Long Assails Poems
Long Assails Poems. Below are the most popular long Assails by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Assails poems by poem length and keyword.
I lay asleep in bed
wanting to sneak away,
splitting the curtains of
reflection hue rainbows
of dawn to dark sunlight.
Instead I find myself
in a cold confined maze.
Shadows in black mourning;
I shout once than over
but no one would answer.
Rage assails no reason.
Tortured dreams hard to wake
from screams and fear suppressed.
Grieve I am trying so
hard to put behind me.
I awake slumbersome
and walk into the room
they are in black mourning.
My body's soul had left
me lying in bed while
it wandered. Thoughts of my
state almost despising
where image dream of lies
grievous mania strives.
10/24/2017
"But after that the kindness and love of God our Saviour toward man appeared." Titus 3:4 of the King James Bible
Kindness* beams with triumph glow
Echoes love and not pride’s show
It shares gifts along grace-flow
Cheering someone from stress blow.
Exemplifying Christ’s care
We reach out with gladness’ dare
Helping lift others’ welfare
Offering hope midst despair.
As kindness in homes prevails
We combat hate that assails
Since trust of faithfulness hails
Leading along good works’ trails.
Intensifying kindness
Respect shines through forgiveness
Coupled with prayerfulness
Gratitude and joyfulness.
By our words of endearment
Hearts are freed from fear’s torment
Greeting-filled encouragement
Peace it grants, bliss endowment.
With kindness, we are so blest
Sowing it yields great harvest
Fulfillment gain, indeed best
Devoid of self-interest.
May God find us kind … indeed
Touching fellows with His deed
Serving to meet kindness*’ need
Sprouting from compassion seed.
"And to godliness brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness charity." 2Peter 1:7 of the King James Bible
July 13, 2023
2nd place, "Writing Challenge- K Words" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 7/15/2023
Based on Psalm 23 NIV
Placed Second
Modern Version Psalm 23 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Miranda Hawley
A Voyager
The Lord is my captain; I`ve faith in Him.
He asks me to sit down in the stateroom,
He steers the vessel away from rocks,
He comforts my spirits.
He leads me along the right routes
To spare distress.
Even though I cross
the deepest oceans,
No fear assails me,
As He`s my captain;
His shine and His brain
Enhance my faith.
He steers amidst stifling stormy waves
Without being encumbered by them.
He fills the ship with fuel;
I am delighted.
I pray that His grace and mercy rest with me
As long as breath I heave,
and I will be the Lord`s humble servant
forever.
The front rank hold stong,
from where does come the strength?
pushing forward, one step, another,
Keep pushing you red.
Swords, spears, axes, striking home,
black with enemy blood,
All weapons must be fed,
let Evil blood flow.
Yet blood shall still flow on both sides,
the horror of battle fulfilled,
the ranks of light and dark, hard pressed,
sweat mingles with blood.
The Arlaghs slowly moving back,
still, they are not done,
now a pivotal part of the battle,
the red cannot give ground.
There are still archers behind the main foot,
see how they ply their death,
they still fire their death into the air,
arrows striking home with deadly accuracy.
Carts now rolled from Alahsar,
they kept the archers supplied with death,
yet these supplies were not limitless,
never waste a shot.
Yet still, the enemy numbers hold,
do the dead rise upon the field?
What black magic is this?
the numbers did not decrease.
Look at the number of enemies fallen,
no one can see them rise,
their numbers still never seem to fail,
and a cold touch of fear can pierce the heart.
Men of Alahsar,
what power of spirit leads you on?
What song of power does grip your heart?
it is the song of man's glory.
This song has no end,
it is glories song of grace,
yet everything can have an end,
an end that brings forth bloody death.
Could this be the end of the song?
The song of golden Alahsar,
the time for warriors to fall on their swords,
the end of all that is joy.
These men shall have it not,
they shall fight on even though strength starts to fade.
strike home you men of honour,
fight on for all you love.
Onward, onward, let the spirit fire their souls,
one cannot think of the cost of defeat,
men, Arlaghs, spiders and wolves, all sing the song of death,
each fighting for the precious gift of life.
Battle does ever come with blood and pain,
The repugnant smell assails the nostrils,
oh, glory, how terrible is your song,
the living dread of all who love life.
Blood now freely mingling with the Earth,
the green dies before our eyes,
black, red, and dying green, now part of the song,
thunder has exploded on Badicha.
The battle rages on and on,
vacant eyes look to the skies,
glory's dream to live or fall,
the fulcrum falls one way or the other.
To Be Continued ..........
You are like the myths of Avalon
where tales of justice reign like Kings
the counsels of virtue together rings
where impartial judgment does belong
but these are tales not so true
where those who rule afflict the poor
rob even crumbs from off their floor
malfeasance practiced what they do
What did the noblemen supply
but rape the peasant law his alibi
where starving children heard his cry
Noblesse oblige was just a lie
Where tyranny of rank did draw
class distinctions were the law
death and violence history saw
predators talons ripped like claw
Where the counsels of the court
were just aristocratic sport
where truth and justice did abort
peasants could not afford the tort
yet some would hold these fairytales
the myths of history that lies regales
fabrication cloaks and mindless fails
that these myths whats true assails
tales of myth and fancy
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Oh, foolish man! I told you I'm not a clinger
Don't grab my tail 'less you want to be bitten
and if at me you keep pointing your finger
I'll show you the contempt of an angry kitten
Be off with your horde and their petty assails
or I vow to scratch the eyes of those with you
whose fatty buttocks are blubbery like whales
Your gaggle flings vile insults as you pursue.
My whiskers are trimmed and yours are scruffy
You know what I mean when I spit and hiss?
You're not insulting me when you call me Fluffy
I'm an aristocratic feline. I only answer to Priss.
If you draw nearer, I'll swat you with my paws
Keep your dirty hands off of my marmalade coat
or I swear I'll scratch you with unsheathed claws
For your insolence there should be an antidote!
"Puzzle Stomped"
Pieces scattered
placed on a table
with boundaries
between
the incarcerated margins
there are strict conditions
Time drips
its wet connection
each piece a stair fitted
imperfectly
perfect
towards upwards
new mirror reflection
a cracked heart piercing
the tear with savage dedication
behind her veil
the known Morpheus assails
her compromised senses
holding her captured
behind the external view
eyes blindfolded
the blue sashes now let loose
opening green windows to
free the redressed vicissitudes
to undress the crisp breeze of her
monk chanting wake
a new phantom arrives caressing secrets
gambled on a fresh Delius
composing his unfinished symphony
he’s looking for her singular notes
Somewhere,
he stands behind her
sharp as a needle,
cutting tall poppy
each step she takes
towards her freedom gate
In his hands he cups
the hidden
missing piece
The sewing of pages
she continues to bind
in her sleep
along a strong spine
turning and folding stories
uncommon ne'er sublime
their spelt magic
grows majestically spoilt
seeded from a sweet perfume
conducting intoxicating notes
stories flying black-winged
off all the slippery knaves
and wax-sealed pages
like ebony feathers
mummerating starlings
turn into suffocating
dream stealing
king crows smiling maces
She the Smythsewer
laying tenuous imprints
for a new road home
He the myth Beyond
shakes the game board
peace in pieces, a long forgotten song
the chance card thrown
the blanket of romance
thundering over a stormy mind grows
patch worked with glassed-in
jarred ghost bees, the old
puzzle of a story stomped on
He places his feet
firmly between hers
closing in on time
Beyond takes her hand
And sensually whispers
along all her fairest fears
sweeping all pieces off her
tattered story board
fallen irretrievable
forgotten
left lacking
on the harsh floor
Cum dederit
dilectis suis somnum,
Ecce haereditas
to the tune of fate
there is so much more
the words are sewn and sung
the child in time fled
long gone, as if all was pure fantasy
destiny arrives supernaturally too soon
Time for a new story
He says darkly
and swiftly closes
Past’s door.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
Lord, I know your love,
but show me Your justice.
I know the day will come
when probation is done,
and everyone will see
their eternal destiny
justice meted out in judgment reality...
I know, I know that day will come
But...what about now, Lord?
What about now?
What about the mothers who mourn
for their children war has torn
from their breast
What about now, Lord?
What about now?
What about the young ones who wail
along the bomb strewn trail
of a orphaned future
What about now, Lord?
What about now?
What about the homeless who sigh
while their politicians lie
about shelter and supplies,
and no know wonders why
What about now, Lord?
What about now?
What about the genocide's dead,
and all the senseless bloodshed?
What about the survivors, unfed
reduced to begging for bread
living lives laced with dread
their heartaches left unsaid
Lord, I know of your love,
but show me your justice
before my faith fails,
and every doubt assails
before this evil prevails...
Step....step into the fray
Please...do not delay
Show, show Your justice...
TODAY!
Eileen Manassian
This rink ranks right up there.
My power skates, slice each ring,
the scent of ice assails my nose.
Funny in the absence of air, I breathe.
It must be a dream. I don’t care.
The wind of Saturn blows through my hair.
No wind, you say, but I will believe
what this dream gifts to me. Can’t believe
I’ve made it this far. It’s not Mars -
tired of the heat and the bars.
Brightly lit, I see a disco ball in the mist.
I am young again. Giddy boys showing off.
I’m twirling like a pro until I fall
softly onto my fairytale bed,
the one twenty mattresses tall.
I woke up a bit bruised. Saturn
on Saturday night, had no idea,
a princess performed on her rings.
This rink ranks right up there.
Babies and young saplings are silky smooth,
adorned by curls and twirls, unfurled.
But age assails and weather beats brows
to dry, and wrinkles the smooth with furrows and lines.
Twists and contortions compels, yields, and compliances
reshapes the surface to bumpy, with knots and gnarls,
knurling a rough grip, to deny the slip
that smooth young skin and wills
are prone to show when asked to follow a lead.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls,
can be gripped and convinced to comply and yield.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip.