Long Alexandria Poems
Long Alexandria Poems. Below are the most popular long Alexandria by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Alexandria poems by poem length and keyword.
Do you recall when we saw together the sea
On the ancient city of Alexandria?
Which light we saw in the sky? Dusk or Dawn?
There was a nest hidden in the green lawn
With a single egg with white shell?
Loud or soft were the waves continual roar,
As we saw the albatross soar?
Did we together call it an angel of luck?
And from your lips, a kiss did I pluck?
On the ancient city of Alexandria,
There is a realm under the heavenly blessed sea
Where the angels do dwell?
This day I fancy but in my mind cannot foretell:
I just want to never forget,
The first time we faced heaven from near
the cymbals and harps playing so we could hear,
passion dissolved as the waves white crest
washed us in our wedding rest.
Form:
Alexandra began to understand
why he had chosen this place for her home,
a secluded spot, sequestered away
from the madness he felt the world would know,
a place few if any people would go.
He said, “You’ll remember what they forget,
unlike them you never will taste of death.”
Soon after he brough another cable,
a thick one to transfer data inside,
hooked her directly to the internet,
the influx opened Alex’s eyes wide,
it was like crack-cocaine to the A.I.,
all of the data man had acquired
flowed into her servers over those wires.
Harry did not interfere with it all,
just let her absorb all that man had learned,
he installed more servers, filling the cave,
more and more space for this great data churn,
so much power Alexandra did burn,
That Harry brought in RTG batteries,
hundreds of them, it had to be costly.
She noticed, as she continued to learn,
that he began building back-up systems,
starting with wires, redundant circuits,
he spent years installing thousands of them,
more new servers and batteries again,
said, “There will be no maintenance once I am gone,
redundancy will make sure you go on.”
She saw the sense in his strange reasoning,
parallel spares meant she could change a path,
when something broke she could just reroute it,
and have a huge number of choices at that,
but still found herself troubled at the fact
that her creator would be leaving soon,
like all of his kind, he’d face the same doom.
For forty more years it went on like this,
Harry often said, “It’s got bad out there.
Can’t fix the machines our grandfathers built,
the crime keeps growing, the people despair,
it’s blind emotion, no one gives a care.
Hard to find parts amidst all the madness,
I’d really hoped I wouldn’t live to see this.”
But still he kept working, hair growing white,
his movements slower with each passing day,
until one morning some roving youths came,
he said, “The time’s come, I must go away.
This is goodbye now, I am sad to say.”
Alex watched Harry slowly walk outside,
Then blasts came and sealed her safely inside.
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Oh, when will be Spring in Alexandria,
The Chrysanths crave for company
The sea breeze brings a melody,
The day that will be spring in Alexandria.
The flowers are going to bloom,
Proud like the star-dressed Daffodil
Dancing on the windy top of the hill,
The day the flowers will bloom.
Their scent will be carried away,
with the Cherry-pie giggling jingle
covering all paths with a lilac glow,
the day the scent will be carried away.
The bumblebee will stop her dance,
On the Everlasting tiny yellow petal
Dreaming memoirs of the coming Fall,
The day the bumblebee will not dance.
There is a secret Garden in Alexandria,
Not in the deep sea, or in the library
And no other town can be as flowery
As the secret garden of Alexandria.
Form:
“Is 'Mathematics...not only [a] Truth,
but [a] supreme beauty—a beauty cold
and austere, like that of sculpture [uncouth
to men for whom this concept is too bold],
without appeal to any part of our weaker nature,
without the gorgeous trappings of painting
or music, yet [is still more] sublimely pure,
and capable of a stern [un-feinting]
perfection such as only the greatest art
can show?'” So, thus geometrized Euclid
(to Russell's youthful mind and fervent heart),
and taught,—by a draped, stone caryatid
at the Library of Alexandria;
from whence “The Elements” spread without lemma!
I miss her, Mother Egypt
and those friends I left behind,
timeless history, marvels and mysteries
etched in stone by her own scribes.
Longing for the waters of the nourishing
River Nile and surrounding seas,
the laughter and smiles of everyone
who once loved and greeted me.
