Long Cecil Poems
Long Cecil Poems. Below are the most popular long Cecil by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cecil poems by poem length and keyword.
(Google cecil lion murder)
Some satanic soul committed awful regicide
Of Cecil, prided King of the Jungle
And that has left behind his bereaved pride
And his offspring in bloody danger
For Cecil the royal majesty of the Game reserve
Has been the victim of crazy murder!
Round the world poaching goes on.
To purses of leather
one lost its skin
One lost its feather
to hats and decors
Another lost its fur
to those mink coats
One lost its tooth
to ivory bangles gosh!
Many lost their lives
to heartless hunters
Not only are they
on animal property encroaching
They are selfishly and greedily
also poaching
Alas! Alas! Alas!
Woe to that cut throat
fine and fancy fur coat
They lost it all to ruthless
merciless, thoughtless poachers
And even if this lost was found later
and confiscated by officers
Still how do you restore
this lost and found
to their rightful owners?
How do you return
a severed tusk to the elephant?
Fur to the lynx cat?
Skinned skins to the python?
Or ripped feathers to the peacock?
And how do you restore life
to the poor dead fauna
As long as poaching is rife
Relax not in beach or sauna.
Peep at them through binoculars
instead of through guns
Shoot 'em' with cameras
instead of weapons
O' hunters shun hunting
with darned shotguns!
Once again our nation…our world…is mired…in a sad and gloomy fog
as 11 more people have been massacred in a Pittsburgh synagogue…
11 innocent people praying one minute…the next ceasing to exist
11 innocent people added to a long and growing list.
Once again we are filled sorrow…once again our grief we can’t disguise
Once again we feel for the families…once again the whole world cries…
Yes, once again we’re crying as more of our innocence drifts away
because tears are all we have left…when we have no more words to say.
Joyce Fienberg, 75
Richard Gottfried, 65
Rose Mallinger, 97
Jerry Rabinowitz, 66
Cecil Rosenthal, 59
David Rosenthal, 54
Bernice Simon, 84
Sylvan Simon, 86, (husband of Bernice)
Daniel Stein, 71
Melvin Wax, 88
Irving Younger, 69?
Say, dig what I say
Talkin’ bout a new jazz vibe/
Man, move over/
the Jazz Cookers are hittin’ their stride in the groove to stay alive/
Eddie Henderson/
Cecil McBee/
George Cables,Billy Hart
and Billy Harper/
swingin’ harder jazz be flying/
downbeat, upbeat, man, count It off/
their soul auras are in the jazz notes they play/
David Weiss and Donald Harrison are fryin’ their amps/
burnin’ the house down/
with the jazz club scene in decline/
and record labels cuttin’ back on jazz/
the jazz Cookers have to stay alive and relevant in a jazz-changing world/
so dig, be cool struttin’ as Sonny Clark would say/
you might not always get a payday but you love to play/
the Cookers boss horns are on fire/
hip tones blowin' from the stage/bro, this is the jazz life you chose and after a gig, you might be all alone/
so be in the moment and improvise on your jazz note phrasing/
you’ll find the rhythm and meaning knowing you can play the same note gig after gig night after night/
but different every time/
are you hip to the Cookers?/
they will have you finger poppin’ and blowin' your mind/
wahoo that’s a whole lotta jazz
Hear the mighty lion roar
From the past and distant shore
Africa long ago lost it’s maim
Humanity has been lost in Africa’s shame
Kill one lion
Hear the western nations roar
Slaughter complete races
You will hear western nations snore
Children starved, women raped
Soldier kings justify their burning hate
We stand by and pay no heed
As millions are slaughtered like African weeds
We have tears for the old lion true
The symbol or pride we ourselves un-deserve
Let us shed our tears for bloated black babies
Whom would gladly smile for a little meat
Perverse is the tear shed over one lion head
Notes: Of course I do not condone in any way the shooting of animals for sport, and endangered species must be preserved not for their sakes but for our sakes, selfish indeed. However it struck me the irony that such a story held the headlines for so long, when genocide becomes but a side note in our daily news.
I'll remember the museums
And the fine historic homes.
There's been mention of both music
And parade within my poems.
But it really is the people
That will stick inside my brain,
For connections, even brief ones,
Are the gems that I'll retain:
Chuck the artist, born in Kansas,
And his very lovely wife.
If we settled in Savannah,
They'd be friends of ours for life.
Southern Cecil, full of knowledge
Of his charming, tree-lined town,
Gave a walking tour quite wonderful,
While putting "Yankees" down.
Two young salesclerks selling honey
And a waitress from the west;
A museum guide in Clarksdale,
Whose collection so impressed.
John and Eileen from Virginia,
On the rooftop bar called Rocks
And the docent who directed us
To bagels and to lox!
Tim the piano man and Judy,
She a member of my tribe;
John the concierge, exuding
Such a quirky Southern vibe.
I could keep this up forever
But I'll tie it up, quite neat -
Yes, the greatest part of travel
Is the people that you meet.
