Long Biographies Poems
Long Biographies Poems. Below are the most popular long Biographies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Biographies poems by poem length and keyword.
How many grave sites should be prepared for me?
Just one. For Robert Johnson, there were three,
all in the Mississippi Delta: Morgan City, Quito,
and (near) Greenwood. Which is right? Do we KNOW?
Those who have taken the time to do research
believe Little Zion Missionary Baptist Church
near Greenwood is most likely. At age 27, in 1938,
he died near that town--so young, with talent so great.
In the early 1900’s, this youngster’s genius was unfurled.
As blues singer, guitarist, and lyricist, he gifted the world
with recordings exhibiting style that has been admired
widely and emulated by popular performers who aspired
to greater fame. They achieved the kudos they desired.
Muddy Waters, Bob Dylan, and Chuck Berry are among those
influenced by his style. Every admirer who knows
the legend that ambition drove Johnson to sell his soul
to the Devil for greater talent would surely say his goal
was reached without Old Scratch playing a role.
What caused the death of the “Cross Road Blues”
and “Sweet Home Chicago” performer? There are clues
centering around his unbridled boozing and womanizing.
Did a jealous husband poison his whiskey upon realizing
a flirtation or worse, just as Johnson's star was rising?
Or did he die of syphilis? These stories floated around,
and others. Thirty years later, a death certificate was found,
stating no cause of death. Some facts, we may never know.
It IS known that this musical master's climb to fame was slow.
It's nothing new that, after death, renown may grow.
Johnson's posthumous claim to fame is no big mystery.
Beginning in the nineteen sixties, the world would see
a surge of interest in his music. To Eric Clapton, he seems
"The most important blues singer that ever lived." Teams
of researchers have tried to capture his life and dreams.
King of the Delta Blues Singers, a collection of his best,
was produced by Columbia in 1961. Writers faced a test:
dealing with conflicts and gaps in accounts while collecting
information for biographies and films. While "connecting
the dots," they learned that sources require dissecting.
Death, no respecter of talent or youth, is bold,
stalking and striking down rich or poor, young or old.
Mysteries of life and death often remain unsolved,
though diligent research may be involved.
PROLOGUE
Biographies are for men who have a need to cry
To spell out what we remember is to subtract all
We forget, for knowing then nothing knew, a lie
Conjured by history, there's no a priori here at all
If you will not abuse my love
I will dive for you deeper forgotten things, bring
Up from bottom hate to prove
To be a better god we gladly, boldly took the sting
And could not have merely comprehended joy until
Our serpent made the safe-God to repent of his will
Here is my life strands of sands upon your windy palm
I'm the syllables of every gospel, beginning at the Psalm
Proverbs skinned like rice from the shaft, seeking balm.
History immaculate pristine in no myth ever shall sleep
Introspection vigils struggle between words and memory
Philosophy is a dream, not I, who numbers days urgently,
The sleeping dog will sleep, but my promise let me keep.
i
IDENTITY
I do not even know how it began, night or day
Rain or shine - nor what season they had interplay
I only know that nine must have been too long since
I overstayed my time and made her grimaced, grunt
And groaned to push me out. So of course, I wince
Privy to so much uncertainty. I have a given month
A date, but what is time alone for anyone's beginning
I want to remember the pool I paddled in the flesh
The long rope that called my navel a primal mouth
The red tide of mud from her veins which so much clout
I was hooked on it, around the perimeter where I thresh
So much more can come from a real truth of beginning.
I mean, how comes we have no control over our beginning
And you expect me in the middle to give you meaning
I will not buy the lie, I choose allegiance but know not how
The end shall fufill its promises of me. The air burns still
Like an acrid vapor on the lungs, and not yet I shall spill
The anger from the fumes of air, nor low ever can I bow
Before the hand that slapped my butt and told me scream.
You say indecent, I say unjust, for he proved no love so
Soon nor knew of me any wrong. The conspirators team
Around a common cause: a man must cry so they know
He has life; my kicking legs were not enough. The water
Suddenly left me swaddled in air and just a little laughter.
I do not take kindly to being whipped, nor did I protest then
About my eviction, and the sudden weight of many things.
Untitled
We dance across the heavens, like shining stars,
to the never ending beat of our universes heart.
Its song, time – sometimes – becomes dull, grey,
aches of sentiment, in the throes of lofty sentimentality
that becomes red dew, flowering over the cornea, of a rose
releasing its sweet fragrance, ever so slightly, lightly
down the sides of its imaginary nose.
