Long Blake Poems
Long Blake Poems. Below are the most popular long Blake by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blake poems by poem length and keyword.
“A fool sees not the same tree
that a wise man sees
which moves some to tears of joy
is in the others only a green thing
that stands in the way.”
William Blake
Brutal cruel and ignorant
Barbaric really
That stupid woman
Who chopped the flowering rose bushes
Down to one-foot stumps
Because their petals littered the common driveway
And she had no time to clean up after them
She thought they were her disobedient children
She a self appointed cleaner
No gardener of our common garden drive
With no knowledge of gardening children or cleanliness
She spends all her time sterilizing her house
And drying her badly washed laundry
In the unwilling air of the rolling Tuscan hills
This is what we are dealing with
Un- trainable un-teachable blindness
Beasts who massacre deface and pollute
the blessedness of this world unseen
unknown unknowable
The dignity of the non-human world
Assaulted by creatures from hell
Destroyed without compunction
Without any moral consideration
I hear the roses screaming in my sleep
But it’s too late
They will no longer be flourishing
We have come too far
There is no hope left
We can only wait
For the world to be truly cleansed
to get over her heartbreak
Winnie had steak and a shake
the café rumbled a bit during the quake
She wondered if the roof might flake
They dove under booths for safety’s sake
She saw a little girl take her birthday cake
She also saw that no-good-ex named Blake
He was holding his pet duck, name of Drake
Winnie wondered if this whole scene was fake
Was she dreaming it? No. Because she smelled cake.
She looked out the window and saw a tree by the lake
The wind blew it down and picked up a rake
She was so stunned by the sight, she began to quake
Luckily about that time, she came fully awake
“Robin Redbreast in a cage,”
So sweet this line from a bygone age!
But now ‘tis not the heavens that rage;
‘tis Raging Ram who now holds stage.
Raging Ram, who’s that? you ask.
The truth to tell should be my task.
The truth, the truth? Where art thou, Blake?
Where once was truth, all else is fake.
Before I tell of “Raging Ram,”
here’s a word on Uncle Sam
It’s safe to praise him, now he’s dead,
And Raging Ram stands in his stead.
As ”Raging Ram is doing just fine,
to make laudations I’ll decline.
Of naming names I am most leery,
I, of politics grown weary!
Diplomats may bray and bleat.
What do I hear, if not a tweet?
But Robin Redbreast long past hath flown.
Birds know things to us unknown.
‘Twere best I also take to flight?
No stomach have I for a l fight.
With wingèd messengers all fled,
‘Twere best we poets go to bed?
The ceaseless beating of a drum,
fast marks our days ‘til we are done.
Our time will come, our time will come.
Listen, listen, can you hear it?
Growing louder as you near it,
as men of courage, cowering, fear it.
A distant, daunting, haunting hum,
vibrations of a tympanum,
of time to come, of time to come.
Strings of the cosmic tympanum,
vibrating ‘branes as they are strum,
keep perfect time ‘til we are done.
Drum beats of infinite duration,
a cosmic tintinnabulation,
God’s multiversal modulation.
In resonance the yogis “OM”
harmonics of the cosmic thrum,
that marks our days ‘til we are done.
The poets and the prophets pray
their words of warning will convey
why we should cherish every day:
Blake wrote with vision, somber, sour,
“Eternity in just one hour.”
Just long enough to smell a flower,
before the beasts of time devour.
Look, to the stars, where we began,
now turn around and you are old.
Go, smell the flowers, while you can,
soon you’ll be buried in the cold.
For the ceaseless beating of a drum,
fast marks our days ‘til we are done.
Our time will come ... my time has come!
For the ceaseless beating of a drum,
fast mar …
Submitted 6-8-2020.
his human name was Albert Francis Simmons
he was born in Detroit
his mom was a devil worshipper ... his dad was in sales
Albert was intelligent
he became a decorated Marine Officer
and joins the Secret Service
later, part of Central Intelligence Agency
the NSA, NSG and a skilled assassin
Albert was married to Wanda Blake for many years
very happy but with no children ... just a dog
and they accepted that
however, their destiny would take a dark turn
on a secret mission Albert is murdered
he is set on fire and is burnt to death
and is sent to Hell
where he makes a deal with the Devil
he agrees to become the creature Hell Spawn
and returns to earth after five years
he wanders confused and haunted by flashbacks
his body covered in scars
he finds out that Wanda has remarried
his friend Terry, he visits their home in disguise
and becomes their protector
only because of Wanda ... who later gives birth to twins
Spawn becomes a cruel, sadistic anti-hero
and has battles with Heaven, Hell, and Earth
his suit is made of Necroplasm from the fires of Hell
and his massive flowing red cape ... his protective wings
his huge right and left legs are heavily armored
a mask covers his burnt deformed face
he is a dark force with superhuman strength
immortal, skilled fighter, demonic, healer, mind controller
Spawn helps Terry when he is trouble with the CIA
he finds their daughter Cyan when she goes missing
he donates money anonymously to the hospital
where Wanda is creating a children's wing
he has battles on Earth, Heaven and Hell
those battles far to numerous to be retold here or
to list in this poem but they are many, many
oh, beware for Hell Spawn dwells here on earth
when God informs Spawn that Wanda is dead
and in Hell ... he goes back to Hell to save her
and her unborn child who are being held by Satan
their only chance is if he trades his protective suit
does he ?
