Long Canvassed Poems
Long Canvassed Poems. Below are the most popular long Canvassed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Canvassed poems by poem length and keyword.
Itinerant mercenary shrouded with penitent robe
Shining beacon for terrorists around the globe
Hermetic curmudgeon; gun-toting xenophobe
Zealous provacateur who for ardent jihadists did probe
Material wealth a means; establishing a caliphate the end
Seeking Arab-royalty's, sovereign-sheikdoms to rend
Scourge of terror to blight all that western values defend
Sharia law to govern Middle East; Allah's dividend
Great Satan's engine to throttle
Region's fealty to bottle
Suicide pilots struck the monuments we coddle
Gratuitious shards and blood stains did the landscape mottle
President Bush promised swift revenge
Ordered Taliban to stop Osama's bloody binge
Mullah Omar reneged; Bushes' saber rattling had a malodorous tinge
U.S forces did the Taliban's quarters singe
Alquaida's overseas operations are diminished
But Alquaida's mission not finished
Alquaida cells in Iraq, Afghanistan bravely battle, mettle distinguished
Nevertheless, the infidel forces not extinguished
Gitmo detainees probed for information
Trite torture brought about stunning reformation
Stressed warrior's fealty to leader declined in isolated station
Under duration, divulged details about Bin Laden's method of operation
Osama's couriers cover blown
Seeds for fruitful harvest are sown
Courier's redoubt canvassed with satellite, drone
Intelligence on compound, residents CIA did hone
Calculated risk; Navy Seals in choppers did alight
Flying quietly with fiery portents into the calm night
Hoping the briny tentacles of terror to blight
Cresting over the shadowy compound; objective in sight
Down the dangling ladders vigilant Seals did repel
Into the throes of darkness descending into the mouth of hell
Perimeter defense, early warning signals were of no avail
Osama's stunned tenants could only stand fast or bail
Each obstacle, human shield the Seals did meticulously fell
Carefully following the trail to the Holy Grail
Entering Osama's room, rending the sacral veil
The caged warrior with precision did shell
Osama's dead body packed in a unmarked crate
Transported vicariously to lab, identity to equate
Identity confirmed; vigilant menace had met his fate
Un-consecrated remains tossed into sea; watery tomb his final estate
August is ending with a heat that gives no mercy to the land or man
so intense that the air swelters off the river into the tree tops,
looking ahead, its as if we are passing through the gossamer of summer's spector,
Private Shanon has been missing for six days
although, we believe he is lost, not captured or deserted
only God knows where his feet have taken him,
evidence along the riverbank indicates that he is alive and pursuing us
perhaps mistaken and disoriented, thinking that we are further up river,
Old Dorion is seeking him now like a clever wolf,
Shanon was seperated from me while stalking a coyote
a most mischievous animal that is entirely foriegn to us except in prank,
a bottle of whiskey goes to the first man who can lay a coyote down,
yesterday half of the expedition went hunting the prarie dog
a critter more cunning than a cat and jumpy as a log spark,
after several hours of scrambling around like lunatics
Private Sheilds has finally caught one with pork bait and a twig basket
the poor rascal squieks like a cheap violin,
eventually I will send it to Washington with other novel specimens,
President Jefferson and the Philosophical Society will be good guardians,
the men and I have been refreshing ourselves on the jewels of soil
the wild grapes are so succulent that the Italians would believe
Bacchus himself had seeded this earth with a secret serum
and the plum groves cuddled in the most unadulterated coves
invite the mind into Eden's shadow,
on this journey we have observed migrations of pigeons
that have rivaled the stretch of storm clouds,
crowds of squirrels so numerous they have canvassed the ground with a sea of fur,
and now the mighty, mythical buffalo walks before us
a legend amongst beasts, monstrous in girth
with hooves that peel the Plains and horns shaped by vengeance,
as they graze we seize the prize of their offering with thanks in our aim,
not having horses strategic concealment is critical, they are reknown for retaliation,
we dropped seven of them in a great pandemonium of panic
the gun smoke, field dust and perspiration meld into a fragrance of sacrifice,
our sustenance is secured, their lives feed our future,
J.A.B.
