Famous Long Spoken Word Poems

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

See also: Long Member Poems

 In the little Crimson Manual it's written plain and clear
That who would wear the scarlet coat shall say good-bye to fear;
Shall be a guardian of the right, a sleuth-hound of the trail--
In the little Crimson Manual there's no such word as "fail"--
Shall follow on though heavens fall, or hell's top-turrets freeze,
Half round the world, if need there be, on bleeding hands and knees.
It's duty, duty, first and last, the Crimson Manual saith;
The Scarlet Rider makes reply: "It's duty--to the death."
And so they sweep the solitudes, free men from all the earth;
And so they sentinel the woods, the wilds that know their worth;
And so they scour the startled plains and mock at hurt and pain,
And read their Crimson Manual, and find their duty plain.
Knights of the lists of unrenown, born of the frontier's need,
Disdainful of the spoken word, exultant in the deed;
Unconscious heroes of the waste, proud players of the game,
Props of the power behind the throne, upholders of the name:
For thus the Great White Chief hath said, "In all my lands be peace",
And to maintain his word he gave his West the Scarlet Police.

Livid-lipped was the valley, still as the grave of God;
 Misty shadows of mountain thinned into...
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 Gawaine, aware again of Lancelot 
In the King’s garden, coughed and followed him; 
Whereat he turned and stood with folded arms 
And weary-waiting eyes, cold and half-closed— 
Hard eyes, where doubts at war with memories
Fanned a sad wrath. “Why frown upon a friend? 
Few live that have too many,” Gawaine said, 
And wished unsaid, so thinly came the light 
Between the narrowing lids at which he gazed. 
“And who of us are they that name their friends?” 
Lancelot said. “They live that have not any. 
Why do they live, Gawaine? Ask why, and answer.” 

Two men of an elected eminence, 
They stood for a time silent. Then Gawaine, 
Acknowledging the ghost of what was gone,
Put out his hand: “Rather, I say, why ask? 
If I be not the friend of Lancelot, 
May I be nailed alive along the ground 
And emmets eat me dead. If I be not 
The friend of Lancelot, may I be fried
With other liars in the pans of hell. 
What item otherwise of immolation 
Your Darkness may invent, be it mine to endure 
And yours to gloat on. For the time between, 
Consider this thing you see that is my hand.
If once, it has been...
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