Long Championed Poems
Long Championed Poems. Below are the most popular long Championed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Championed poems by poem length and keyword.
Her laughter championed her trust wanton,
in the garden ... baby naps peacefully,
'till a baby stirs, ignores looks made silly.
After a short while, normalcy weighs-in,
an exuberant baby squirms around.
A whimsy garden undresses young sight,
seen proffered midst an increased, proper light.
Above and under, a baby goes round,
hush, a ladybug takes flight bouncingly.
A baby's head progress up and around,
venturing to detect the beating sound.
A head steadies, a small face splashed with glee,
coos, burst, an orange speck gains distance.
A grinning baby receives the same fate,
while some garden stays from a closing gate,
as the sun sinks past a white picket fence.
In the wake of an avarice moment,
Yield into a serendipitous claim,
Love witnessed a desire being potent,
The grandeur Laurentian Abyss, she came.
Her hair the color of passionate heat,
Trailed sparks in the carved vale of the Abyss,
She brought the ardor of men their defeat,
And vanquished hearts with her outpour of bliss.
Genteel tasks in her liquefied domain,
Her expressed lured eyes left their thoughts to wane,
From Neptune Masiff, left many in vain,
The heights alone made the challenge, a strain.
Her laughter championed her wanton trust,
Abyss turned Masiff, the mermaid of lust.
2019 September 21
In the depths of Van Gogh's starry night,
A passion burned, and a soul took flight.
Colours swirled in a cosmic dance,
His paintbrush, his fervent romance.
Michelangelo with marble white,
Carved life from stone, a glorious sight.
David emerged with strength untold,
A testament to a passion that's bold.
Picasso, with his fractured art,
Broke the mould, tore worlds apart.
Cubist dreams and surreal schemes,
Passion flowed in endless streams.
Mother Teresa, a heart so pure,
In slums of suffering, she'd endure.
Her love, a beacon, in the darkest night,
Passion for compassion, burning bright.
Marie Curie, the atoms' quest,
In the lab, she'd never rest.
Radiance and discoveries unfurled,
Her passion ignited the scientific world.
Tagore, with verses that touched the soul,
His words like music, make spirits whole.
"Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high,"
His passion for freedom reached the sky.
Nelson Mandela, in prison's cold,
A passion for justice, fearless and bold.
Forgiveness, unity, his enduring plea,
He set a nation and its people free.
Robert Frost, with words so deep,
In snowy woods, his promises keep.
The road less traveled, his chosen way,
A passion for verses, night and day.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's love,
Her sonnets soared to skies above.
Passion's fire in every line,
A love for all time, a love divine.
Dalai Lama, with wisdom profound,
In a world of chaos, a tranquil sound.
Compassion and love, his guiding star,
A passion for peace, from near to far.
Michelle Obama, a voice of grace,
Championed hope in every place.
Education, equality, her guiding star,
A passion for change, from near to far.
In these souls, their passions drove,
They sought, they struggled, they dared to prove.
Their legacies, like stars in the night,
Illuminate the world with passionate light.
So, let us, too, in our way,
Let passion guide us, come what may.
For in our hearts, a fire resides,
With passion as our compass, our love abides.
The tricky question of how many animal farms we have
May be more complicated than most of us think;
There are at least some fifty-five animal farms in the world
Where wild mammals play and eat and drink.
And although there lightning is feared more than law,
These farms all seem to have the selfsame collective code.
Since different from the mainstream law, we may call it lore:
The silent cipher that governs the primitive farms.
There everyone is entitled to their share of breath
As long as they breathe within their native home,
Breathing within the territories of other beasts
Wins you mob lynching according to the animal tome.
No animal may acquire such vast knowledge
As to threaten the rule of the Elephant and the Lion.
The acquisition of illegal learning only leads
To the doom Artemis wreaked on the restless Orion.
There you must not shout of forbidden things
Such as animal rights and equality of beasts oppressed;
For it is clearly stated by the immutable silent code
That some mandrills are more equal than the rest.
A beast of worth begets offspring of the same worth;
If a beast be an outcast born, the same must a pariah remain.
No animal may rise from the bottom to the aristocratic realm:
No beast must such thoughts of improvement entertain.
The lore of the mandrills is not lean,
As said, these codes make a huge-volume tome
Which you can’t leaf through in a day,
Though you may get a copy and read at home.
Yet the problem is that censorship there is tough
And as such the lore has never been put in print;
The few Cheetahs who championed for a free press
Were one by one snuffed without a hint.
There is so much to be said
My earliest memory,
It was the sound of love
It meant trust and security
It set boundaries
It gave comfort and refuge
It championed and encouraged
It cautioned
It corrected and chastised
More could be understood from one word
Than from a whole book
Unique in its familiarity
And for those fortunate souls
For whom, its song is still possible
It means everything
A mother’s voice
May 13th 2018
Lord Denis Healey was an intellectual Labour MP,
Who represented Leeds in the Commons for 40 years,
From 1952 until 1992,
When he could at last objectify as a Lord his real tears.
He was a Beach Master hero in World War Two,
But his bravery continued in his post-war politics,
When he advised other politicians on how Britain could,
Live within her means to become again productive, good.
He was then Secretary of State for Defence,
Between 1964 and 1970,
When the Cold War so frightened and intimidated the many,
Who just wanted their war victory respected in reverence.
When he became the Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1976,
He demanded an emergency loan from the IMF,
To save the pound from decline and most certain collapse,
When Britain was fast approaching that Winter of Discontent, lapse.
