Best Orations Poems
What Holds More Resplendent Gifts Of The Great And Vast Beyond
Seas of poetry orations, I once took my swims
being strong in spirit, stouter in heart and lithe of limbs
What dread had I of illness or passage of Father Time
when great beauty of verse sang so deep, dancing in its rhyme
Waves of its amber grains, its sandy beach, its great pleasures
stirred heart, pleading soul in immeasurable measures!
If tired, I cast myself upon lands flowing true and fair
seeing magnificence in Earth, Life, Nature- everywhere
Before dawn, before slumber flees this soul's poetry dreams
of paradise shores, poetic thoughts, soft cast golden beams
Winds of change and sublime words to describe and thus to match
castles of hope, beauty's grace and golden eggs- set to hatch!
Fearing not of, high flying fancies and heavenly flights
of lost romantic desires, cast adrift on stormy nights
Or that of abandoned ships left behind in gleaming seas
for poetry gifts its love and blessings of granted pleas
Bountiful harvests of word-seeds so pleasurably sown
are but summer days sending cool winds so gratefully blown!
What holds more resplendent gifts of the great and vast beyond
than poetry, its powers, which poets are so very fond
How its paintings, colors memories one sweetly recalls
of life, living and flames of hot-romance youth often falls
Beyond poetic seas of white-cropped waves and foaming foam
may this old poet's soul, in death, forever gaily roam!
Robert J. Lindley, 12-03-2018
Rhyme, (Inspired verse) (Poetry is Life and Treasure too)
Note- I dedicate this poem to my very good friend Susan Ashley and her wondrously inspiring new poem that inspired me to write this today.
Her new poem titled, The Red Leaf- set me to thinking of its beautiful poetry
and life. And how much poetry means to so many dedicated and in love with poetry poets!
I sat down and this flowed right on out, early this morn.
Note: Use in my poem of "white-cropped" = "white" for good, "cropped" for "appearing unexpectedly".
Thus translated- beyond poetic seas of = unexpectedly good waves and foaming foam.
Definition of “crop up” - English Dictionary
American
English
“crop up” in American English
See all translations
crop up
-pp-
— phrasal verb with crop US ? /kr?p/ verb [ T ] -pp-
?to happen or appear unexpectedly:
Our two party system isn’t working
Plastic figures, disaster lurking
Conservative or liberal isn’t the call
It’s the ultra rich against us all
For the people is what it’s not
All candidates have already been bought
Platforms built on promises and lies
Hear the people, ignore their cries
Wave that flag as if you’re proud
Then bow and worship the corporate crowd
You no longer serve, you’re out of place
You are an elitist group, a public disgrace
You’ve subsidized the rich with your insanity
Then crippled the growth of humanity
You’ve killed our children in endless war
The media smiles and keeps the score
We sing of amber waves of grain
You’d sell it all for personal gain
You left our budget in disarray
You’ll tax our grandchildren for it someday
No water boarding terrorists you warn
Then murder a child who is still unborn
You have no ethics, you have no shame
You have no morals, you accept no blame
Washington is a place I’m told
Where politicians are bought and sold
Where dreams and ideals are destroyed
A city where honesty is null and void
A place where hope has been dethroned
You won’t get nominated unless you’re owned
A place where once” In God we trust”
Now we look in sheer disgust
Country burning from your sparks
You replaced Uncle Sam with Karl Marx
Our nominees we cannot select
The media decides who we elect.
Politicians with great orations
Puppets to the corporations.
Somehow in the late of nighttime,
a wooden door's front lantern brings
me to a table where strangers
from a distant tavern grow more animated
with a litany of stories
and ramblings inscribed on their life’s hinges.
Varied tones reminisce detailed inlays
of personal anthologies framing their eyes
with joy or regret, etched by languid memories
as I listen to orations of wise men and laborers
where intimacies are safe inside a door...
each one relating a brew of sentiments
over mugs of ale and wine.
Just then, I hear my own man’s language
reflected through the crowd’s noises,
piercing my flesh with a tinge of awareness...
while opening the doorknob, I begin to search
for him under a vault of moonbeam,
reminded now of the times I forget
to understand his longing to connect
with me ,to embrace his thoughts deeply
in silence...without question or restraint.
