Best At The Eleventh Hour Poems | Poetry
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one thousand at the eleventh hour
by CRESSWELL, PATRICIA
AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR
by Curtis, Paul
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The Best At The Eleventh Hour Poems
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At The Eleventh Hour Poem
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THE ELEVENTH HOUR - LEST WE FORGET
At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day
Of the eleventh month
We stand for two minutes of silence
To honour our fallen, our daughters and sons.
They went off to war, to places unknown
They knew not what they'd face
They knew not if they'd return
But they went bravely, to keep our home safe.
Please bow your head for two minutes
For those men and women so brave
It's only two minutes for them on this day
But it's their whole lives for us that they gave.
© ELR 2013
Copyright © Miss Wattle | Year Posted 2013
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At The Eleventh Hour Poem
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at first glance my heart leapt within me
i felt a sensation i never once fell victim
you stole my heart and i had to get it back
i unleashed upon you the gift of my mouthpiece
even Shakespeare would have given me my due
with the eyes of a lamb you invited me
to share the beauty spot of you gorgeous heart
you came knocking at my door step
at the eleventh hour my ark angel
made my life a blossom of Lillis
once in a lifetime i experienced heaven on earth
exchanging rings inspirited our love
beautiful like diamonds Rihanna did say
our love proved spherical for it had no end
till that day you left without a word
under the wreck of a monstrous machine
you left me for the land of the leals
for even the gods adored you more than i
and the paradise curtens fell
a paradise too short indeed
Copyright © Kizito Mbai | Year Posted 2013
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At The Eleventh Hour Poem
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Sharp piercing pains
rendered me breathless
I double over,
crouching low like a panther.
Fire, searing fiery fire
leaped at my sides,
licking my backside.
I groan and writhe,
growl and curse!
only the ticking clock
dares to surpass my loud moans.
Sweat trickles down my backside,
flowing down, forming rivulets as
they meet and scamper downwards.
Another tormenting wrench!
This time a wounded lion’s roar echoes.
And so it went on—
Doctors and nurses
mumbled words meaningless
in the face of my helplessness!
I was gripped in the throes of labour pains;
my body betraying me
as it struggled to give life to another.
Seconds, minutes, hours ticked away.
and finally at the eleventh hour,
my energy spent,
my body bushed,
she burst through--
piercing the birthroom with a keening protest!
I lay down my head,
too exhausted to even offer her
a proper welcome
but a weary smile.
Copyright © Regina Asinde | Year Posted 2012
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At The Eleventh Hour Poem
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Show them Heaven and Hell…………By Peter Onyancha
If I met the devil
For just one moment
I would thank him
For staying in hell
All his erstwhile
Then I will ask him, in his kink
To leave his dwelling for once
And visit my history stutter
Show him the Hell
And point to Heaven
At the eleventh hour.
If I met the good Lord
For just one moment
I would thank Him
For watching hell
All his hallowed while
Then I will ask him, in his name
To leave the trinity for once
And visit my history student
Show him where you dwell
And tell him there’s hell, too
Copyright © peter Onyancha | Year Posted 2010
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At The Eleventh Hour Poem
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Hmm! what a pleasing pain
Beyond physiological agreement to earn
He decided to maintain like there was no gain
Although threatened by the fierce to confront, but did not restrain
The cross was so heavy, yet he did not crumble
Even though he tumbled, he still refused to fumble
They doubled the trouble, yet he remained humble
All was to make him rumble into a grumble
Even at the eleventh hour, he was unlimited to oppose
Knowing that God could compose other alternatives to transpose
Yet he remained proposed for his mission not to be disposed
Because he had a purpose which was yet to be exposed
Now he had all these done because he didn't want to be lazy
Even when he knew it was not easy
He just had to keep the mission busy
Because that was the only way he could make us form effizy
Copyright © Great Jaja | Year Posted 2011
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At The Eleventh Hour Poem
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Examination is a battlefield to be fought.
Examination is not a mystery to be solved.