Stilled again across the canals broadening
Girth;
Mesh cages of rock-filled Gabions
Reinforcing patches of exposed and arid earth,
Reflecting the glints that gleefully
Twist and dance in the hot glare of the sun...
Provoking images and stirring indefinable feelings
That begin to irrevocably up and run;
Pictures and voices crowding into my mind:
Immersing me in the flooding moments
To which i am briefly resigned.
Now momentarily staid by the shimmering
Instance
In which i find myself inextricably caught,
Perplexed by something rather intangible,
Seeming almost to tease and laugh
Whilst confounding upon my evasive and
Fleeting thoughts;
As glancing across at the opposite bank
Where drawn up a line of densely packed trees..
I swore...I heard the reel of a high squealing
Fiddle -
Playing ever so briefly alongside a tricky little
Breeze.
For stood there I, wondering,
On a grey painted swing-bridge:
Of brightly painted Steamers, dirty Trampers
And of double masted white canvassed Brigs.
Oh! The everlasting glory of a New World order
Redefined:
Entrusted to those instructed in her Majesties
Construction of sprawling Victorian sublimes!
The men who heroically dug, picked, blasted and
Strove:
To securely fasten an Iron cast girdle around
An ever diminishing blue globe.
Dreaming of long ago, dutiful, Golden-Age days
Rigorously pursued down, what are now,
Weed strewn, abandoned byways.
Faustian clothing and a Velveteens cap;
The thick buckled leather gaiters held about
By the strap.
Many the word spoken in a soft southern brogue:
All hail the glorious navigators -
The navvies of old!
Staunch and desperate men forced to resign
Their native Gaelic shores
And burden unto themselves with
Mattocks, shovels and garishly painted-up whores.
Under the high flaming beacons
And over the obscure little brow -
They carved out the new waterways
To float the laden down prow.
Yes! Men of the Emerald Isles
I salute you and your kinsfolk
From lands cast westwards afar:
The magnificent "Paddies" from the verdant island -
Of Erin-Go-Bragh!
I can't believe I thought that.
In the shadows of my soul the whispers lingered. It murmured and elegantly sat massaging my last ego in the stool of regrets. My being was lied to, stomped at, shot with words anchored with rays of
acidic venoms.
The truth choked me.
It served anguish on
my haunting mind.
It's hypnotic that I once fancied a strangling viper that vapours the juice from my melted eyes into the mountain of torture.
I stumbled, I swayed to life's thorns of abyss and ensnared by love's cruel crumbs of illusion.
The bruises painted on my canvassed face chuckled at every punch till I lost the willingness to see the glory of the full moon in dark clouds.
My eyes sank into the fire.
My eerie turquoise lips screamed out blue lavas.
I was the sulfur who dared not escape the volcano. Those blows made me regurgitate.
Made me lose my sapling smile.
Orchestrated the loss of myself.
I was thorn from my flesh like onions.
My blood, alarmed in pickled beet hues and I gushed like cano cristales, dangling on the verge of a slit through the wrist.
I didn't want to leave my pumpkins
I didn't want to see them watch me either.
It was selfish to dance with such folly.
To roam in that nightmare of a dream.
It was selfish to leave them suffering the most but my eyes failed me.
My voice joined the chorus
My legs? The soil rejected them.
A breezy glance of creamy smile after
every hit. The devil's only laugh.
How do I make it painless?
No one is saving me from this.
The world would plea I endure
They won't not believe, and neither did I.
Time stood still dancing to my whims.
The wind in pretence, flinched.
The night? It barely covered my shame.
I watched the hessdalen lights take flight without crawling on me.
Do I let his grey kicks
take the last accolades
Or should I grab them
myself, taking the glory?
It's bewildering, I thought that I was loved.
I can't believe I thought that taking my breath would make it easier and filter the pain.
For every dig and storm he imprinted on me,
I forgive myself.
There are times you think the ink
is finally dry
that human hearts are made of stone
and always die
that the lessons we have learned
have no value
in the effort to apply them
we are not true
I’ve canvassed fields of study
and sought to learn
had hoped what I’ve acquired
I would not spurn
But like the wool whose dye
is firmly set
I turn around to find
I can forget
There can be no denying
that we are flawed
our pursuit of excellence and love
we call our God
and then I look again
and what I see
an inheritance we have called
negativity
I battle with ideas
and formulate
the slavery in which mankind
is dyed with hate
Where here the things of Life
he can’t enjoy
making sure every child has
hates employ
here our own examinations
have unclear lens
We judge the flaws in others
but miss our sins
When the outlook of our future
appears so bleak
because our weaknesses to overcome
we do not seek
When we inspect all the others
to find their flaws
then imagine not in ourselves
the self same cause
Oh our hubris how insular
the men you’ve damned
And to follow after violence
like it’s unplanned
And still we kill each other
in mind and deed
because we seek to drench
ourselves in greed
We have given birth to death
our practiced ways
and dominion over mankind
won’t leave but stays
And still the studied set in
institutions
whatever we have learned no
absolution’s
who does note our selfish flaws
knowing sorrow
Will we awake another day
forget tomorrow
No paradise can come to being
without mans love
And all within the cosmos
we’ll take care of
Keep awake and never forget
the yesterdays
because mankind must be changing
all his ways
COPYRIGHT © June 2015
PoetryofProvidence
via Duboff Law Group LLC
I cradle and rock him,
He's so fragile a thing in my arms,
So perfect, so innocent,
So unlike his mother.
His mother was broken and wicked,
A being rotten from within,
But I had loved her still.
It was foolish, I know,
But is that not what love entails,
Accepting someone for who they are?
She likened herself to a grey petaled rose once,
Sere and dying.
He'd likened her to a little candle,
Hidden beneath a bushel.
She called her life a colorless canvassed painting,
With him only as red.
When she saw only lifeless skies and muted chaos,
And her sanity danced away;
To some silent unheard rock music,
He fastened to her hand and danced with her,
Till the music turned gentle,
And it's tempo slow.
I had known she wouldn't stay for me,
Believing otherwise would be naive.
I had thought she would stay for him;
Our little boy,
Thought she could lock away those parts of herself,
That part of her mind that played terrible scenes;
Of still bloody rivers,
And terrific demons,
And scattered husks of men;
All in haunting recaps,
That compelled her to recreate such destruction.
She did not think she was worthy,
To look upon a thing so perfect and innocent,
And call her own.
She was broken and wicked,
And she was rotten from within,
But she knew in her black shriveled beating-box,
That he would take care of him,
Like he had done for her,
As her healer and her friend,
Though he was not his own.
So she'll close her eyes for just a little while,
For she believed all will be well,
And she hoped to go where there was silence,
Flawless emptiness.
It would be beautiful to her if death were like that.
She'll love them both still,
In that world of total blankness,
And isn't that what love is about,
Letting someone go when you know you're not right for them?
From sunup to sundown
it was indeed a weird day;
it seemed as if the sun rose
wearing dimming shades
and as if the wind had been
blown off course or locked out.
The bold-green leaf trees, hedges,
shrubs, and lawn grasses just stood
there motionless as if they were
aping their canvassed or woven cloth/
plastic counterparts that year-round
highlighted the locations of graves.
In the dimness of it all, even shadows
had a time with their shading reflections;
and the bi-polar tempt had fun teasing
t-shirts and sweatshirts with a strange
“lukeness” that was neither hot nor cold
nor warm or cool. A special Virginia trait!
The scary-like graveyard silence
of this weird lingering day was
pinged periodically by echoes of
hidden birds in trees and sometimes
the echoes of ducks in a distant pond;
it seemed as if no other sound had
the echoing energy to pierce the silence.
As this taunting tired day slowly faded
into the coming darkness of night, suddenly
I realized that nothing had happened to me
Throughout this weird incomprehensive
lingering day, and that my heart was beating
with a shooing rhythm of allegorical awareness.
This day of the week too had been one
that the Lord had made with his undying love
and had blessed me to be perpendicular in it;
thus, it became apparent to me that I need
to rejoice and be glad to be a part of another
day of God’s imaging shared beauties of life.
In gratitude, I now share this day with you
that like me, you too may understand that
although it may seem at times that God does
not give us what it is we want, he has never
failed to give us the things we’ve had needs for.