Sentiment, envy, desire, so anther life goes.
B. J. “A” 2
April 18th 2003
Untitled
I stand on the edges of a desire,
a desire to be all that, – in this life –
I have never been, – in all likelihood –
could never be, for it is not in me.
Yet, in me, it is, as I read biographies,
autobiographies, ancient histories,
I see the dream – illusive as it seems.
Heavy sheets of liquid crystal hang,
fall before these old brown eyes.
Only, the telling comes in ripples
that dot the landscape of reflections
painted upon the cold black surface,
of a pavement that lays before me.
A sad portrait is painted every day,
it comes in the reflections, of those reflections.
Life has flown me through valleys richly
carpeted in jewels, emerald green and serine.
Life has dragged me over rough, ancient mountains,
dropped me over sharp edged, rugged cliffs.
Life has hauled me across screaming creeks,
down raging rivers without a paddle.
Life has thrown me into the fires of hell,
upon plumes of smoke, sent into the ether.
Life has guided me into heavenly spaces
where one will find beautiful places.
Life has shipped me into the shadow less abysses
of blackness where light of night stars hang
in the endless skies where one opens eyes
B. J. “A” 2
April 19th 2003
Untitled
Life lived – looking back –seems to have been as poverty laden
as the life that lays before these tired old feet – its faden
with inactivity, motiveless, motionlessness passages of time.
The richness in both – lost to another time and state of mind.
And who really may care ?, about the poverty in both.
And who really may care ?, about the richness of both.
And who really may care ?, about the memories of both.
And who really may care ?, about the life or death of both.
With Easter at hand.
It seems the hand is the only one who cares.
Assumed death ?, assumed resurrection ?
B. J. “A ” 2
April 20th 2003
Once upon a mountaintop a she-monster named Mazy
was searching for a man.
She wanted a young, honest alien man. Not a nutty old
tooth-jagged Monster like Bill or Dan.
We were horrified. Inner-galaxy dating was ridiculous.
It did not work, and was crazy.
Bill and Dan had already trained lots of wives,
and if anyone needed wife-training, it was Mazy.
She was an odd duck, always reading a book,
studying biographies, and learning crazy new things.
No Monster Man wants a smart wife; they all want an un-learned one
Who will let them be overbearing kings.
They want to be able to order them up and down, here and there,
Women who are non-subversively.
They want women who will submit to their will,
Think they are smart, and revere them unmercifully.
Mazy had been terribly spoiled. She had been allowed to paint,
and laugh, and sing, or hug a tree.
Worst of all, she was reading Encyclopedias, was working on her Teacher Training PhD.
All she should be taught to do is clean the cave out for her husband and bring his dinner on time,
This other junk, she would never use was an absolute total waste of energy sublime.
Mazy at 23 was not getting any younger -way too happy and pretty for her own “good”.
“She is certifiable,” the jealous ones said. “She will die a horrible death, alone, as a spinster should.
She was holding out for an alien man she had danced with on Venus in many of her terrific dreams.
He came down in his spaceship on a Thursday, and
Whisked Mazy away to where her visions had always dream-seen.
Leaving earth planet, some of us heard Alien Zeke tell her, “You may learn as much as you want now.”
What insane sorcery is this? That is crazy talk, right? We petitioned her to come back and bow.
We wanted her to choose Monster Bill or Dan and stop learning a new language every single week.
But for some odd reason, she stayed away, in the arms of her progressive alien man named Zeke.
Written Jan 25, 2019 Contest: A Fairy Tale For Children
Sponsor: Eve Roper
In the corner there...
Under the defused lights,
With spectral highlight’s here,
There, they float near and afar.
An apple sits in its technicolor glory,
It's not fully red or crimson or scarlet
Greens of sage and emerald
Dances in its hues,
Corruption is setting in as time passes
under these searing spots
as rot comes like a little death
spreading to the rest,
The rust of fruits oranges,
nectarines, bundles are of berries,
sliced in aromatic spice,
bloody droplets of cherry’s puddle,
next to a crystal chalice
of fine facets and filigrees
cut to trap light, to express
spectrums of color glitter and refract,
Standing starkly next
to the draped sacred rosary
and the sweet-fruited flesh.
Dust comes to rest
A raven of stately lorn,
blue on to black night into
nocturnal feathers bore
eyes deep as ink wells so black, onyx
dipping into hues blue in the reflect.
A haunting vestige that knows breath, nevermore!
Amidst the abstract, crowded
silent room linger
Still, stranger odd ornate objects gather...
from oblivion's shores.
A compass of intricate design,
sextons of aged patina brass,
Crack mirrors and mercury glass.
Mechanisms fine-tuned for sailors
to chart uncharted seas where “there be dragons”.
Deep, driven is the shaft of daggers hilted blade
Casts its long crucifixes shadow
Here on books of quaint and forgot lore
Tomes of cryptic grimoires,
archaic mysteries, ill-begotten biographies,
Black Bibles of some unknown deity...
Or leather-bound abominations
found in the depths of god-forsaken tombs.
Stacked like sand blown Persian Ziggurats.
To were a white horror stares
bleached bone and hollowed sockets glare
it grins sinisterly but it's harmless if you dare
But why would you care
Around this still life of oddities
Things found a life lived out fast
Hallmarks of someone long
forgotten history left in this corner
under these lights for someone
to render in all details
of its fading glories
Life is still at last.
Im living a book. So are you.
Tomorrow is a new me. Tomorrow is a new you.
But there is a tomorrow.
Im living a book. Today I turned a page. Or a leaf in a tablet. A leaf
I turned over a new leaf. And let me say "What a relief!"
Life is a book. A very long, very interesting, very confusing book.
Storys you've shouldn't have read, and some that deserve a second look
Dramas, tragedies, harlequins, and poetry,
Biographies, comedies, and even fiction unfortunately
But I enjoy to read and to share the stories
Of all the past failures and glories.
I wake up every day and say "Zack, why are you happy?'
He smiles and responds"Bc Ive been a daddy.
Ive been a friend, an enemie, been loved, been hated
Been turned into an ******* by women Ive dated.
Been turned into Cassanova by women Ive loved
Been kicked, punched, massaged and rubbed
Ive been happy, been sad. Ive laughed and Ive cried.
Ive had loved ones been born. Ive had loved ones that have died.
Ive gone days without sleeping and Ive slept for days
Ive paid for doing "jobs" and Ive had jobs that pays.
Ive been proud of other people and been told I make them proud
Ive lived my life in silence and Ive lived my life aloud.
Ive done a lot of things, theres a lot of things I haven't done.
But the answer to your question Zack is Im happy bc life is fun.
It has its ups and downs, and even some twist and turns
But I love it with a passion. So much, my heart, it burns.
And I know like every great ride it must come to an end.
The author of my book must set down his pen.
And my book will prolly just sit on a shelf collecting dust
bc to be honest, my book is kind of a bust.
But Im breezing right through it with a smile on my face
Flipping through pages like its a speed reading race.
Reading new stories each and every day
Even becoming a character in other peoples' plays'.
But all in all, if you sit and you look
All life really is is one big book.
.
Form:
Life, like a practiced comedian on the stage
Keeps smiling and frowning in turn.
Under the embers of joy that spark from our hearts,
Lies the pulverized heap of charcoaled dreams!
Sometimes I find life, a tight rope walk
When a false step can prove so very fatal
And fear it might land me in some bottomless abyss
Demanding me to proceed with utmost caution
At such times, I raise my heart in prayer
For divine assistance and godly intervention
Sure, this abidance in God keeps me on
When life turns a trek through labyrinthine paths
While staying at the Himalayan heights of joy
Sometimes I feel hurled down into the nadir of despair
Soon after proudly flaunting my trophy
I see myself smashed into utter defeat….