---------
6/21/2015
rob carmack's Screwed V
Theme: door
A bridge from colloquial to courtly
fare
A span where idealism and fantasy
pair
A railway to the existential realm;
celestial lair
A conduit through which rational
discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate,
and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty;
sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter
the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on
civility and decorum
A literary organ; a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to
deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational
viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct;
extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring
wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure
gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which
concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by
an idiomatic core
"INSPIRATION"
Instinctively innately I intuit inspirationally
Notable nuanced nudges needing
Some special sensuously sourced
Poetically penned prose poetry pursuits!
Inner intimate impulses intensely incite
Requiring rapt real recognition rightly
Allowing all artistic aspects ample allowance
Time to transmit these tremors that try to
Ignite immense imaginations inspiring
Outbursts of oratorical orations obviously
Needing notice naturally now!
WTA-IV 4/2/2016
I have the shape of the institution.
Each email address is a human.
They are known by their words and actions.
The whole wide world is just a fraction
of all I do not know. Expansion
and contraction, breathe in, out, meditation
on existence, non-existence, creation
and duration. I have no explanation
for fusion, fission, taxonomic relations
or artificial classification.
More I do not know: locomotion
by combustion, electron separation
and transportation via superconduction
which supports the idea of the unified nation.
What girls are like behind their eyes. Masturbation
a useful restraint on overpopulation.
The story of a life, my life, any life, cohesion
must be rationed, conjured, a fiction
about a vexed, tenacious town, its rail station
truck stop, high school, night spots, recreations
the temporary citizens enact visions
dream-like orations, ballets, conflagrations
to in the end receive in annals honorable mention
from family, friends, neighbors, colleagues, institutions.
What hides beneath the busting red-tide waves, what wains?
Have you seen the Fat-white, would-be Samurai that lives 'round these parts?
To him you see, the
warrior code is the word of the fiery gods, and he
follows it to the letter:
Two minutes and 11 seconds on high, heat only
when thawed for best results.
A divine wind guides his every move, blossoms and bombs are his
orations, his
deeds are explosions over many oceans, an amalgam of
light and splendor, interracial
hues and shades of color illuminated by the bare bulb above his head.
Pin pricks dot his thumbs, shinto values are not the order of the day. Outside of
his house, we see his vista; a rising sun
shining through blackened thorns and smog.
The burrito is irradiated, ready
for consumption, a victim of the .00005 kiloton explosion within the off-brand microwave.
Our feudal soldier draws his fork from it's sheath, a
tsuba well worn and scarred.
Form:
I know this man of God that roars from the bottom of the city, below the red blood line.
Knowing that his words never fail, every Sunday I make my way down to the bottom of the city to hear this man of God.
I rest my weight on the hard wooden bench with worn out cushion just to let this man of God spew out the words of God like rain upon my soul.
Many Sundays his pounding and prolific oratory would shake my unconscious, this man of God.
His words of God are righteous and they filled the sanctuary like a balloon, and this man of God is always in harmony.
This man of God energy is that of the sun because the glory of God's love is upon him.
This man of God method of delivering the holy word is conventional, yet he catapults his sermons in the most phenomenal fashion.
This man of God spontaneously in the spirit of the moment kindles the heart of the captive congregation with vociferous and powerful narrations. With resourceful minds, they are aboard a spiritual ship riding the waves of his glorious orations.
I know this man of God, that roars from the bottom of the city, below the red blood line.
Although it is said that he is an academic man with degrees from prestigious institutions, I know this man of God as a most humble and gifted man.
As he roars, and sing, and teach, and spring, I am glad that God led me to this servant of God, that roars from the bottom of the city below the red blood line.
Created by Mary E.W. Stephenson and submitted to Daily Press in the community section online.
