Best Homage Poems
Do you ever ponder on the purpose of life?
wonder why things turn out the way they do?
ever look back and think I did that wrongly?
then go and make exactly the same mistake?
("If you can dream- and not make dreams your master
If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:")
What is the purpose of us even being on this planet?
Will our actions live on once we are gone from here?
Or like a breeze floating past will we just vanish?
Like the early dawn mists burnt off by the sun?
What will you teach your children about this coil?
Will you guide them well? make them fine citizens?
Leaving them to be your legacy of a life well spent?
They say a butterfly's wings beating changes the weather
All I know is strive to do right and be kind to all
To put others first before I choose a path in life
("Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!")
07/25/2013 written for Homage contest passages taken from If by Kipling
There once was a bunch of nice poets
Who always wrote glowing comments
They remedied my rhythms
They helped with my haiku
They are poetry soups, super hero's
inspired by jans rainbow poem
hot cup of coffee
compassionate poet friends
that's where life begins
September 27, 2020
10:02pm PST
**Tribute to all who have commented and have blossomed into true friends**
An abandoned cottage holds
remnants of secrets unexplored.
the past ~ whispers ~ through
a creaky wooden floor.
Vestiges in gossamer, drape
window frames and doors
through tainted panes of glass
the scent of meadow soars.
Woody stems and vines
cling to crumbling walls
shadows peeling back
memories I recall:
the oracle Sycamore
a hostel to a swinging rope,
like a pendulum
timed in perpetual stroke.
Gazing on orchards
of fruited trees
romanced by busy
droning bees
nomadic tribes
of wide - eyed deer
forage and drink
the creek so clear
cascading toward the river
that lies beyond the bend,
a cloistered Heron in Cattails,
a protracted pose transcends;
leaning in a mantra
of spiritual grace,
resonates the thrum
in a humble sacred place.
echoes of song birds
harmonize in the morn
endowed in devotion,
awaken the dawn.
Mother Nature’s
rhythmic beat
a faithful promise;
she will repeat.
Homage to Bon Jovi
I’m going out in a “Blaze of Glory”
So “Bang A Drum” as I tell my story
With “One Light Burning” “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead”
“Chained” to the “Right Side of Wrong” in my head.
“Shot Through The Heart”, “You Really Got Me Now”...
Your “Bad Medicine” destroyed me—somehow.
“Dead Or Alive” don’t “Lay Your Hands On Me”!
“The Boys Are Back In Town”--I’m not lonely!
“Dying Ain’t Much of A Living”…you’re right
Too late found “Good Guys Don’t Always Wear White”!
So, “Billy Get Your Guns” and “Raise Your Hands”…
There’s “Justice In The Barrel” of time’s sands.
“I’ll Be There For You” and your “Cold Hard Heart”.
“You Give Love A Bad Name”--Feel "Lucky"? Start!
©deborah burch
07/12/2012
Titles in quotes are songs by Jon Bon Jovi
I wonder how a titan
rose from the country
of dwarfs.
Recalling him now seems
Like talking about dinosaur
where with no living forms of
that magnitude in vogue
We get the idea of enormity
from fossils:
His relentless insistence on truth,
No gulf between
preaching and practice,
Ceaseless struggle for swaraj,
Humble ideal of trusteeship,
Heroic crusade against injustice
and discrimination,
Calm campaign agaist untouchability,
All this intrvowen with fine fabric
of life like a piece of home-spun
Khadi challenges credulity.
A Knight from the vast Kingdom
of The King of Holy Throne.
Michael slept within a castle
on beds of peat moss, and of loam.
His face was sedimentary,
though laughter mapped its course.
And his gleaming hair cascaded,
much like a Viking of the Norse.
His raiment wasn’t fancy.
No silk nor satin hose.
But his mind was quick as silver
and his heart was pure as gold.
Cloaked without, by a robe of integrity.
Fortified within, by a will of steel.
He wielded the Sword of Justice,
while holding Truth up as his shield.
Saint Michael’s crusade was legendary,
as was the power of his sword.
Forged to slay the inner dragons,
in reverent service to our Lord.
Countless times the blade was tested,
for malice dwells not on defeat.
Never lacked he for contenders,
disciples of rumors and deceit.
Bad Rumor sowed the seed of doubt
within the mind of man.
Watered from the trough of spite,
he conceived his evil plan.
Each rancid seed that sprouted
grew to a bud of tarnished mail.
Thus, shrouded by corrosion,
he sought corruption to prevail.
When Rumor heard of Saint Michael,
his phosphorous eyes lit up with hate.
Armed with his pitchfork and scythe,
he charged through his hellish gates.
Targeted by dark ambition,
saddled by vicious greed,
he raced upon the clouds fate,
engulfed by jealousy.
.
Michael felt the evil presence
and strapped on his Mighty Sword.
Then he rode off to a clearing,
in the sweet realm of The Lord.
Rumor attacked with animosity,
his trident held, as if a spear.
But as the Sword of God unsheathed,
Rumor was lanced by sudden fear.
Michael raised the Sword of Eminence
as if to pierce the sky.
While sunlight sparked along its blade
a beam smote Rumor’s eye.
Blazing light seized Rumor’s mind.
It seared his ravaged soul.
And when the inner battle ended,
Rumor’s heart was charred to coal.