When trials and sorrows, thus dominate my life
And joy, I find is only a passing phase,
I turn to inspirational books and biographies of men
Who have dared and won against all odds
And thus fuel my mind with fresh hope
Sometimes when I feel moody for no reason
And am weighed down by an inarticulate ache
I make a stroll into nature, to the silent shade of trees
To hear the nightingales sing, to see the bees collecting pollen
To feast on the beauty that surrounds,
And inhale the salubrious air that comes wafting
Then I am filled with a new vigor and renewed zest
Brightening every corner of my darkened mind
In all ups and downs, when life becomes full of care
I withdraw into a lonely corner with my pen and paper
And tap at the fountain springs of my imagination
When a cascade of feelings plunge down from my heart,
Spurting out in broken jets with or without rhyme
Unveiling inmost secrets and thoughts of joy or gloom
Then it quickly hands me down with a therapeutic effect
And the storm inside ceases and a divine calm settles
April.3. 2022
What Keeps Me Going Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Cecelia Hopkins Drewer
In a green skirt wave to tables, in a yellow skirt wave to chairs, but in a white shirt sit in bookshelves humming away and swinging legs and arms to the beat transcribed by tomes, biographies, encyclopedias, dictionaries and thesauruses. A smartbook is not a smart book as it cant cook and therefore complaints should be made to the appropriate recipe page. A real page turner is not a yearner nor a learner for urns carried before steak in a fire is the epitome of a musket in a dazed glazed gin soup. So pass through the sheets, unravel the pjamas and stare out of the window. It is wise to count the clouds today. They are playing hide and seek with the rain, sleet, and snow. Always in a morning dew a frog can be seen dressed in fine attire sipping a curdled brandy from a seventeenth century cradle cup. And now it is time to go to cavern leap. It us amazing fun. In any clothes it can be done. Even in mis matching garments. Gaudy blessings hop hop hop. But no shop. For all is made from what is in front. Surprising how the inner formations of a house survive really. For missing a brick or two. Or a patch gouged out of a rug. That will surely be selling for lots of money at a craft fair if displayed as an item of esoteric mystery. Clap then. No no no not that loud. For you may disturb the sugar lumps sitting in the tree. They are the tree dwellers and deserve much peace and solitude too. A breeze bring a baton to the bayonet bank. And all is bought to bring bums and bombs. Shelter not a small shrinkable rat. And take no travelling topiary tree to a tropical themed disco. For discovery of emblems is often quite condensed in a triple harmony of a woodland dress. So go throw a spoon at a dart board then. Hahaha now whisk that chocolate pudding to a puffed out passing pastry. Hahaha now eat. Xxxxx carborundum Z. That was the latest from the p y q who was reporting from many tunnels. Z
Form:
in regards to my new resolutions ...
there are the usual ... eat healthy, exercise, drink more water
that all goes really good until about March
but, this year I will add
write better
and do art, drawing and painting
~ and this involves practice, practice, practice, practice each day
and I will work on my photography art also
and plan to let go of time, need, want and must ~
I wish to read poetry books
and art books, nature books, and biographies also
I love doing research so I will
discover poets of old and be inspired by their style
and write, write, write ...
~ walking with no destination and my camera ready
resurrect going on city walks that I loved to do
and go to the art gallery weekly ~
I will grow in my faith
finding my serenity and my tranquility
I will continue to follow the path of Tao
will meditate and ponder my life
will purge from my life all things not required
that includes people ... who add nothing to my growth
discover the 'person' I am meant to be ...
~ find what is my style ... am I retro or am I vintage
neither, I am whimsical, a bit of both entwined
my style ... says this is who I am world
now, watch me fly ~ ...
______________________
December 15, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/My 2023 Resolutions
Copyright Protected, ID 12-1508-992-15
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Resolutions for 2023
sponsor, Anoucheka Gangabissoon, Judged 01/05/2023
First Place
It's not the exchange rate or demand I value,
When I think of any United States Dollar;
I think of the currency note or coin whose view,
Depict biographies of persons of valor...
John Quincy Adams, nation-thinker of no class,
Thomas Hart Benton, eminent and credible;
Salman Portland Chase, an inspirational bass,
Henry Clay, a slave-owner turned slave-loveable...
George Washington, known for highest integrity,
Abraham Lincoln, best of men of principles;
Theodore - stood for the earth- regularity,
Thomas Jefferson, gentle and personable...
I'd collected some dollars to keep them with me.
It's not because I am a dollar collector.
I collect currencies of any small country.
It's to be in touch with them as their respecter.
Struggle and freedom from merciless genocides,
From slavery, slave-trade, national apartheid;
Theft of land, heinously greatest of homicides,
Each in a dollar imprinted and embodied.
Bills might come and go even Bill Clinton did so.
Bills have values only when they have their backgrounds.
Bills have no values when newer bills make their show.
Bills or no bills. Life goes on just like hare and hounds.
Bills have much value when they come to India.
This is why the American's like to visit.
They argue, bargain with the common media.
They find Indians are full of humor and wit.
The dollar is the treasury of history,
Let us not just look at the number and transact;
Stop; look, think and contemplate on its mystery,
That you get many a meaning to facts abstract.
13 June 2021
$ Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco