Long Bard Poems
Long Bard Poems. Below are the most popular long Bard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bard poems by poem length and keyword.
My dream was to be a Jane Austen - or a Virginia Woolfe,
whose novel, "Mrs. Dalloway" rocked the world,
or Kadambari - the muse who inspired the Bard in Bengali Literature.
a few fearless women -
Debjani, and Gandhari, and Draupadi, from Indian classics,
but before anyone else,
I want to be the woman who appears in my dream!
never went to school, she was not allowed,
picked up any paper when sweeping the floor,
and read - she was warned - women became widows if they read,
she was unstoppable!
she had ten kids - two still-births,
she cooked for thirty people each day,
ate her meals after she fed everyone,
she hand-knitted blankets, to keep children warm,
prayed every day for well-being of her family,
and for the universe.
my grandmother, and many women of the world of yesteryear,
started a revolution, carried the torch,
without realizing the legacy they left for us,
the burden they lifted!
The love of learning, the spiritualism, the kindness -
we imbibed as blessings...
did they see us - the women of today
in the horizon?
the modern, liberated, emancipated women,
we are today,
we attend school and choose our path,
we decide to marry or not, who to marry,
we raise our children with confidence.
we don't ask for money, we earn money,
we lead, we invent, we do miracles.
sorry Jane Austen, I would rather be my Grandma's granddaughter,
before anyone else!
March 8, 2022
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
Charles Bukowski Road Not Chosen
While reading Charles Bukowski poetry
On the metro ride home
Listening to Buddha bar music
On my oh too hip IPod
I begin to see myself as I was
Over 30 years ago when I was merely a bit player
A minor character in a Charles Bukowski poem
A wild young underemployed intellectual
Hanging out in dismal bars and dives all over Asia and California
Hanging with disreputable women and drunks and drinkers
And characters out of his kinds of haunts
A mad poet bard of the underground
A drunken poet in a drunken bum show
That nightly played in his head
Then one day I met the women of my dreams
And went down a different path
A long slow path to respectability
And now 30 years later
I am no longer a wild man
I am still a poet at heart
But I am now also a bureaucrat
In a button down suite
Doing the people's business
Working for the Government
I've become the Man
Sometimes I wonder
Would I have been better off
Going down that another path
Would I have ended up
Somewhere else
Doing something else
Would I have been as happy
Would I have been as successful?
There is no answer that satisfies
The longing in my heart
For that wild thing
That still lurks beneath
It's civilized cover
And I know that I am still
A mad poet at heart
Railing against the injustice of the world
As I work day by day in the belly of the great beast of State
I recall the ancient Chinese saying,
"Confucian during the day while Taoist rebel at night"
Playing out in my head and nightly dreams
In the true American Upper class patrician tradition
I close the book and look out the window
Get off the train, and walk slowly home
And realize I had no choice
But to take the path that I’ve trodden on
And so I put aside my misgivings
And say goodbye to my "Bukowskian"desires
For another night of domestic contentment
Was it worth it all to take the conventional path
And not take the bohemian road to hell and back
I look at my wife and realize
I had no choice, had no choice
But to follow her to the ends of the earth
And beyond by her side as we walked our path
Of shared destiny
Goodbye Charles Bukowski wherever you are
May I meet you in a bar in the next life
And figure out where we should have gone
Until then the drinks are on me.
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion flower shrivels on its vine.
An empty heart has stripped my soul
of its craving need to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings,
their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret.
That mockery invaded my aching breast,
when it ridiculed me as a fool;
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken and lost in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only beats to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered
dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief,
and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
and must retire.
I've watered the seeds of my self doubt
with salted sweat from my furrowed brow;
over fertilized them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief.
I've tried to save them all,
but half-hearted attempts were all in vain.
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain
and suffering loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven
for my folly, for I've given it no choice.
I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank.
Written January 24th, 2021
Judged N/A 2/22/21
Contest Open Poetry !
Come Friends, from all the quarters come
From mountain and from sea
And harken to the ancient drum
That beats at Avebury
The wren that sings, the bees that hum
The bard beneath the tree
Come Fellows, from the east and west
In all your finery
In cloaks and crowns of oak leaves dressed
In friendliness to see
The folk most beautiful and blessed
Who come to Avebury
Come Maidens, from the northern towns
All giggling with glee
From villages across the downs
And south of Salisbury
With roses woven in your crowns
To dance at Avebury
Come Wizards wise and Witches, bring
Your highest mystery
Your kindness and imagining
The best that we can be
And we shall from one spell sheet sing
For love of Avebury
Come Fools and Poets, with your words
And choose them carefully
Some words are but for beasts and birds
And Gods use poetry
No calumny or throwing turds
(I duck!) at Avebury
Come Ancestors, who would observe
The way your legacy
Is in the safest hands to serve
That which will come to be
For purposes beyond the curve
Of earth and Avebury
Come Little Children, laugh and play
Come running wild and free
Around and round the stones today
And home in time for tea
For nothing can forever stay
At lovely Avebury
Come Gods and Goddesses, as one
As one, and two and three
As all the stars and moon and sun
Of myth and history
And all the energies that run
Around this Avebury
Come Butterflies, in colours bright
And flowers for the bee
Come larks that fly the summer light
And fluffy clouds that flee
The longest day and shortest night
Today at Avebury
Come Lovers old, and Lovers young
To lie beneath the tree
And drown in honey and be stung
By love as by a bee
For all the sweetest songs are sung
By love at Avebury
Come Minstrels, and the Bards of Old
Who did, from memory
Tell all the tales that must be told
Of sacred king and tree
And alchemy, aye, there’s the gold
And truth of Avebury
Come, Ending of my endless rhyme
Come walk away with me
All poets become fools in time
But oh, the things we see
The silly, secret, and sublime
At sacred Avebury
Come, All of Us, together come
(‘Together come!’ Hee, hee!)
And harken to the ancient drum
That beats at Avebury
The wren that sings, the bees that hum
The bard beneath the tree
© Gail Foster 16th June 2023
Journey Journal Page
ON A BAD DAY
By Leon Enriquez
To know the way
True purpose seek
As truth now plays
When vision peaks
Pique your own think
In fruitage ripe
The right verge brink
Hides in sad gripe
~~~~~~~~~
When people see you
In a bad light
Unleash and do
What creates right
In tint and hue
Your true colours
Paint and mint cues
In pure flavours
~~~~~~~~~
Your hue and cry
Creates new sights
For as you try
You find the light
When abuse surge
Upon your way
Glimpse your fond urge
Within fair play
~~~~~~~~~
Your wounds you hide
As you bear hate
Bury vain pride
Dare live your fate
They now conspire
To bring you down
To curb your fire
To cluster frowns
~~~~~~~~~
They say bad things
And point fingers
With words stifling
In harsh plunder
They smear your name
With plain malice
Put you to blame
In vile short list
~~~~~~~~~
They take you out
As vain pride cuts
With petty shouts
In messy rut
Here and there feel
Your fear ooze tears
To crush goodwill
As gall draws near
~~~~~~~~~
Here lies odd fate
As people hurt
Your placid state
With heaps of dirt
In caustic haste
They sculpt in blood
To render waste
As anguish floods
~~~~~~~~~
Look deep within
To your soul stage
To see unseen
Divine image
As you create
Your inner life
Sculpt your own fate
Beyond mad strife
~~~~~~~~~
Know then your peace
Lies in purpose
As poise knows lease
That you immerse
In the lost age
Fun-mirrors trace
Loss and vain rage
In time and space
~~~~~~~~~
Carry your heart
With faith and hope
For end and start
Live vibrant scope
Go deep within
To your soul core
To touch unseen
For love and more
~~~~~~~~~
Be at peace now
For faith knows hope
True love endows
To help you cope
The middle way
Offers pure choice
To live your stay
With vibrant voice
~~~~~~~~~
So style worthwhile
You focus here
Now frame fond smiles
As joy keeps cheer
The pain you feel
Tells of your fate
Put on goodwill
For love’s not late
~~~~~~~~~
On a bad day
Look deeper still
For dark times play
As light moves will
Do live your best
When times feel hard
Anchor your quest
Word verse dear bard
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
27 January 2024
Singapore
Echo from the lace-veiled night, whisper of a secret spring,
Gets lost in the recesses of my thought, hidden and undefeated.
There, where the dream embraces the dark eternity,
A soul wanders between dream and oblivion, seeking the pearls of shadows.
Is there, in the vastness of the cosmos, a tear so large,
To extinguish the burning flame of longing, to calm the restless dream?
In mysterious depths, dusted by eternal thoughts,
Heavy leaden eyelids rise towards the stars, praying in the profound night.
In the heart of autumn, dressed in rusty leaves,
The bell of suffering resounds under the silver moon,
The stars croak in chorus, gathering in a mystical song.
The trembling light of a candle, the immortal soul's flame,
Burns in the sanctuary of the chest, hidden beneath the veil of secrets.
On astral paths, unknown to the world, the stellar evening descends,
The wind brings questioning voices, echoes rushing through the cosmos.
Streams of tears flood the earth, with their deep bitterness,
Not even the seas can contain in their depths so much pain in flight.
Autumn falls over all that is alive, with storytelling steps,
And knocks on the windows with fingers of wind, unhurried, yet unyielding.
On a bench forgotten by the world, caressed by wind and time,
Sits a street bard, with a guitar to his chest, enchanting the empty time.
He plucks strings that carry spells and sweet sighs,
Weaving an ethereal canvas between joy and divine longings.
This urban wizard, hidden in the world's sidewalks,
Captures in silent songs, the echo of a heart fallen into somber tones.
How can I speak of pains and memories, when he paints shadows with sounds?
His song, a spell that weaves and unravels, soothing the heart's wounds and burns.
Time, that eternal alchemist, seeking unseen paths,
Looking deeply, my eyes wish to shine, to dance in the circles of the sky.
He shares the mystery of his thought, turning questions born of tears,
Into celestial sparks, transforming the burden into solace and knowledge.
His magic resonates, transforming into the whispers of the night,
In singing strings, each heartbeat sways and becomes clear.
Tell me, street wizard, with your sublime voice,
How many golden songs must we sculpt from our breath of wind,
Before the moon rises gloriously in the enchanted garden of the night?
Once, A Time, I Was Accused To Be
Like A Siren of The Sea
As Ones In Ulysses’ Odyssey
but, No … That Was Not Me …
Those Sirens, Lured To Death
They Were Lethal Temptresses
Like Myth of Cursed Lilith
Or Like Real-Life, Eve Transgressed
They, With Beauty, and Beckoning Ropes Hung
Bound, Beguiled-Men in Rose-Blossom Arms
And Spoke with Honeycomb-Tongue
But Whose Hearts, Held Hidden Harm-Swarms …
No … I Should Not Be Compared
To Those, with Honor So Blurred
I Have Only Shared and Cared and Bared
… So, In What Way, Have I Erred ?
It Took Many Years To Be
And Much Salt-Water To Rinse Free
From What Others Say and See
And Drown Out Complexity
Yea, I Do Call, I Do Agree …
but, I Sing To The Brave and Eternity
And When I Pray … It Is Holy
And for A Soul's Safety, Only
Oh Yes, I Whisper, Clean and Sweetly
And My Tone Thrills or Trills So Softly
And My Voice Can Arch With Ecstasy
Or Timbrel in Throes – Dawn to Dusk, Sultry
And I Speak Words, As Perfumed Nard
Speak Words, That Leave A Silken, Silver Cord
Or Speak Words of Double-Bladed Sword
… After All, I Am A Female-Bard
And I Want To Learn and Recite More Victories
And Teach Each Other’s Verbatim-Stories
Discover Each Other’s Verbal-Mysteries
And God and My Lord’s Vocal-Oratories
And With The Moon, As Symbol-Shield of Light
Yes, I Rise To Conquer Oblivion-Nights
I Keep Faith and Courage, In Sight
Aglow for Good-Guys and Cowboy-Knights
I’m A Sensual-Woman, and of Sacred-Things
I’m Emotional, Yet … Aim For Deep-Think and Dreams
Now, Some Called The Lord A Glutton, for Eating and Drinking ( Matt. 11: 19 )
So Some Call Me A Siren, ‘Cause They Want Me To Stop Speaking …
But, Worthy, Be The Ear, That I Speak To
And Shyly Cry and Whisper … My Secrets To
And If Only A True-Higher-Calling, Will Do
Then, I’ll Sound, That Siren, For You …
This Is The Siren Song, You Hear
Not One, For You To Fear
My Volume, is not Too Loud, But Clear
Singing, Avoid Shadows, Avail Cheer ! !
No … I’m Not Some Fish-Tale Mermaid of The Sea
More Like A Lighthouse, Guiding To Rock, See: ( Deu. 32: 4 )
Ever Glowing, Ever Orbing … Audibly …
The MoonBee - Siren Odyssey
Once, A Time, I Was Accused To Be
Like A Siren of The Sea
As Ones In Ulysses’ Odyssey
but No … That ' Isn’t ' Me …
It's true that I was in town
When the trumpet sound
And soldiers came down
Spilling like ants on the ground:
Heralding the royal feast!
The Gods have had their seats
To celebrate the poet from the east
Whose lyrical prowess beats
The best they've ever heard.
It is heavenly inspired:
The lines of this bard,
His hands neither slack nor feel tired.
Here, the bard comes
Clothed in divine grace!
Let the trumpet sound; beat the drums
Let the world seek his face
For he has the power to heal.
His lines drew angels down
And make kings to kneel.
Let him have his prized crown.
Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.
It's true that everyone would die
Someday, that is why
If ever the poet should die;
Let his pen ascend to the sky,
Let heaven and earth mourn,
Let their tears turn to blood;
Let the graceful muses mourn,
Let their tears cause a flood
For the loss is without measure.
But there's end to every beginning
That's why the poet we should treasure
So that if he dies, he dies smiling.
Let the fire from his pen burn
First, in the heart of men
Then to the streets let its face turn,
Let it scorch the land till when
It has reached the palace and its tower
There too let it burn and smoke;
Let it bring every knee under its power,
Let it bring every neck under its yoke.
Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.
It's true that poets can be made
As much as they can be born,
There are those who trade in charade;
Who cannot our admiration won.
Behold the ancient bard!
Behold, in the morning he rises
With his book and ink in hand;
As sparkles flash from his eyes.
When in early morning birds are yet mute,
His countenance is always plain
He does not argue nor refute
But undisturbed he always remain!
In the abode of the poet
There is grandeur and majesty
Befitting a grand laureate poet
And a monument of modesty;
He is the poet at heaven's gate
Who have ran a fine race
He will never be late
He holds the ace.
Self quarantined misanthrope pitched into purgatory wham!
Ably cane resign eternal damnation (mine)
courtesy devil specially engraved telegram
prestidigitation found me vanishing shazam,
without a trace I disappeared in thin air voila
Earthly travails atop horns of dilemma ram
into me buttucks pitching yours truly ma'am
hoisted by my own petard sheepishly wool
ewe (red dully) bull heave human bug eyed
recalcitrant specimen (me) nonetheless lamb
basted skewered (think shish kabob) log jam
succinctly described helplessness to preserve
ultimately repurposed into green eggs and ham
harmless recluse no more valuable than flotsam.
Grant simple wish to withdraw into hermitage
coronavirus (COVID-19) just desserts we wage
us *****sapiens on trial across web world stage
severely misappropriating Earthly resources rage
understandable Gaia she pointedly reminds adage
inescapable comeuppance whereby our civilization
written off as atrocious, hellacious, malicious, page
poisonous primates essentially, dismally, yes clearly
bollixed, failed, leveraged, & tortured planet I gauge
hell in a handbasket ironic tragicomic fate wise sage
of yesteryear did prognosticate now we scurry hither
and yon, to and fro Smashing Pumpkins immortalize
metaphor likened each one of us as rat locked in cage
bajillion eons ago once upon a time our noble savage
ancestors levels playing field now new bacteriophage
relentlessly pits twenty first century civilization doles
microscopic organism (battling unseen enemy) voyage
around sun fraught tooth and nail powder milk biscuits
a Prairie Home Companion ruse buzzfeeding courage
for shy people (yours truly) communicating message,
albeit urgent to revamp paradigm to live social - nsync
with eco friendly coda allowing, enabling, & providing
liberty and justice for all living (colorful) things hostage
at mercy of self proclaimed superior beasts above average
with intelligence, yet rendering oblate spheroid garbage.
No major inconvenience incapacitates rather humdrum
bard (rarely bored), I wanna pitch headlong into scrum
no need to scream and shout, cuz I speak softly to mum
(Mother Earth) reassuring, she inevitably bests hoodlum
standing arrogant, boastful, deceitful comfortably numb
oblivious when day of reckoning delivers offal maelstrom.