Obsession
Obsession with "O's"
Oh, obsession’s obfuscating oligarchy
Oceans of oblivion
Outrage in ostentatious obsession
Overrun in hurricanes named obdurate and obstinate
Overtures of oxidized compulsive orchestration in
Obbligatos overflowing obituaries -
Overbearing octaves of the obsequious –
Orations of overt objections
Objectivity overpopulated by opportunistic obtuse –
Obsession outweighing optimist’s objectives –
Openness offspring overrun by
Ominous hunters of sweet oblations ordained
Oscillating between logic and obsession unchallenged
Orthodoxy obscures opportunity
Officially ostracizes open-mindedness –
Original the outsider - occupied the outlier -
Observes only obstructive operations
Obedience to the one-track offertory
Of overstocked outdated ordinances,
Offshoots of outmoded operatic ornaments
Odious opium overdose of the obscene
Onyx odors overpowering odes
Offered on the altar of originality -
Obliterating oligarchy of obsession
9-23-21
Sponsor: Constance La France
Contest: “O” Contest
I come from Dawn to Night's long mile
Whose boyhood heard the songs of brooks
And mourned the sparrow's falling,
And Hope, those days did lift my wings
As lone I strode the gardened fields
Of honied labyrinth...
Apart, apart! In Ever-Dream,
My bliss found full at giants feet-
Enthralled, bewitched at Sky's orations
Or what forests deep did tell...
And now the Day's long-bearded trek
But to endless shade proceeds...
His warm breath like milk,
Dark eyes that glow
Sharp yet fulfilling presence
Provides sense of comfort-
I adore his appealing character
Speech proves his knowledge
Of proper influence
Both in the streets
And in the office-
Enticing are his orations
His delectabe alluring scent,
His contradicting soft masculine touch
Both have my mind racing!
Dazing rudely into oblivion-
I lust for his possession
The pressure of his body
Against my own
Sends a tender erotic sensation throughout my body
Air escaping through my chest-
I never want to leave him
His steady potent heartbeat silences me
At a loss of intellection
I close my eyes and listen
Captivated by his perfection-
Hes everything I want
As lilac lace conjures softness
as forest's green sparks with life
walk in splendor with one heart
be humble in your fondness - for
sluggishness arises - when love for granted haps
when lilac lace is fading - and the tree spark's dim
life's serenade will whisper - tis not a time to linger
Allow your hearts refreshment - lock your eyes again
seek the continuity - of devotion's tenderness
strike the match demurely - slow burning - more endures
trusting not to numbness - forgiveness enters in
the heavens count for all concerned - it's showers bringing forth
stability - the leveling - of love's maturity
life's passions shared - like petals picked
God's orations loud - kindness - sets the bouquet
His essence wafting in
Would the world end today
If leaders went home straight away
And arguments amongst the nations
Were left to making orations
Would the nuclear missiles pointed from afar
Be put away and now not left to star
We would be left to go on holiday
And let armies just fade away.
© Paul Warren Poetry
I often think my world is doomed
evil seems to thrive so easily
Can my bloodied heart be saved?
Will the church help, will anybody?
News discourages my outlook
orations from politicians do not inspire
nor do prayers still my soul
Have we been abandoned by our Lord and Savior?
Are we truly alone in the universe?
pictures from Webb’s space telescope show planets lifeless
if we are alone then it’s up to us to clean up our messes
in the place we live but where do we begin the purge
Who do we cast out first to make our country better?
There are many culprits that must be cast out
especially America’s southern white bigoted consciences
if Democracy is to survive and America’s progeny,
seven generations hence, is to have a chance
Not easy but people know when the blade swings too far right
the ax must fall
but alas! It is just a beginning for the world to have real peace
as white man and his kin must change their hatred of skin color
Man must change his original self-protective mechanisms
triggered by skin color, that perceived threat is bogus
he must realize that he is lucky by his Caucasian birth
but by no means is he more special than anyone else
next must be to reconsider corporations, big business
and the CEO’S who control exorbitant profits
the super wealthy bask in excesses of their abundance
excess profits should be distributed among the lower classes
America must excise these scoundrels of greed and hate
These contagions that can bring nations down
As long as inequality exists the dark will remain
Is there light in those who exude darkness?
Can the light penetrate the darkness?
Light shines in truth
only we can turn the light on
to make the darkness recede and
evaporate under the weight of truth.
I've watched a lover's dying breath
Fly homeward to the sky...
Was tutored by orations
Of the dusky forest's sigh.
Brave, touched the face of madness,
There tried to soothe its pain-
Watched children weep at gravestones
In dark, pain-shadowed rain...
A thousand lovers I have known,
Tho Love's been but a ghost-
Laid waste unto a thousand hearts,
At bedlam's feast, the host!
What then, entices to trod down
Some nobler, hallowed path-
When Love's long wearied labors
Reward me with such wrath?
Form: