Long Admonished Poems
Long Admonished Poems. Below are the most popular long Admonished by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Admonished poems by poem length and keyword.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
Apologies for the opprobrious actions that have been brought
For Thee, who descended from the exalted throne of Camelot
Patiently guiding and reminiscing of what has been forgot
My constituent tactics will forevermore be at naught
Ruminating and beholding rain for a garden's flowerpot
For introducing a valueless and unfruitful counter-plot
A creature built from the dust of stars
By light: strength, life, an avatar
Climbing the ladder of time
Dancing to wintertime
Embrace beautify
Firefly goodbye
Gently fly
Here is
I
Being barren soil, like that of a sunspot
Spoken before the veil and the unseen
I sought a new thought
The morning rays stirred disarray in me
A weighty, stern admonished plea
For leaning toward the harder way
Eons An Augenblick, to You I pray
Let this seed in Your orchard stay
A creature built from the dust of stars
By light: strength, life, an avatar
Climbing the ladder of time
Dancing to wintertime
Embrace beautify
Firefly goodbye
Gently fly
Here is
I
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
A creature built from the dust of stars
By light: strength, life, an avatar
Climbing the ladder of time
Dancing to wintertime
Embrace beautify
Firefly goodbye
Gently fly
Here is
I
Weird, strange, illusion, dream, nonsense; words plenty since ever
To overcome fear, avoid confusion, maintain commonsense or whatever!
But this story of mine is an experience I record as game of nature;
Revisiting it, wondering on the hows and whys over the years as I grew mature.
The answer only he held; the one who wished to live life careless and carefree!
Then one day he sunk in the marsh and died, setting her widowed mother free
As if of all frustrations and reproaches from kin, peers and so many in the locality!
A good soul he had met once who admonished him, patiently
And left him in some good hands who could guide him start anew.
He tried to change but at his own time, as of what was in future he had no clue.
What thoughts in mind and what visions froze in eyes closing to death? One phone call to the good soul after a year; as if from other realm, a message.
His name he left, saying to tell that good soul he had called; was it a presage?
That good soul ready ever to help called a friend who related to him in melancholy;
That very morning, he had been to the boy’s one year after death ceremony!
The good soul sat in shock; he didn't even know about his death a year back.
In trance he walked to his fiancée's house; over night he talked to her about him, in flashback!
(I wrote a short story on this. Based on true experience in 1993, some months before my wedding. It was during the “Pitra Paksh” (Fete des morts in Hindi) – here we are actually in this period which ends on 1st oct 2016. The boy met my fiancé, a youth worker, who had some words with him and his family. He never met him again. Among Hindus the final after death ceremony is performed after one year of death and it is believed that the soul, if not departed earlier, has to after the last and final ceremony)
Midsummer vehemence stows heat for later
Solar film ominously watch hot arc
Tilt tracks trajectory, power cater
Stashes post sizzle to supply light dark
Socket slit subservient incubates
Arrow of assurance inserts cable
Voltage their pairing impressive creates
Self derived to electric capable
Autonomy admonished with a switch
Loins bearing in luxury breed evil
Informed about squalid impoverished
Ignore affluent vantage for reprieval
Overloaded homes groan under panels
Tainted rich roads tune rigid channels
16th January
Wealth rotten wattage
Written: October 06, 2023
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have seen the ample fog, so dense and vast.
It swallowed the world—a look that couldn't last.
I cried and sighed, but there was no sound at all.
In tears, they flowed down, akin to a waterfall.
I've kept my eyes on the skies for a long time.
Praying for unity, a homeland sublime.
But the strong wind blows, carrying my plea.
Akin to the migrants, I feel lost in this banshee.
A cold thing, this land I roam,
The rain falls down, strong and unknown.
I feel the tea at my door, a comforting brew.
Yet everything seems strange; nothing feels true.
A strong fire of succinate burns.
I am apart from him; my heart yearns.
Others hold them close and look astonished.
As I stood in silence, my soul admonished.
I can hear the whispers of love and despair.
They have souls, while I'm left in the air.
I stay standing, lost and confused.
Not knowing where I am, I feel bemused.
Laughing at the devil, who poisons my path,
Teeth of jackals, revealing his wrath.
Yet still, I stay in silence, refusing
To let the tears flow, my emotions are diffusing.
Closing my ears to the cries of pain,
Lost in the fog, my soul seeks to regain
But through this journey, I'll find the way.
In this vast fog, I'll discover the light of a raw day.
My first poem on the soup:
Honouring the Wartime Dead
They fought with grit to save the nation,
From poverty, squalor and infidelity,
And when they marched it was the Nazi’s or them,
Who would suffice to keep their dignity.
The Second was really over the same as the First:
The freedom and equality that democracies offer;
Hitler was not to rule the freethinking lands,
Which representative governments quietly did proffer.
Their Ladies’ which, it was said, almost flew themselves,
Were engineered by women as superior planes;
Through dogfight and bullet, over occupied territories -
The pilots exploded German ammunition trains.
In Response to My First Poem
As a child of four and five,
And right through my early primary years,
My dad talked at dinner about the war,
And of his wartime distresses and fears.
But a few times when I was really young,
He took an arm chair and gave voice,
To how he felt and dealt with his posting,
And that it was his and only his choice.
It was just him and me who had discourse,
So I dug as hard as I could but gave him his space,
For just exactly how he’d enlivened,
The plane of his of which he was an ace.
He called it to me his lady,
And from then on I understood how to handle,
Planes and all kinds and tech and devices:
That you should respect them and tangle.
He told me what the two world wars meant,
And suggested sexual sterilisation was at stake,
And that it was grit which retained the dignity,
Of the western world which did quake.
I am a political, scientific and atheistic poet,
And wished to allude to that with my first poem,
That I love poeticising culture and technology:
Computers and all that, ‘cos I know ‘em.