As Saint Michael wiped soot and ashes
from the length of his trusted sword,
his eyes fell upon the hilt
to runes inscribed there, by The Lord:
“May The Force be your faith
May your spirit know The Lamb
May Love guard your heart
May The Light guide your hand.”
His most famous picture
Heaven painted red; "Scream"
Highlight a work of art
Hence a breath of sadness
Headache, stomach empty
Human by suffering
Hands work by: Edvard Munch
February 19. 2017
Pleiades; 7 lines
- Sun :)- A-L Andresen :)
www.howmanysyllables.com
29 words
6 X 7 - 42 syllables
Do not go gentle into that good night
of darkness, blight, and disease;
rage, rage against the hour of midnight—please,
with all of your might
until I am at ease!
Do not go gentle into that good night
of solemn, irrevocable sleep;
rage, rage against the wooing of the permanent Deep!
Come to me and to the light—
or else I shall bitterly weep!
Do not go gentle into that good night
of the ebb of your power;
rage, rage against the withering of your beautiful flower!
Deny eternal rest its right
to come before that fateful hour!
Do not go gentle into that good night
that takes you before the day's done;
rage, rage against the gradual dying of your sun!
Before the end's almost within sight,
fight, fight, so life's still defiantly won!
Homage to Johnny Bench
The greatest catcher ever was
With one hand 'hind his back
Was Johnny Bench. Yep, that's the buzz.
And never did he slack.
He broke ole Yogi's home run hits.
"The Little Colonel"'s claim:
Three hundred eighty-nine and gets
The Baseball Hall of Fame.
His Cincinnati Reds they won
Four pennants in the League
And twice the Series! OK.'s son
Had baseball under siege
He had big hands and he could hold
In one hand seven balls
But more than this, he speaks, I'm told
At charities and malls;
Awards for college athletes;
He writes and sings on pitch.
While teamwork makes a job complete,
A dream made Johnny Bench.
©deborah burch
3.24.2013
Fibs --
Poems --
Not lies --
Poetry --
Based on a series
That slowly unfolds like a seed,
At first you hardly notce that the fib has started,
Then the lines that were once so constricted suddenly open like branches of a tree;
This is its nature and ever-expanding essential meaning and centrifugal motion of the exhilarating Fibonacci!
Homage to Catalonia?
Policeman wielding batons or shedding a welled up tear,
Flag waving populace or staying home in fear,
State defence of self, or defending an historic lie,
Should we pay homage, or should we just weep and cry?
Turning out to vote, or disobedient serf,
Democratic abuser or defending right of birth,
Violent state repression or debating reasons why,
Should we pay homage, or should we just weep and cry?
Hurried lines drawn on maps or quite beyond the pale,
Land up for rental or permanently for sale,
Freedom of expression or state to look and pry,
Should we pay homage, or should we just weep and cry?
Part of bigger state, or standing on your own,
Wired in kit at home, or mobile telephone,
Going with a third, or vote not home and dry,
Should we pay homage, or should we just weep and cry?
©Keith Murphy
Little boy ill and in bed every day
couldn't join friends or go out and play.
Little lead soldiers marched on his bed,
many adventures whirled in his head.
The land of counterpane lay on the bed
his landscape sewn with needle and thread.
That quilt all wrinkled, crumpled, and more
are hills and seas and fierce fields of war.
Pirates, sailors and soldiers galore
Imagining brought them all to his door.
Stories and poems, a boy's mind rehearses
"Treasure Island, Kidnapped," and
"A Child's Garden of Verses."
Give thanks that the man remebered the joy,
of the visions he had when he was a boy.
So many books from those dreams in his head,
he willingly shares when I am sick in my bed.
Across the sea in a far off land,
Hunkered down in a bombed out farmhouse, a soldier makes his final stand.
Seriously wounded, but no fear does he show,
As the enemy approaches, he’s locked and loaded and ready to go.
As darkness nears this may be his only break,
With night vision goggles on he is willing to give back as much as he must take.
If his ammo holds out he may have a chance,
In hopes that his squad can reach him in their forward advance.
As pain from his wounds are taking their toll.
A vision of getting home to his wife and young son is now his primary goal.
He wipes away sweat even though the weather is cold,
With no thought of quit he waits for whatever to unfold.
Rat-a-tat-tat, the machine guns make their report,
As he holds his fire, at the present, the ball is in his court.
They don’t know for sure he’s there as they try to draw his fire,
As he huddles close to the ground in his own blood and mire.
All at once they are upon him as he raises to shoot,
But the enemy falls before he does and it takes a moment for this to compute.
Then he spots his comrades as they make there way to him,
He said you guys are a sight for sore eyes, he said my chances were getting pretty slim.
They get him to a med-o-vac and back to base,
As they work feverishly to save his life, he loses an arm in this ongoing race.
Weak and weary, they ship him back to the states,
To convalesce, and thank God that his arm, the price he paid for our freedom was to be his
only fate.
He thanked the Lord for sparing him one arm to hold his wife and little son,
He thanked the Lord that he got to come home and his battle was done.
He thanked the Lord for a country that embraced him in his darkest hour,
And to the Lord he gave all Glory and Thanks for His Almighty Power.
Drop a rock into a still pond,
and the ripples echo.
A large enough rock,
and a pond sized tsunami,
waves echoing beyond the edges.
Every step I take creates ripples.
Sometimes, a tsunami.
After all, I'm not screaming in outer space.
And the trillions of steps before mine
that gave me the ground I walk on,
need to be acknowledged by the care I take with every step.