Memories: Friend and Foe,
collaboration with Lin Lane
"Memory is man's greatest friend and worst enemy."
~ Gilbert Parker ~
Laud precious memories when cold nights prevail
Those that fan love's flames as wintry winds wail
for upon those images, a lonely heart sets sail
if only in an interlude where grief cannot assail
Tho' behind and betwixt are storms, dark mortal seas
yet love births sweet glories, devoid of costly fees
Far more beautiful than earth is Nature and its trees
On a romantic path, in truest light, may God it please
Mourns the heart when memories are bittersweet
Each one a plunging dagger, blades of winter sleet
A mighty foe one cannot banish or cast off in defeat
for with each renewed attack, pain is wont to repeat
Memories of past failures plague sad, wounded souls
Invisible afflictions impose such pretentious tolls
Past wrongs are seared into regret's grievous roles
remaining as fair warning, which wisdom fairly extols
But there are melodious moments; dulcet thoughts
where flows trickling memories and elation imparts
rushing through veins 'til canvassed in pulsing hearts
as treasured paintings; unforgettable works de' arts
When a smile, sans apparent reason, plays upon lips
and eyes shine as though emerging from a lunar eclipse
there will arise a memory, perhaps in cursory snips
a prize to relish, delectable as wine a connoisseur sips
Robert J. Lindley and Lin Lane collaboration.
Rhyme, 12-09-2019
Note: Thank you Lin. An honor to collaborate with you
and see firsthand your fine poetic talents on blessed display..
God bless...
Death of the King
– a threnody
Since the day of freedom,
the crowned king has sat
stately on state affairs:
atop this tempest
this illwind,
this boiling cauldron of corruption.
Blowing and blowing and
siphoning away our joy
and commonwealth!
The king’s green white green clime
is groaning under the weight of
the ILLUMINATI PATRONS –
His extensive tentacles striding
this wretched world of ours,
like a colossus, stripping
poor pockets of their smile
His flag flying fully –
unchallenged:
torn;
dirty;
blood stained, graft-ridden.
Marooned universally
and ripe to die!
Oh, what a reign of rape!
The green white green attire
lies forlorn at the backwaters
of modernity –
Oh where is the peace of cradle
Oh where is the fertility canvassed and
midwifed on freedom day?
At dusk,
the king is on his deathbed.
His sun is setting rather late.
Legion hands are at work
and they conspire for his death.
His statue is inclining towards
the dust for a lethal bite!
And now
the royal stream is flowing low,
drying up!
Handcuffs are on the prowl –
arresting and herding PATRONS
to the penitentiary to await
the inevitable:
The death of the king.
Postscript:
Oh King,
the hate we dedicate to you,
in death, is without end.
Your tomb lies in our psyche
without date, license, incense
or casket –
Except this eternal pamphlet
of your epithet, enthroned.
Accept, o king, this dirge as a
memorial of your repose and
sojourn in the hottest
part of hell.
"Memory is man's greatest friend and worst enemy."
~ Gilbert Parker ~
Laud precious memories when cold nights prevail
Those that fan love's flames as wintry winds wail
for upon those images, a lonely heart sets sail
if only in an interlude where grief cannot assail
Tho' behind and betwixt are storms, dark mortal seas
yet love births sweet glories, devoid of costly fees
Far more beautiful than earth is Nature and its trees
On a romantic path, in truest light, may God it please
Mourns the heart when memories are bittersweet
Each one a plunging dagger, blades of winter sleet
A mighty foe one cannot banish or cast off in defeat
for with each renewed attack, pain is wont to repeat
Memories of past failures plague sad, wounded souls
Invisible afflictions impose such pretentious tolls
Past wrongs are seared into regret's grievous roles
remaining as fair warning, which wisdom fairly extols
But there are melodious moments; dulcet thoughts
where flows trickling memoires and elation imparts
rushing through veins 'til canvassed in pulsing hearts
as treasured paintings; unforgettable works de' arts
When a smile, sans apparent reason, plays upon lips
and eyes shine as though emerging from a lunar eclipse
there will arise a memory, perhaps in cursory snips
a prize to relish, delectable as wine a connoisseur sips