As a child of four or five,
I promised myself to give back to him somehow,
Most definitely in the form of a literary poem,
That knowledge he’d imbued in me, his dow.
The poem Honouring the Wartime Dead,
Also quietly murmurs atheism’s practical arms,
As my dad had quietly admonished mindset and action,
Without any reservations or qualms.
I hope that on the soup,
You find from me a good read,
Enjoyable but educational and with a view,
That lets you tell the bloom from the weed.
29/9/2015
For the A Response to my First Poem contest by Silent One.
The endgame
And the cemetery was
nowhere to be found
yet was so present
in the shallow depth
the graveyard of the mind
No tombstone unturned
fragmented torn and twisted
sorrow flowing down
encrypted alleyways
and Thanatos’ call
Searching to imprint
coffin’s nails on seams
of muddy icy prison
hammered chiselled avenues
creeping through and in
Dead alive and collocated
hell firing place and time
scorching cementing
looming crossing overs
to where and when to how
No monument just
monumental nothing
void oppression
endless loop’s demise
thoughts emotions dragging
Torrential thunders
roping in electrocuted lightning
nooses from the tree of
living emptied darkness
flowing rapids standing still
The cemetery awaiting
ashes urns and vultures
presiding over Ganges Styx
Caron caring like a
lifeless Buddha saddened
Giving taking suffering
unthreading tapestry graffiti
splashing on the canvass
sombre art in progress
oscillating back and forth
The reaper harvests harshly
the mindless soul and body
crumbling bones infested
carbons desiccation apathy
hedonistic pleasures dull extinct
Gravitation nudges wild
and gently roaring
culling sculls foreclosing scooping
offerings burthens memories
premature un-furbished epitaphs
Silent roaring rampant syncopal
admonished synergetic resolution
teasing fool and morbid jester
luring loosening resolve
apprehending lithographic scribes
And the cemetery blinding
obvious and for the taking
present not yet for embrace
remains a silhouette on the horizon
and life for now is stronger
May 18th 2016
Contest entered:
And the cemetery was... Broken Wings
You have an Alice band, keeps your hair in place,
Dum and Dee said you're so modern, have an interface,
long time since Terry"s tea party, we were timeless,
the Mad Hatter said: 'Poof!' Couldn't care less.
The Doormouse nudged himself awake, for Godssake.
'Can't you let me sleep, I'll decide when I wake,'
The Queen had decided on independence for Barcelona,
'Can not be, ' they wailed, "Shut up, ' she said, 'You're another bloody moaner.'
The tortoise taught us how to make love, mimicked
the Queen, clapped his hands and said: 'Off with his head,'
Tarts were ready but black as the ace of spades,
brought uncerrmoniously by a train of waiting maids.
The King chastised everyone including the seven of clubs,
decided the whole lot were boring, went on a tour of Wonderland pubs.
Footnote: The Queen admonished the knave
and said: 'You"re not alright Jack.'
In spite of viewers and hearers discretion,
One might wonder and say,
"Fashion is growing from top to down,
Excuse my knowledge under tension,
All because the wardrobe is put in section,
Anytime the morning sun rise,
It shakes the room,
And it even seems so right,
Perhaps many years ago I made a choice for a moon,
"In the early eighteenth century, you weren't in the game",
An old person's rule,
"But just make this century your platform,
Since a Prehistoric man will let you be wild to conform,
Men and women fought for their own dominance,
No nutritional food on a furnished dining table,
Our source of power was the eyes of an unknown rebel,
Adam and Eve clothed in leaves,
Who admonished them of peace?
What inspired their beefs?
Can I guess their mode of reasoning?
Of course,success crowned their fears,
They weren't pioneers,
Subsequently,when the moon sets in,
"Fashion grows from down to top in a generation setup to fail" .
No colder winter's evening reawakens, in an abrupt
glance, this memory from others already faded
in the inattentive recollection of a son's mind;
even insignificant moments are worthy of thought.
A pubescent boy unlearned and precarious at giving advice,
but ready to provide that tenderness in exploding emotions...
realizing that he would reach the same level of consciousness:
whether or not his intention was tender enough to melt any ice.
He was skilled at creating visions, those presumed ghosts
that wondered in empty space to frighten fragile humans
unable to supersede their ability of vincibility to utter words;
I stood composed across her presence exchanging smiles.
The medieval walls were adorned with pictures if the deceased ones,
they stared sternly at me who wasn't used to seeing menacing faces
that threatened me with the uneasy, irrational fear of immediate rapture:
who could escape their grip on my trembling mouth murmuring scripture?
" No, son. Your grandparents were kind and would do harm to anyone,
they died before you were born, they are protectors not evil people."
And admonished by such comforting phrase, I fell asleep peacefully:
not being afraid of anything, they gently lulled me in their arms finally!
Here it's even:
The cloud called at me,
Even he spoke to me:
He said 'Joshua,why're you worried'.
I was reluctant letting the
Cat out of the bag.
Then,he weighing my doubt
spelt by my betraying eyeballs
admonished me and bade me
to elate my glottis and seduce
his ear of the matter eating me up.
Then i lent him the truth,
With the intention that he'll give me fruit:
'I gat to leave my country,
Before the death of this month'. Said I.
He chuckled and whipped the dripping
water from his face.
I, drowned by the wits of
his uncalled actions forced
my gaze towards him straining
my ears to perceive his words.
'I'll be of help to you,
Only if you float in me',he continued.
Elated was i after those words:
That even he is willing to help.
But i've been jumping for hours
If i can only touch him.
Yet,the jealous earth wouldn't me.
Even yet,i'm still jumping:
Maybe i need a ladder:
Even a humanic ladder.
17:22:17:20:48