sickly old man
The years had passed and he was but an empty shell
Even he had no memories of who he used to be
But now, in the forest, he breathed his bitterness
A small barren one room cabin
His only possession, his grumpy voice
The town, further down the hill
Was to be his only detested outing
Each month the voyage, a barter for rations
Chopped wood, for his meager means
The children would taunt and tease
This smelly aberration to their playful days
And toss pebbles and stones
What do you mutter, you ragged old man?
He pictured them in a pot of stew
Yet no smile would he spend even on this thought
And off he went back up the hill, his bitterness too
The echo’s of laughing children, now but a distant taunt
He grew older, as did his bitterness
Year by year, and like a curse he lived
Certainly not of his choosing
Almost not hearing the village sneers
One day the men elders where called away
Kings declare wars, but it’s the villagers who do battle
Times became dark, who lived who died, no one was sure
The village children wept for their fathers
The old mans monthly pilgrimage to the village
Was met with sad infant stares
His mutterings now no concern of theirs
When off in the distance, beating drums and horses hooves
Soldiers of terror, pillaged and burned
The fires and haze, arrows and swords
The villagers ran in into the forests deep
Save for some of the children, confused and dazed
The old man stood in the midst of it all
And fearing nothing, his soul long dead
The children behind him, with fear and dread
He lifted a fallen sword and felled a horsemen
The a second, a third, in vengeance did come
And he felled them too, no fear in his eyes
The others retreated, their loot in tow
Only the angel of death, left with the wind
The old man, fell to the ground
Surrounded by children, staring in shock
They carried him home, his frown, and all
And stoked his fire, and laid him to rest
When he woke the next morning
All the children were there
With smiles, be dammed, what did he care?
They chattered and praises his heroic acts
They truly saw, the beauty hidden so deep
This old man saved them, his bravery noble
His silence, and rudeness, they ignored it all
And a little boy, with wonder, said thank you grumpy
Well, against his will, a smile did appear
This little one, taken so, thought him so dear
And day by day, the children returned
And he told them stories he had long forgotten
In the forest, up in the trees
Two angel fairies, where singing in the breeze
Looking down and over the cabin
And filled with joy, for an old soul was revived
The old man, spent his days, telling stories and teaching
The children learned the ways of their past
And the old man, who once was dead
Now knew the meaning of all life ahead
The village rebuilt and returned to routine
Honored the old man, once unwashed and unseen
The children grew older, the old man passed on
And now he sits in a tree and sings in the breeze
Open letter addressed by me to myself as
as though I am in any way complicit in my
third time failure; entering what is becoming
an annual crop failure in the beautiful place
where I was ugly born; where the judge year
after year looks red rock faced with rage,
or with tears streaming down their cheeks
with incredulity at my wide off the mark poesy.
My crop this year was two haikus short on
which reasonable people (whoever they are)
would love to quaff while the other, long lines,
(just within the limits) as though I, a Camusian
existentialist, had counted, discounted again,
and again, until the dizziness of decision made
me yelp, "yeah! it does me proud oh judge".
'Perception is All' as it foxily upsets our stall.
In our life expressed for truth it is hard to tell
even if quarried deep for it is still queried deep.
Shallow or short 'Truth is not open to all' but
is seen as so precious as to be hermentic, sealed,
so only the few, only the right-on literati can judge.
Never mind! This old comforter raises one's eyes
from the list of winners - one, two, three; 'Highly
Commended' too; the sentence embossed by one's
writing on the envelope, for the arena of the sky
backdrops the shushing green yellow tree leaves
and slowing turning gold beach hedge that the
red hot copper has so speedily, successfully infiltrated.
As the Constable clouds stately sail by on their voyage
eastwards there is always next year, an easier open,
or my very own closed, competition - even then not winning!
All this is small beer compared to the rum of worldly strife,
the champagne of celebrity, the vin ordinaire of the good,
the bitter of labour, and our sometimes burgundy blessed days.
Peter Dorr 25th. October 2011
It was a sight that I could not forsee
Ambushed by my own men at morning hour
Hands tight with cord and naked from the waist
A mean air on the Bounty blew unkind
It was the troubled wind of mutiny
My men, whose morals all have been erased
Once officers, now Pirates inward-out
Reached for the Bounty as a gang of thieves
Abused and overturned by thine own dogs
If only that thy men were proud Marines
His Majesties Ship was all but a voyage
To Tahiti where the breadfruit lay
Our mission was to gather in abundance
Thy fruit as diet for the English slaves
Yet as for fruit, my men did taste the women
How beautiful the native women were
In all compare, the beauty of a Goddess
From skin to tone one also could compare
Her beauty to her Island, a paradise
'Twas something in the air of that fine land
That made savages of my poor pale men
With every fruit aboard the ship to sea
But of themselves, themselves rather not leave
Yet off we sailed, and carelesness carressed
Uncomfort in the head and shoulders of men
Which are ye stubborn fools, cowards or clowns?
Yes from my tongue my words did lash a whip
Upon scoundrels of little self-esteem
Art thy mind but a pyramid of mold?
Again, to officers I raised the question
Are ye capable of morality?
What ounce of Navy blood dost ye concur?
Must curiosity outweigh thy wit?
Where art thou mothers breast, you babe of fools?