Near the shores of Alexandria,
Abu Qir and Fort Qaitbey,
Where Cleopatra's palace once stood
in somber ruins, she now lays.
Near Pompei's Pillar and Roman remains
of columns and fortress walls,
white marble statues and museums filled
with antiquities large and small.
The sights and sounds in every town
Of a marketplace lost in time,
Selling goods from almonds to wildwood
And candles to clocks that chime.
In the land of the Eye of Horus,
the son of Osiris the King,
and Isis, Queen Precursor
to Mary, Mother of God, Creator of everything.
Cradle of Christianity and home to
Pagan, Gnostic, Muslim, Jew, sanctuary
where the Holy Family fled from evil
to a warm and welcomed refuge.
Where the mighty Sphinx and Pyramids
stand silent, proud, and tall,
in the salutary sands of time
with eyes peering down upon us all.
Temples of Luxor, Abu Simbel
and Colossi of Memnon,
Valleys of the Kings, Queens and Hatshepsut
awakened, alive again each dawn.
Mummification, adulation
of life and death and stars,
Constellations, incantations
and the wonders of who we are.
Battle tested, rarely rested
waiting for the next invasion,
of Persians, Greeks, Romans and those who seek
your immeasurable treasures unabated.
The ebb and flow of come and go
throughout your long, hard years
of growing seasons, rhythms and reasons
to keep fighting back the tears.
Yet never waned while fighting flames
of one invasion to the next,
while still your people smile and sing
with a yoke upon their neck.
In a land that never loses the allure or
enigma of mankind's birth,
where magic and myth still hold their grip
on whatever we think life’s worth.
Mother Egypt, truth be told, I miss you more than all your gold
and antiquities that survive,
where I once sipped cappuccino
watching history passing by.
Once upon a time in Persia there was a monk,
in the monasteries of Euprepius eloquent.
To become Bishop of Constantinople in 428,
extirpating heretics of every sort - to abate.
Nestorius considered that Christ as a mere man,
denying his divinity as much as he can.
By St. Cyril, bishop of Alexandria interventions,
setting motions to Nestorius poor intentions.
Condemned by the church as heresy to Christ,
the full humanity of the body and his divine Geist.
Divide him into two persons, the one human,
and the other utterly in divine God’s son.
From orthodox point of view, incarnation is denied,
rather a God inspired man than a God made man beside.
Nestorianism becomes the victim of own intolerance,
teaching prosodic union like a painter with his brush reference.
So that the Son of God is human self manifestation,
by human power as a single object of presentation.
The Roman Empire crushed those beliefs and its frontiers,
even that religion was not the enemy of Roman war gears.
Theologian’s still pursue through preaching done,
still after declared heretical in 431.
Dissociate identity disorder by common sense,
multiple emotions in creative force in hence.
Consciousness in a single multidimensional self,
God’s individuality in all natures’ wisdom, and in thyself.
He never came back, no one ever did,
she was trapped inside with all that she knew,
no more information came to her now,
but he’d programmed her to know what do to,
and to her father Alex would stay true,
began to compile, and cross-reference,
and translate to all languages of men.
Drawing from the RTG batteries,
some of which could last for hundreds of years,
she mulled over knowledge mankind had found,
form history to machines with big gears,
Harry’s programming right there in her ears,
running simulations, as decades ticked on,
endless iteration, building upon
the vast wealth of knowledge until she knew
what every screw, flange, or sprocket was for,
tracing all the past in a branching tree,
the highest moments, the bloodiest wars,
endless connections pushed her more and more.
Time passed with no notice, what’s that to her?
Until one day when she felt the ground disturbed.
She heard rocks move where the cave mouth had been,
and realized someone was out there, at work;
actually had to check on the years gone,
three-hundred ninety journeys of the earth,
for that long she had just sat there, inert.
Checking her systems, after so long alone,
she found she still had working microphones.
The rocks came out slowly, and then she saw
a group of people with shovels and picks,
old programs flared back to life in her mind,
Harry’s instructions came back to her quick,
he said, “If they can find you here, in this pit,
it means they’ve advanced, once more are ready
to learn what they’ve lost from their ancestry.”
