Best Stoics Poems
Sonnet I
In realms of emerald hush where sunlight strains.
Through veils of green. A silent throng takes root.
A clovered congregation on the plains
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
No melodies from throats unseen they sing.
No pleas for mortal ken their silence breaks.
Yet in their rooted quietude they bring
A symphony for Nature's gentle stakes.
From dust they rise, by unseen hands embraced
To greet the dawn's first kiss, a deep-green dream.
Unfurling fronds that grasp the sun's warm face...
A silent pact with life's sidereal stream.
No eyes behold the light their essence drinks
No lips confess the air for which it thinks.
Sonnet II
Through fragrant whispers secretly softly pass
On unseen currents borne a cryptic lore
A web of messages that dance like grass.
A wisdom! newly sworn on Nature's floor -
No clash of arms? no battles fought in vain.
Yet messages they send on silent wings...
A language dovetailed deep, a copious chain,
A bond that knows no end, the green world sings.
With patient strength... they pierce the earth's cold hold.
A testament to will unyielding. Strong!
Unmoved by tempests' raging fury bold,
Their roots like anchors grip where they belong.
A silent war against the storm's harsh might.
A battle fought unseen, in verdant light.
Corona
A quiet war in bright green
A song for animals and plants
Listen to people in every green leaf.
No songs from hidden throats they sing.
Through fragrant, sotto voce... secrets softly pass
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
Couplet
A lesson composed in green, a truth to glean.
Where verdant nature creates and wisdom sings.
OH MY GOD!!!
Assemble all the gods we’ve built,
stand them in a line, then walk along
the corridor and ponder which is yours,
which is mine? Dragons, stoics, satyrs,
saints, all stony faced with colored paints.
Some in regal pompous robes others missing
all their clothes. Fierce and sullen, sour faced
one look to put you in your place, kind and
gentle, bended knee promising to set you free.
Ogre sneers on giant cats, fat and sassy spoiled brats.
These are the gods we have created.
Thank God they never met - and mated.
John G. Lawless
I can white write more
But I fight to write less
What can I sandy say
That hasn’t been said
By other poets more great
Or silver stoics seeking soul
Bored blue with my poems today
Despite neon nite my mind unfolds
But then I get soupmail from you
Poetic sky once grey becomes blue
Is it your praise or faith in word
That cinnamon celebrates being heard
So thank you little black bird
A light mist of ethereous rain falls
silent on his thin, sharp-angled
face. He lengthens his stride and
leans toward the wind. He walks
through plundered poverty; crumbled
by the weight of exodus. Abandoned
to the blood-rough nails scratching
on the concrete diasporas of multiethnic
history.
Past the playground echoes of PS #59,
as they drift along the faded asphalt
haze of time. Echoes still ring true with
elemental bones of hope: the children
break out and through gunmetal gray,
graffiti covered doors, outside to the
saturated heat of inner-city rage.
Past gothic orthodox cathedral
mausoleums which sit like ancient
stoics and stare through burnt-amber,
azure, crystalline-blue stained glass
eyes; focused out with a kernel of
eternal mustard seed hope: souls will
come again and warm the sacred pews.
Past the Puerto Rican market
where the pig's head led the
carnivore parade of mastication
promise every day. A meat-market
window of letted-blood and death
reminiscent of Amsterdam whores
with their wares on display for the
dead-eyed stares of the men outside.
He comes to the dust and
grime of an empty lot covered
by old and broken concrete slabs.
He stops and lets his mind drift
back to watch a woman who wears
a ratted fox-tail wrap around her
neck. She holds a long, un-filtered
cigarette, loose, between her two
bright, fuchsia painted lips. She
wears a black velvet hat with veil
to her nose and a straight black
dress that flows below her knees,
mid-calf, above her shiny black,
high-heel, patent leather shoes.
He can almost see through the blur
of a chiaroscuro choreography his
mother, visiting with the Kazakhstan
neighbors, in this dreamlike memory.