The SSC and HSC are the most
important examinations!
On which our life's turning point matters
Thus: In examination question paper - the battle
student the warrior,
Knowledge and pen - the weapons,
Symbol of perfection- practice, patience
and perseverance.
Highlights of success- dedication, devotion,
determination, hardwork and confidence,
Barriers to success- neglience, tension
overconfidence, fear, disliking and distraction
In examination question paper is a simple ordinary paper
Which determines the luck of hundred scholars.
At last I understood that if we study with sincerity,
the question paper will fetch us good marks and prosperity
If we study at the eleventh hour,
the question paper won't be a benefactor.
but a destroyer in our life's carrier.
Copyright © Gargi Saha | Year Posted 2008
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At The Eleventh Hour Poem
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You made me feel trapped with every kiss you planted on my lips,
It felt like heaven, the sun held nothing to your burning passion,
Electricity graced my tingling hands with every time we touched,
Somehow I fell into deep and stumbled over the edge,
And like a bad omen being awaken from a deep coma,
The clouds gathered and the rain started, its rhythmic patter damping my will to hold on,
I tried calling out to you but only echoes of silence returned my waning cries
You were nowhere to be found, alone I wondered through the downpour,
The thunder echoes across the sky, each lightening strike, casting darting shadows across these deserted walls
A silhouette dashes across the empty path and my mind tricks me into thinking its you
I entertain this notion and pursue it but as soon as I grasp it, the fictitious assailant disappears into thin air
I fall to the ground defeated, I'm left spent and tired.
Breathless, I'm left gasping for air but no amount of air is strong, enough to clear my senses, calm my nerves
Soon the rain stops and the wind picks up,
My bodies fire quivers with each strong push and pull from the wind,
My spirit is insidiously dissipating, these chills aren't doing anything to subside the cold,
My heart gives in to the bludgeoning grips of cold.....
The colors all start to fade, the sounds all simmers down,
And I finally ........
But then at the eleventh hour I find you by my side,
You grab my hand,
Don't let go, I hear you say,
But its to late, the little breathe i have left within me,
Escape my lips, formulating three words, a final cry from my cracking heart
I expire and succumb to the blinding light,
With your cries of despair scratching the roaring wind wide open.
Geniuskin
Copyright © Paul Machintosh | Year Posted 2015
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At The Eleventh Hour Poem
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At the eleventh hour
Silence falls
Heads bow in reverence
Reflecting remembrance
Ordinary people
Stop to show respect
For those who fell
At the eleventh hour
A small group
Of Muslim youth
Chant descent
And wave banners high
“British soldier’s burn in hell”
And this small disrespectful group
Of Muslim youth
Burn poppies in the street
Desecrating that symbol
Of solemnity
And remembrance
Burning the poppies
In symbolic disrespect
Spitting on the dead,
Urinating on their graves
Or defecating on the cenotaph
Would be a less abhorrent act
By that small ignorant group
Of Muslim youth
The poppy does not discriminate
It doesn’t just represent
The white race
The Christian faith
European culture
It represents so much more
Every race
Every faith
From every continent
At the eleventh hour
That small group
Of Muslim youth
Who burnt the poppies
Disgraced themselves
And disgraced the memory
Of every Muslim soldier
Who fell on battlefields
Across the world
Copyright © Paul Curtis | Year Posted 2010
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At The Eleventh Hour Poem
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one thousand at the eleventh hour
They come from afar
through seasons bitten by frost
across a mountain's pass deep in snow
shout they all, " holy holy save us god"
"wash our sins away, free us from the damned”.
they dip into our well for healing
catch each trembling drop upon
crying supplicant lip, "holy, holy save me,”
"the end is nigh,”
"we hear the hooves cracking"
see the signs even in the daytime skies.
prostrate, rich and beggar charm the grotto
with promises of money or servitude.
monks and priests alike solemnly dash
a throng of fear with blessed water
scooped from a barrel behind the basilica.
Copyright © PATRICIA CRESSWELL | Year Posted 2017