his earthly grave is empty .. his wife terrified of him
for he is truly a dark spawn of the Devil
but, somewhere in his fragmented memories is love
for his wife Wanda
_________________
March 28, 2023
Written for the contest, Spawn
sponsor, Robert James Liguori
These are the artists I like best
I'll put my poem skills to the test
Rascal Flatts is one group
In the country music loop
With hit songs that top the charts
Sad or funny touch my heart
Videos that go so well
With lyrical stories they tell
Luke Bryan is cowboy hot
He is always looking smart
With his sexy jeans and looks
Just one glance and I am hooked
His voice is sweet and so mellow
It turns this girl fan to jello
Blake Shelton's another guy
Who is not exactly shy
At being sexily cool
Making this "old" woman drool
His music is perfection
He is my daily obsession
There are other country artists
Who might not have made my top list
But also get my attention
There are too many to mention
I have to get my country fix
With different artists in the mix
Not one day will pass me by
That I don't laugh or sometimes cry
With these great artists I've written
Who will always have me smitten
"Inspired by Title #2, Bait- Better to
shun the bait than struggle in the snare."
Quote by _William Blake
During my life I have met people,
who leave beautiful footprints in my heart:
and others who stay forever with me,
but there are some people who bait me;
into a trap of torment, lies, and deceit.
These people trick me with stories,
of despair that fill me with sadness and worry:
believing- I offer my love and heart,
they cajole me, beguile and bedevil me;
until I find out they are making it all up.
I am left feeling stupid and gullible,
how could I let myself be pulled in so easily:
they used my kindness and sympathy,
tricked me, baited me, lured me with lies;
I need to banish, avoid and ignore them.
I believe the devil sends such people,
to test us, to snare us into evil, to break our faith:
the devil wishes to tempt and seduce us,
and I must rid myself of this struggle;
send them away no matter their excuse.
BEWICK
unhampered
unclouded
clear precise
memoirs of the mind
hollowed out of time
in domains dissected
yellow harvests
fading foliage
leaves birds&trees
depicted
with an unusual eye
a spontaneous overflow
of feelings
exposed
the rarest
of qualities
exquisitely
executed&
engraved
BLAKE
without fluence
in infinite patience
vital& neccessary
bursting with life
yet
tender&
exhuberant
marginalia
footnotes&epigrams
imitations worthy of notice
subjective
particular
in mood & nature
a miasma
intent on definition
in visions of dells knooks & corners
of paradise
in
a pitch of poetic intensity
vivid brilliancy
mist dreaming glimmers
upon
gaudy daylight
Beneath the sea, the train slips into shadow,
a vessel of murmur wrapped in motion,
threading two empires of thought and stone.
London behind, Paris ahead, history pulsing
in the dark between.
Above us, the English Channel stirs,
unaware of the weight we carry,
not luggage, but centuries of verse, of vision,
of the painted and the sung.
That train runs fast and faster,
The greens disappearing on both sides in a blink.
Thames and Seine, bonded with art and culture,
love and affection from London to Paris.
London,
where the Thames glides slowly with solemn pride,
It's banks cradling the ghost of Blake,
His angels watching over soot and smoke.
Tennyson once stood tall there,
Laureate of crown and grief,
His odes echoing in the marble hush of Westminster.
Turner’s storms still burn across the canvas sky,
while the city folds its myths into stone and spire,
its bridges heavy with memory.
The tunnel comes not as absence,
but as a breath held long beneath history’s weight.
The English Channel, a wonder of the world,
filled with miles to touch each coast,
a bridge of silence, a passage of dreams,
where steel and longing meet.
Paris rises, soft with light,
The Seine a ribbon of gold in afternoon hush.
The Louvre gleams with the hush of reverence,
Mona Lisa’s quiet, endless gaze,
Leonardo’s sigh forever caught in oil and air.
Here, verse spills from café tables,
Baudelaire’s decadent lilies, Rimbaud’s revolts,
and Hugo’s granite grandeur,
each echoing through boulevards like
steps in the wet after-rain.
In Versailles, once walked a stranger
whose name would alight in Bengal:
Michael Madhusudan Dutt, exiled, eloquent,
who carved epics in a borrowed tongue,
then gave it back transformed.
In marble gardens, he mourned his motherland,
His Duttabharati heart bridging Kopotakkho to Seine with sonnet and sorrow,
East to West in measured meters.
Two cities not divided by sea,
but bound beneath it, stone clasping stone,
poem clasping poem, Madhusudan to Milton,
Turner to Monet,
London and Paris, a pair of eternal mirrors,
in love with beauty, in dialogue forever.
We pass beneath that unspoken vow,
carried by steel, by memory,
by the quiet rhythm of art continuing.
This evening
I was humbled
by Welsh born artist,
Donald Jackson--
His profound dedication
and personal sacrifice
are truly beyond
my poetic
expression--
new insight and beauty
(such vision absent for
many generations)--
spiritual beauty
procured deep within
our cloistered archives,
written on
the sacred vellum
of human consciousness
and soul--
I was reminded so
of William Blake--
of course Donald is
his own man:
with a particular flare
of artistic genius
self indigenous--
for here,
like no other
(God inspired!)
painstakingly
peeled away
with instrument,
hands guided by
pure light
are flesh-veils
till the realization
as one's heart
leaps with joy
when seeing
seeming miraculously
for the first time,
The Illumined
Body of Christ!