Long Apprentices Poems
Long Apprentices Poems. Below are the most popular long Apprentices by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Apprentices poems by poem length and keyword.
With confidence in his voice, his hair all askew
The Donald proclaims, "I can run for President, too!"
A self made man, with several TRUMP towers
The Real Estate KING is now "man of the hour".
He feeds off and craves attention and power
Surrounded by apprentices and staff he encounters.
Imagine the boardroom meetings at the Presidential suite
as The Donald decides what bills to veto or keep
Or world leaders to send to the suite or the street.
With street wise straight talk, he'll get the job done
And make sure the world knows we're still Number One
Bomb the hell out of ISIS, set the world on fire
Stare down terrorism, point his finger and say
"YOU'RE FIRED!" (and mean it, too!)
Written on 6/17/15
I was invited to a party, and have been back to it many times over the years.
It was so notable to me, because all of the people were having such a good
time. Oh, it was just started by an older man who made his apprentices close up and see that there would be enough space for the food, drinks, musicians, and room for dancing.
As the people came in, they were anxious to join in the merriment because
this party was always held at Christmas, and everyone would have a good
time because the host insisted on it. He paid for a party and would be one
of the most active participants. Since he had paid for the party, he had the
musicians play, and danced with reckless abandon despite his age.
No one had more fun, as he would return again and again to the dance floor.
His partner was his wife of many years, but it did not stop him from dancing
with others who had come for the party. The guests came in their finery,
and the oil lamps lit the room and decorations to make it a whimsical party.
The settings were fit for royalty, the food was exquisite, the music light and
airy, and nothing but a sea of smiles could be seen anywhere in the room.
I was however, only a voyeur at the party. I wished that I was one of those
that had been invited in true, but alas, my being there had a deeper purpose
and meaning for me. It showed me that people can have a good time in
each other's company, just by joining in with a smile and good natured
feelings. Oh, how I wished it were truly real at the time.
I haver returned many times to that party, as each year I wait for it to come
on the TV. I would truly have loved to be at "Old Fezziwig's" party, and each
year I try, even for a little while, give up my Scrooge!
12/11/20
Written for "Party Folk Poetry Contest" by Julia Ward
Alexander Kielland
a Norwegian writer regarded as a fine author, if not the top drawer, but somewhere in the middle, one does not need to stretch up or bend low to read his work.
I read his books when sitting in the library, skiving as my teacher would have said
After seven years we, who didn't have what was said, did not need further education since we were worker
material, which in a way, makes sense after all, most of us ended up in factories as our elders had.
The day before our sour-faced teacher gave his farewell speech, and, gave us advice on how to go through life humble and respectful of higher orders, I read a short story by AK about little Marius, who could not grasp the Latin language.
The priest had told him he could not be a cleric if he didn't understand Latin, his teacher despaired, and his
poor parents ashamed that their youngest son was so dense and refusing to learn Latin verbs.
I can't remember how the story ended, but little Marius disappeared, fled to Germany became
a tycoon in
the valley of the Ruhr bought a big castle and denied
he was little Marius. His sons joined the Nazi party and
and were the first go to defeat Norway to squash rumors of the Marius, unable to learn Latin and AK
books were banned.
When our teacher came into the room, we stood at attention at our desks
He told us which factories were seeking apprentices
and stables needing lads to run errands
He looked at me and said, there is a training job for
cobblers I impress upon those who are hopeless to seek employment as cobblers.
No, I'm not little Marius, but I do live abroad.
Much I marveled the romance dear
Instead I uncovered the fondness
Ah, distinctly I was conquering
And its eyes have all the occupying
There stood an avenging spying
I have a much needed !ove
The catching closeness concerning
Learning, learning!
The apprentices came concerning
What could there be more purely discerning?
With such a passion for churning
How they were churning, burning - learning
I have a much needed love
I crave the floating, flowing fascination
With such a passion for turning
I crave the decisive, diverting doing
Long I stood there leaning, dewing
Of the bonk's that is wooing
Of regards that are cooing
I have a much needed love
My breakthrough, I could not awaken
All my soul within me wooing
It threw its ghost against the heavens
The witting whipping wringing
All my soul within me winging
I have a much needed love
I discovered the lovers
The revolutionary brought such sorrow
They are perfumed from unseen vipers
The pertinent push preferring
Do you like quivers?
They are perfumed from unseen hardcovers
Our love is just now discovered, unlike any others;
I have, I have a much needed love
1/8/2021
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2021
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
Much I marveled the romance dear
Instead I uncovered the fondness
Ah, distinctly I was conquering
And its eyes have all the occupying
There stood an avenging spying
The catching closeness concerning
Learning, learning!
The apprentices came concerning
What could there be more purely discerning?
With such a passion for churning
How they were churning, burning - learning
I crave the floating, flowing fascination
With such a passion for turning
I crave the decisive, diverting doing
Long I stood there leaning, dewing
Of the bonk's that is wooing
Of regards that are cooing
My breakthrough, I could not awaken
All my soul within me wooing
It threw its ghost against the heavens
The witting whipping wringing
All my soul within me winging
I discovered the lovers
The revolutionary brought such sorrow
They are perfumed from unseen vipers
The pertinent push preferring
Do you like quivers?
They are perfumed from unseen hardcovers
Our love is just now discovered, unlike any others;
1/8/2021
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2021
In this groaning wreck we dare to call a country,
the destroyers still walk among us, unashamed.
Babangida once swaggered in khaki terror,
his iron fist crushing tomorrow before it could breathe.
He ruled as tyrant, blind to every future seed,
power in his palms, yet the nation he bled and looted dry.
A servant for a season, he and his circle served only themselves,
then retired to stolen mansions, fat on the marrow of the land.
He hounded honest tongues to the gallows for daring to speak truth,
while arrogance dripped from his lips like poisoned honey.
Millions he impoverished, helpless souls left to rot,
their dreams ground into dust beneath military boots.
“Maradona” they called him, but never a name of honor,
only a slick trickster dribbling the people’s hope into oblivion.
Now he bows his gray head in the quiet shame of Minna,
too afraid to flee the Nigeria he helped murder,
where criminals like him are strangely shielded by the same broken law.
Destruction has not paid its dividend; the ruin stares back at him daily.
He dares not walk the streets his regime never bothered to pave,
among the multitudes he defrauded and left in chains of want.
Men without vision, who stalled a giant with guns,
turned promise into mockery, greatness into jest.
Obstructers became our leaders through the barrel’s threat,
institutionalizing corruption like a dark, evil genius.
Systemic failure took root, and still it spreads its venom
in this same mess we stubbornly call a country.
Babangida, where are the guns that once ruined us all?
Are you happy now in your twilight silence?
Can you stroll freely among the ghosts of those you killed,
or do their shadows still whisper your name in the night?
Boneheaded barrack boys, drunk on docile masses,
apprentices without brains, idols of every profligate thief.
Generalissimo of morons, bearing arms against hope itself,
you looted the Gulf windfall and left us beggars in our own house.
Detestable men and their fickle friends, protected still by guns,
afflict this land till this very day.
In this groaning wreck, this mess we dare to call a country,
the destroyers live on, and the wound festers.
I never can plumb the depths of your art
Nor fathom the gifts of your fallen heart;
I revere the skillful slither of you apt brush
And here pay homage to your pencil's dash.
Now ***** man of fourteen names after saints and kin,
Let this rhyme titillate your somnolent spirit,
And your faded flair stir awake and keen,
To inspire your apprentices attain your merit.
Awesome creator of the breathtaking Chicago Picasso,
That outlandish landmark that amazes so,
Yours countless nuggets of choice superior art;
Allow this humble poet your back to pat.
Almighty preserve your soul among the pure,
And may your treasured works forever endure.
Though unlived ages defter poets shall bring,
And blur all rhymes woven in my barren span;
May young pupil-scribes with like relish savor
These yellowing tropes as sworn zealots can.
Despite the flurrying crop of many sharper wits,
Let new apprentices of fine art read these lines;
And gratefully gain inspiration from olden writs,
Fresh as dateless gems in death-hidden mines.
And should new vibes rather greatly outshine
This dusty craft and they still dissatisfied pine,
Abiding honor for founding feats will here keep
Future pliant eyes that for fallen warriors weep.
Not for incurable want of well-winding nuance
May youth disdain this tart ink ten eons hence.
Think of all gone generations' fluids of the vine:
Piling time betters stale rhyme like bottled wine!
Muse forbid that future versifiers should deem
These musings an exaggerated antique dream.