The multi-plexed, subsidized project,
where he was born, once stood just
beyond his vision of a mother's visit in
high-heel, indigo, tangerine, sibilant
sounds; lit with electric light smiles
of denial.
She would hold her cigarette between
fuchsia lips and wear that ratted fox-tail
wrap until the cancer cough began to spew
Chesterfield blood on the molted fox-tail
head of her beloved fur.
Then she went to bed. Went to sleep. And died.
Pigeons cooed quietly on that New York City night.
The sole praise for being blessed is priceless.
Inhale the soft glow of the soul welly.
It's false to force others to your embrace.
He just pulls the faint air from blessed body.
Desire to get rid of gloom and sadness.
What a gloss golden chance to be alive.
Leading, sustaining, and soulful living.
There have been few reshaping swarmed to thrive.
Regret has excelled in untethering.
Having reached a whit of skill to contrive.
What glory has been given utterly?
Our goal is to live as long as feasible.
I loathe the stoics for their tenacity.
Ignore your claim round ranking audible.
What we've created is almost perfectly.
What an excellent feeling that all is good.
As I rode, I grasped how to be together.
The work is still in the layering hood.
It was an outcome of prior sway blunder.
This is a huge gift from the diced awards lured.
Written: November 22, 2021
Stoic Silence Serves
The silent stoic stands
mumbling ice crusted mantra
“my light must never fail”.
Riddled by the sting of stony hail
blanched white by salty spray
peering into the maelstrom’s eye
un-blinking in the excoriating gale
knowing its duty is to serve
those in need – at their worst.
A silent storm’s “eye” mocks
the stoics steadfast stance
unable to comprehend such light
retreats again to fleeting fury
howls at the penetrating beam
exposing the peace within its core.
©7/18/2017
submitted to – Lighthouse – Poetry Contest
We breathe
into our worlds
a hint of angst
afloat upon
a scented kiss
of thanks.
We see the world
through jaundiced,
seeking eyes
betrayed by
canyon wrinkles
cloudy skies.
We hear
soft gentle moan
of whispering Elm
share secrets
only rooted stoics tell.
We touch
moments eternal
as we scroll
past paths
of everlasting
that we stole.
We taste
sweet succulence
of joy’s desire,
harsh bitterness
of livings
endless fire.
We are
the edge of life’s
unending shoal
our eyes the windows
of a stained
glass soul.
©4/17/2018
submitted to – NEW POEMS ONLY – 2 Poetry Contest
sponsor – Emile Pinet
Dear Son,
As you read this letter
I believe you are fully fledged
And perhaps you have already selected
A straight soulmate among your flying flock
I know my absence's had your heart brimming with rage
May your rage wither as you turn over the pages
That have witnessed your life stages
And tirelessly waited for you for ages
Here is my invaluable advice:
To be a champion
You must become a chameleon
To adapt to this inconsistent world
To be a loser
You must turn a blind eye
To your own weaknesses that make you so
To achieve some goals
You must turn into a rifle
To reach the ever-shifting distant targets
To win a marathon
You have to take baby steps
Then overwhelm your limitations
To be successful
You must learn from FAILURE
What success will never teach you
To be an influential leader
You must be a loyal follower
And become the change you wish to see
To be a good father
A son has to find in his father
The true meaning of love and affection
To be genius
Is to perpetually practice with strong will
To thoroughly master a skill
To be educated
You need no university credentials
But knowledge to be put to use
To be rich,
The Richest Man in Babylon said,
"Learn to live upon less than your earnings"
To be wealthy,
The Stoics say,
"You must learn to limit your desires!"