However, after that Labour did not see power until 1997,
But Healey became the Deputy Labour leader in 1980;
And for most of the 80s he was Shadow Foreign Secretary,
And was slow at Falkland Island assault and battery.
He was normally on the right of the Labour party,
A patriot who championed social justice,
Who guided us through some very dangerous times,
Where the country’s growing pains were his signs.
He’s the last surviving member of the cabinet,
Of Harold Willson’s government in 1964,
But when he graduated from Balliol Oxford in Greats,
Him and the Communist Party were pally mates.
He had a love of classical music,
But was enthused and besotted by poetry;
Shakespeare and Wordsworth were his philosophers,
And Blake and Butler Yeats he always did glorify.
Denis Healey died aged 98 at his home in Surrey on the 3rd of October 2015
Her sound functioned in the chorus
of onlooker in my defeat.
Might the Strumb of Kokopelli
danced to the songs of Shiva
and Bragi. I smiled days later
that my retribution might silence
the celebrations
of night. I watched four seven days
while the celebrations
elaborate and expensive
laughed at me defeated.
Atrophied again I aspired to
make my mind as keen as my opponent.
The days prior I ate earthy foods
and had been massaged by Epione.
I ordered twenty Giania fowls
to be cooked in olive oil
and the flours seasoned
that those who were to sup with me
could dine while
the Victory celebration
was being fixed. Or this might be the supper
of evening if I were
defeated.
The day of Epic Extravaganza
I robed stood unclothed until
those who were to dress me arrived.
While waiting a plebian strumpet
soured me with her affections
to my delight.I loss and lonely
re-keened my my to dethrone he
who was now championed and celebrated.
she washed my feet in wine and dried with
her hair. I spat olive seeded
whilest being dressed and robed.
A blossomed by her dewy kiss
I pushed her face from me, in ceremony
she would stand there until I were to return.
I grappled than to be championed.
Upon my return in ceremony
I took her hand and bought her to
my opponent; and there she denounced him
and plagued her loyalty to me.
there under the rules of Pankration She became
worthy enough to be untroleped and married!
All persons here are adult ranging from 25 to 47
in the Times of the Ancient
Sholared to be Wise
and Labored to
be Champions!
Aching hands, aged and scarred
Wrinkled, arthritic with callouses so hard
Knuckles swollen from times being broken
Now weathered and weak, quite painful to open
In days of youth, they used to pick flowers
From weeds in fields in warm summer showers
An offering for mother, to make her smile
Attempt to gain favor, a precocious child
They worked in the garden, cleaned game and fish
Chores of all kinds, when needed made fists
Championed me well at work and play
Pointed to heaven as I clasped them to pray
Held hands with young girls, pleasured some ladies
Which got me in trouble, then diapered some babies
Efficiently used for support and guidance
Tender for comfort and firm for defiance
Broken bread with many, friends and foes
Preachers, teachers even girlfriends ex beaux
Never failing me once, whatever the use
That is until now with this damn bottle of juice
an original poem from the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
WALKING NEAR THE WATERS
Under the warm golden hug of sunrise’s bliss
shielded by rugged ridges and flagging trees
emerged a peaceful scene.
Through the clear, somber, sleeping, water
sunlight revealed shadows spelling odes beneath;
odes unfolded by rising ripples in cerulean gleam,
touched by nothing but the gliding breeze which
seizes silt and shingles causing baby currents lift.
Sparkling like priced pearls in the still noon,
their waves, a calm heart’s pulse, speak.
I linger, tranquil, afloat in the ageless ocean’s
lea, sitting on a dry old rock-sheltered bank,
drinking the healing power from the scene.
Time is suspend; I see the lake like a child,
the ridges and trees, His grand legions line.
The shadows stretch, His noble progress to a life
unfurled during years of swarming battles.
But, He has a wealth of hope and stood amidst
the sudden ripples; unmoved by fear, for He
can hold the shifts. He who’s polished tough
and wise has championed in a sunken time.
He matured. He populated good influence
calling others to imitate his stance. He promised
life without fear cherished with gratitude, and
his shared touch was not dulled by passing years.
His memory endured, so many remember Him.
______________________________________________________
~Inspired by the painting: Lake by Georgia Engelhard ~
***For the painting, Debbi Guzzi's Ten Paintings, Ten Poems, Not for a Contest, thanks for the wonderful experience.
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
9:17am, January 14, 2015
YET TO BE RECOGNIZED AS BEST
CONTESTED, IN THIS OUTING SEEN THE WORLD
ABROAD AS NUMBER ONE
BEST OVERALL, IN THE MIST
OF THE STIFFEST COMPETION
CONTENDED AND CHAMPIONED.
THAT ALL IN ATTENDANCE
CAN LOOK TO THIS MAN AND SPEAK HIS
NAME AS THE BEST IN THE WORLD, UNIVERSE,
AND GALAXY !
CAUSE THERE'S ASLEINS LOOKING AT US, THEY FOUND AWAY TO
SEE WHAT WE'RE DOING.
THEY WIRED UP DEVISE TO MAKE TELEVISIONS
LISTENING DEVISES.
WE KNOW AND ALL OF YOU KNOW IT.
MAYBE HE ONLY RECOGNIZES HIMSELF AS BEST.
AND WHEN YOU SAY SOMETHING ABOUT SOMETHING
THAT HE DOESN'T BELEIVE IN HE CAN'T UNDERSTAND YOU.