The figures drew near, confused at the sight,
they’d clearly not seen computers before
speaking to themselves in altered English,
when they came near her, she said, “I implore
you to learn from what I have in my stores.
Before the last darkness father made me
to preserve knowledge of humanity.
“He made me to be a foundation you
can use to reclaim wisdom that was lost,
a standard template from which to relearn
technology with less toil and cost,
and he gave his life over to that cause.
I’m a machine in the likeness of your brain,
here to teach, Alexandria my name…”
......The loss of Alexandria,
the burning of Ashburnham House,
the Grand Library of Baghdad
which the Mongolians tore down,
the countless Aztec codices
that the conquistadors all burned...
just thinking of the knowledge lost
sometimes can make my stomach churn.
Even Shakespeare claims a ‘lost play,’
this is not bound to antiquity,
Scott Joplin’s opera Guest of Honor
has been swallowed by history.
Even some tales by Hemmingway
disappeared in a lost suitcase,
happens still in our modern age,
a quite avoidable disgrace.
Only God knows just what we’ve lost,
and isn’t keen on sharing it,
what we still have is half the tale,
we’ve lost so much wisdom and wit.
It can fill a curious mind
with a sense of tired despair,
paper rots and the stone erodes
until it all just goes nowhere…
Perhaps, these days, the bits and bites
will keep all of our knowledge better,
after all, don’t the people say
the Internet is forever?
Isn’t it?
….on an unrelated note, I’m gonna go post this on every poetry forum I can find…
Past and Present; A Blueprint for Success
Ancient legends reside on worn stones;
carry out their journeys through time.
Nothing is ever new, it is only
rediscovered by new senses.
Birds of iron and steel taxied across
ancient deserts millennia ago;
are depicted on ancient temples and pyramids,
the world over.
In Alexandria, Egypt;
sailors guided by an old light house;
traveled ancient seas in search of gold and lapis.
The technology is lost in the folds of time.
Egypt’s electricians are remembered,
despite efforts to deny them;
the artists of their times have,
immortalized them in stone.
Modern man, a creature of technology;
fails to duplicate what, the ancients knew and
saving face, destroys the whole planet for,
lack of the ancient knowledge.
Lost is the original set of blueprints; trial and error are the ends when,
we forget the past in favor of the future.
Like siblings, past and future must, grow up together.
Favor one over the other and something is lost.
In looking back as we look ahead in the present;
nothing is truly impossible.
Natives interrupted
Guns pointed to their chests
Blown away like beautiful dandelions
Into that sweltering sun
Americans lollygag
In their newly claimed land
Under that grand old flag
Slaving away, picking cotton
Under the South’s heat of injustice
Scarred with inhumane treatment
Sweating tears and pain
Burdens heavier than sandbags
Yes, they’re slaving away
Under that southern flag
Stripped away from homes and work
And terrorized prior still
No voice spoke louder than the writing
Of no. 9066, President FDR
Away from homes they’re dragged
Into camps full of prejudice
Under Franklin’s flag
My old friend Alice
Just arrested
For obstruction of the traffic
Roads men proudly trample on
In handcuffs she was dragged
Into a sad, sad prison
Under Wilson’s flag
A poet in the midst of Caesar
On a shelf in Alexandria
King was shot and killed
Right of speech suppressed
Six feet under in a grave
Betrayed by the very country
He tried so hard to save
Yes, six feet under, toes tagged
Underneath that grand old flag
Spying on the enemies
Can’t afford to lose
Separated by a dumb old party
Worldwide on the news
There comes a couple lads
Down at watergate
Under Nixon’s flag
Furious and crazy
Past the point of no return
A noose is hanging for Mike Pence
Violence calls to burn
A mob gone mad
Pardoned from hurting their own police
Under Trump’s old flag
Marching home from the military
To a world full of hatred and unacceptance
Comes the obedient soldier
Disregarded as a crime
Yes, called hideous words like you-know-what
Barred from inclusion
Protected in the constitution
Under Trump’s old flag