Ye brains, the size of grapes and tasteless wine
It seems to me thou intellect is ill
Not once did I not discipline untruth
To say my words of truth, an sharp-edged sword
Did strike my men again, again, and again
Without truth we are fools and prisoners
Compared to other Captains, I was mild
For these men did not realize in themselves
Their duties, yet beguiled by their desires
'Twas like a clockwork orange of secrecy
A little rum and brand of mutiny
That caused this plan of treason to incur
And in my cabin did my rascals storm
Seizing that I may not utter a sound
Forcing me on to deck, my mutineers
This officer Pirate scorn, Fletcher Christian
Whose own words..."I'm in hell, I am in hell"
Now forcing me onto the Bounties launch
A twenty-three foot boat, in seconds 'twas
Overloaded with eighteen loyal men
Against the waves that wanted us to drown
And many storms whose plans were our demise
Against all odds, an underprovisioned boat
Beyond the verge of probability
Unsound skiff through such dangerous a sea
A subsequent quest three thousand miles and more
Did I return unto the English shores
To thine Judges, is court martial the question?
Do pardon me for thine loss of the Bounty
What the sinner man,
Thinks he has sowed,
Up. God really has it,
Laid up for the just.
So don't hate when,
The sinner man has,
Coins that are fake.
God can put that on,
Your plate and it totally,
Does not deal with fate,
It deals with faith. "Faith
Comes by hearing, and
Hearing by the word,
Of God", the Bible states
In Romans 10:17. Don't
Hate on the sinner man's
Coins. Have faith that
God will give you your
Own and keep sowing
Seeds, doing good deeds,
And be happy with what
You need. He'll then give
You what you want when
He trusts you. The more
You trust Him, He trusts
You. He wants us to
Strive harder and harder
To be just. In other words,
He wants us to live righteous.
You know to walk the straight
And narrow. He wants to
Be in your heart and reading
The Bible and applying the
Knowledge is a great smart.
You can be street smart,
Have coins and don't get
That far. You can be book
Smart, go to college,
Have knowledge and
Never really take a voyage.
You can have the knowledge
Of God's Word and,
No application and still
Drama chasing and facing,
Or you can have the knowledge
Of God's Word along with
Application, Strive to
Live right, Meditate on
God's Word day and night,
Face the drama,and the
Battles let the Lord fight.
Increase faith from day
To day. Labor for the
Lord with or without pay
While your life has day,
And the wealth that,
The sinner man is ,
Still laid up for the,
Just. God gives it,
To you because,
You chose to live,
The life that's true.
Satan in the sinner's
Mind tells him that
The way is what's up
Because he got all
Of this material stuff.
Indeed the word of
God, says it's not
What's up because
To get that stuff
In God He did not
Trust. He or she
May have in the
May have backslidden.
Some may have always
Been bed ridden in sin
And never really let
God in. Just because
You don't have coins
Now. Don't think you'll
Ever have it. "The earth
Is the Lord's and the
fullness thereof and
Those who dwell therin."
God will give you what
He wants you to have
Especially if you stand
Firm not to live in sin.
A good man leaves an inheritance to his children's children: and the wealth of the
sinner is laid up for the just. Proverbs 13:22
So then faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of God. Romans 10:17
Visualize my children and you shall look
Upon the voyage of Captain James R. Cook;
It was the eighteenth of January in Seventeen Seventy-Eight;
Hardly a Hawaiian can forget the Date;
What befell upon the Islands was a terrible Fate.
During the Makahiki festival, Cook was thought to be Lono;
He would never live to see how he upset the (Balance) Pono;
The false god blew smoke from his mouth and had skin so pale,
Arriving on a floating island with a giant sail,
So Cook told them he was a God, never thinking this deceit might fail.
At first it went good they celebrated together,
But upon leaving the island, Cook hit nasty weather;
One ship had some problems and broke its foremast;
If they didn't turn around, the ship wasn't going to last,
So they headed back to the island faster than fast.
The Hawaiians had been generous and were generous again,
And even as the author holds this pen,
He knows "boys will be boys" and "men will be men,"
And the Hawaiian resentment, was starting to burn
For "this god who ate so much, but gave so little in return.”
When loose tools were stolen, men got even more irate;
Both sides Hawaiian and Haole began to fill with hate;
So Cook’s men stole a canoe and there was a small fight;
Nobody died, but the European sailors remained on shore for the night;
When they awoke, another of their large boats was missing from sight.
Cook was angry now and wanted his large boat back;
He marched on shore with marines, in an attempt to attack;
He grabbed him a hostage Chief Kalani'opu'u;
In the wake, a riot began to ensue;
The Hawaiians got their clubs, while Cook waved in his crew.
Guns were fired, Hawaiians charged, and the Marines ran back to their boat,
And alone stood Captain Cook in his British red coat;
Cook was hit with a club, stabbed numerous times and killed;
Still more than two hundred years later the void can never be filled,
Like a cavity that's so deep it cannot be drilled.
What could the Hawaiians do?
It seemed as if the prophecies were coming true;
Death and demise would come from across the sea,
Though it never said what or who it might be;
Were these white foreigners, devils or the missing key?
One hundred years later, the Native Hawaiian Population was decimated;
Disease and materialism only helped to destroy all the Hawaiians created;
The US took their harbor and went on vacation on their white sands;
Now is time for change, the choice is in your hands;
Discover the truth, help return stolen lands.