Now where does this Highlander start
To thank those commenter's, present and past
So many read and absorbed
Their kindness to me always lasts
Dr.Ram and Carol Brown
My African Queen 'Miss Wilma Neel's
Michael from New York City
Whose comments I internally feel
There's Andrea, the Utah babe
And Carolyn, from Florida State
Their writing I so enjoy
For their words reverberate
John Loving is such a wonderful guy
There's Sara and Doris too
Deb Radke and Sharon Ruebel our newbies
Made welcome to our literal zoo
P.D. Skat and Constance
Barbara, Iolanda and June
Francine from lovely Nanaimo
Many thanks to all of you
To Ruben, Celene and Raul
Your past writes have helped me grow
Along with so many others
You have helped my words to flow
Blimey! I better not miss out the Brits
Sarah, Brian, Sharon and June
And Anna Marie, away down in Wales
I have read in my front room
Many dudes I also have to thank
Harry Horsman the Geordie boy
The two Roberts, Dufresne and Hinshaw
Whose writings bring so much joy
There's also the bard called Peranteau
Billy the Kidster, Cecil as well
HG, Catie Lindsey and James Goff
Who marshalls his words real swell
And lastly there's the thousands of others
This character has ran out of space
Keep the ink in you pen gently flowing
Your names to me is your face
Golly! this is turning into a story
And many told by the above writing troops
As I marvel at your writing ingredients
Keep writing for this wonderful Soup
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-16.php
'Twas the eve before Christmas and through all the house chaos reigned!
With all to be done, rapport 'twixt Ma and Pa was rather strained!
No creatures were stirrin' (as yet!) - Cecil the cat nor Horace the dog,
Who lay snuggled and snoozin' nigh the warmth of the yuletide log.
Ma was fixin' a green bean casserole and ham for dinner next day.
Pa wrestled with assemblin' a doll house and bike without delay.
The kids were snuggled in bed wonderin' how reindeer flew,
And prayin' Santa wouldn't get stuck sneakin' down the chimney flue!
The kids left salami and milk nigh the tree for dear old Santa Claus.
Cecil lapped up the milk and Horace ran off with the salami in his jaws!
The cat took a likin' to the sparklin' ornaments on the Christmas tree,
Knockin' it to the floor and hidin' behind the couch after his little spree!
Ma and Pa worked all night - the grandfather clock chimed four!
Suddenly, there was a persistent rappin' comin' from the front door!
Who should appear with bags in hand but Uncle Clyde and Aunt Sue!
"We were passin' through and thought we'd spend Christmas Day with you!"
Entry for L. Milton Hankins' "Parody Of A Famous Poem" Contest
(Land that doth marry mother lode
of sublime earthen land and sea).
Age of exploration
ushered cruel fate
against “red” men living
in bliss by agents
patch of eden north
o the Mason Dixon line
latitude: 39.64839
longitude: -75.95591 alee
perchance designed
by divine providence
with dyslexic humorous bents
Cecil county Maryland
lies like plump backward letter “e”
witnessed topographic erosion
pocked imprimatur marked
meteorological dents
thru inundation of
oceanographic propensities
melding coastline like the Galilee
in particular by Chesapeake Bay,
that body of water
abutting like natural fence
first witnessed by captain
John Smith in 1608
mistaking himself tong tied
in sole of Italy
learned faux pas, when crossing paths
with Susquehannas hence,
offered tobacco sticks to natives
while recovering
from injured wounded knee
said other sundry tribes curiously eyed
then (I utilized poetic license)
took smoke from packet of Kents
which twist on actual
historical facts manipulated by me
but more truthful account awash
and replete with more
than interspersed nonsense
and incorporates tract situated
in so called Fertile Crescent – see
settled by Europeans of English stock,
who emigrated with nary a pence
“taming” shrew like “noble savages”
plied Leviathan sized ukuleles
whose might exploited for felling forests,
which timber built cabins with vents.
I awoke this morning to a beautiful autumn day.
It was 7am as I picked up the newspaper from the lawn.
This morning everything seemed more fresh and green than usual.
I live in Victor Harbour, South Australia on the Fleurieu Peninsula.
Our house sits at the top of a hill giving spectacular views from all sides.
Nature abounds, we have a view of the sea which is at the bottom of the
Avenue where we live.
I thank God for these gifts every day and realise how blessed we are.
The early morning sky, showing colours of burnished gold as the sun rose
behind a silhouette of trees complimented by a cornflower blue sky that
was slowly appearing.
When I bent down to pick up the paper a flock of ducks, flying low,
passed by me pursued by a large red fox.
The fox was airborne, he had become the hunter, not the hunted.
Everything happened so quickly.
I was amazed by this living masterpiece I had become part of.
It was a perfect work of art without the use of paint or brush.
I was spellbound.
A song I learned at school came to mind, All Things Bright And Beautiful
(written by Cecil Francis Alexander (c) 1848)
The author of this children's song encaptured in simple words my entire
thoughts and feelings.
I felt elated as I went back into the house to share my experience with my husband.
Hustlin' Soul Jazz to the beat on the street/
Straight ahead Hank Mobley Art Blakey Seven Steps to the cool sounds of Harlem, diggin' deep into the subway, Harlem-148 St get off, take off/
whatcha say, bright moments, Man, bright moments the Pharoah Sanders way Milestones on the eight track Blue Mitchall's trumpet at the Sweet Basil, a jazz club in New York City's Greenwich Village/ a great place to play jazz and hang with no big pay day/
Wow, what a scene, Cecil McBee, Leroy Jenkins, Junior Mance, heavy heavy hitters of the jazz day/
So dig this, don't forget Wynton Kelly and his trio/
cool jazz covers and slick sleeves to get the record-buyin' hipster to hit on vinyl. Man, let me get you a bird's eye view, cause there ain't no cover charge to dig these words to view