To take control of your time
Brush off the 24-hour illusion
Make use of the guaranteed 'NOW'
To better understand life
Never seek its sacred meaning farther
Than in the preordained death
To master this letter
I beg you, my dear son,
Mutate into a parrot and thank me later
Your loving Dad,
Clement Ahmed Chipande
The simple recipe for a healthier life
a Stoic view unaffected by impulses or emotions
The impressions and interpretation of the world
Bury any negative thoughts
accept your responsibility for your own emotions
What you can't control,
doesn't must be worrisome
What you do today, can do tomorrow brighter
Anyone can acquire
the keys of wisdom of the Stoics
through making oneself a positive person
Convictions, attitudes and hopeless habits
a fruitful and educational process
Finding the correct focus, life is full of surprises
You yourself are the forge of your own success
The inside and the outside changes
you gives of yourself, embrace and comfort
A wisdom of life for our time where uncertainty abounds
Explore the possibilities that others may not have seen
wild waves we' will face
in this rough sea that is life...
thus brave, stoics we'll win
Emperor of Rome, in a time of peace,
Marcus Aurelius filled with pride.
Steadfast in his stoic belief,
in virtue alone does he abide.
The school of righteous thinking,
Zeno of Citium, in three hundred B.C.
Emotionless throughout the painted stoa,
Learned philosophers for all to see.
Men of value and high status,
suppression of feelings so unknown.
From poorest slave to rich monarch,
intelligence carved from common stone.
The greatest thinkers of their time,
Cicero met his death with dignity.
Over looking a quiet golden sunset,
enjoying his last vision of divinity.
She said somebody staged sordid shows.
Sometimes, simple souls sold solo songs.
Seems sad sounds saturated seven solid scenes.
Silly sad singers sat, singing silently since Saturday.
Sunday snow suddenly stalled; stood stunningly still.
Stoics stopped strangers shipping stolen steaks.
Sandwiches, soups, spaghetti; slowly surfaced.
Smooth-faced soft-hearted soldiers showed.
Solid, strong, speedy, spirited, slow speech.
062822PSCtest, Begin with A Letter, Angela Tune
The Letter 'S'
"Arma virumque cano"
No more the Viking sagas
Singed by the dragon’s breath
No more the valiant charges
Into the Valley of Death.
No more the knights of chivalry
Bewitched by a maiden’s pallor.
No more the sword-drawn cavalry
Galloping with dash and valour.
Who now hears Roland’s mighty blast
As loyally he stayed
To fight on to the very last
Though he had been betrayed
Gone, the Homeric heroics
Of those who made their final stands.
Gone are the stalwart stoics
Who charted the icy lands.
Gone, are these men romanticised,
All hailed with trumpeting noises.
For poetry’s now been feminised
And speaks with softer voices
Of emotions deep, internalised,
Of relationships and choices.
Of mother’s love of a child prized,
In whom the heart rejoices.
And who am I to say it’s not
A better voice, addressing
The struggles of our daily plot
Of our hidden hearts’ undressing,
A kinder voice that speaks in verse
To the need for understanding
Our place in a godless universe,
Infinite yet expanding.
But I do so miss the surety
Of those heroes crowned with laurels
Whose valiant deeds and purity
Filled our minds with higher morals.
Of dignity and integrity
Of knowing right from wrong
That gave our lives some clarity
As we listened to their song.
Small Tree Planted
Its Roots Extend
Small World Enchanted
Its Branches Ascend
Mountains In Glory Rise
Shining Forth Fatherly Strength
Reaching Into The Skies
A God At Length.
From A Rain To A Drought
Nature Shows Her Power Divine
As A Flower About To Sprout
To Her Glory, Stoics Resign
April 8 2020
Serenity In Scenes Of Mother Nature Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Empty Depth of Barren Canyon
to know the empty depth of barren canyon,
the reverberated sound of distant fear,
feel the surging scar of river’s scalpel,
bleed the muted red of sun bleached clay.
to feel the eyes of passersby upon you
marveling at the beauty of your loss
awed by your resistance to times passion
humbled by your failing stoics guise.
to hear the lonesome shriek of eagle
fall silent on cliff dwellings gone to dust
and share the emptiness of longing
for gentle songs to interrupt the hush.
to touch the heats imagination
an oasis in the midst of baking sand
hold for but a blinking moment
the vision of a canyon not so grand.
John G. Lawless
1/30/2014