Long Circlet Poems
Long Circlet Poems. Below are the most popular long Circlet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Circlet poems by poem length and keyword.
That we love is unquestioned, not a point of controversy,
Our marital or partnership ring is personal and never mandatorily issued;
Youth lets us find it in order to keep and hand it on a generation,
As it symbolises our joy, contentment and exhilaration.
When we are lonely or selfish in our relationship with the other,
The ring on our finger inspires with platitudes which save,
From ourselves or society’s fashionable, glamorous glaze,
To treasure the person that we love, until we are for them brave.
When Bilbo embarked on the journey to retake his land,
He found a ring which he felt so personally attracted to,
And so kept it for the use, meaning and magic that did from it emanate,
‘Cos its semiology was his cosmology as its sign was life immaculate.
But when he approached his land, a dragon claimed it so,
Which made Bilbo consider his strategy and individuality,
And when he actioned the ring, strength was his reality:
He only had to think about or touch it, and so upheld it in supremacy.
Our symbol of the ring for love alludes to a greater ring,
A friendship ring to admire and like, and maybe to suggest and fight;
If someone’s land is his or hers, and is not, it means evil lurks,
So Bilbo invigorated love’s power to kill and vanquish this night.
Smaug the dragon held evil and torment in his breath,
Fiery and without request of light, gumption or relationship;
Bilbo even calls himself a bulgier of its world of hardship,
Slavery, murder and creatures of all-consuming darkness.
The physical ring only facilitates the person to aspire,
But in Bilbo’s time it was in danger of falling into the wrong hands,
So Bilbo allowed Smaug’s hell-pit to thus consume the golden circlet,
Such that all that was left was those who accept love’s commands.
That killed Smaug and the origin of sin and immorality,
‘Cos to posses the ring is not to necessarily to honour it,
So when Bilbo returned home from his adventure,
His life continued on in his nephew’s by his conjecture.
About Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit adventure.
The Crown,
Where roost the winged idyllic dream
Diadem of power and the eternal gleam
Worn aloft the heart and mind
Marking such wayward vessels refined
Raising awareness of a being ascended
Today and henceforth befitting of a throne
No longer the stuff of mere flesh and bone
But the whim of divine law descended
Transcending mortal throw
Beacon of the people's heart
Banner of the people's mind
Flagged Pinnacle of their highest hope
The almighty triadic circlet of kings
Where sleeps the rarer compassion of loving queens
Carrying the weighty burden of prosperity
Bearing it ever forward and into eternity
Novgorod’s primeval pearl, white circlet of the free
Once lost and forgotten in the Kievan sea
Veiled in millennium old shells, made from wax and birch
Grave of pure souls liberated, cast from the church
Of those forgotten who followed Father Alexandra
Revered soldier of Christ, from the house of Laodicea
Obedient, splitting the world into darkness and light
Dedicated to the Christian faith’s light and plight
“Coveting nothing, leaving villages and kin
O Father Alexandra, please forgive every sin
Defender, save our spirits from the flesh of skin
Evil, death and sin were born before the world we see"
X was their guiding moon, in that Kievan sea
Words_ in my garden@ the edge of thorns.
Population cultivation of shrapneled bones.
My thoughts, mine, alone.
My as she helixed the change
of elixired kool aid and iced earth,
Ayahuasca tea to drink under the crystal sun;
To be or not to be undone.
Dangled as a charm over my eyes,
walled popularity,
that rivit ring resurrection machine gun
@A rising force of risen suns,
from the sea of emptiness
@circlet chain fire testing this blue toothed,
teething proofs of brainwashing that is being done.
Cutting me tooths on techlobotomy future suturies,
filling with bad blood,
of milk undone into channels of soured diversities.
Blasphemies abreast of Bathory, Borden,
Mystopheles.
Metaspinions on bile for birth of strange aeons and late night gerd.
Storied olde.
Waking death, rebirth, federation,
mental masturbation, folly, jolly rogered
as if it depends on.
A friend, so I have heard,
fair weather turns cold.
The Colosseum sits~
a fractured crown,
its arches a circlet of light
where jeweled sun gathers,
I walk its perimeter,
my fingers grazing limestone
warm as living skin.
Dust rises~
a faint ghost of applause, of fear,
of spectacle braided with longing.
History here is not distant;
it presses close,
grainy and intimate.
The broken tiers curve
like a half-remembered sentence,
one the empire began,
but time insisted on finishing.
Grass grows where violence once bloomed;
the sky claims the open roof
as if to remind the ruin
that even power must answer to light.
I feel a strange tenderness:
noting how even magnificence erodes,
how power becomes dust,
how what remains is not violence
but vulnerability~
the open sky pouring through
what once was sealed.
The Colosseum reminds me
that time builds and erases in the same breath,
and that beauty endures most fiercely
in the places where the world
has already learned how to break.
He stood before the soldiers,
a king draped in royal purple.
He was crowned
with a circlet of thorns woven together,
and pressed into His brow:
Sharp, piercing, cruel thorns.
And His blood
flowed
down.
Mocking soldiers played their part well.
Bowing low with sneering faces
then rising up with wooden staff
they struck Him,
over and over and over again.
The king said not a word.
They spat on Him and laughed.
The king remained silent.
No condemnation escaped His battered lips.
He was brought before His subjects,
beaten, bruised, but not broken.
Not defeated.
Crucify Him! Crucify Him!,
His subjects shouted as they rejected Him.
So He was stripped of His robe,
nailed to a crude wooden cross,
where His blood
flowed
down.
"Father, forgive them!", He cried.
"They don't know what they are doing."
They didn't know who He was.
They didn't know that He had come
to teach them the path to God.
They didn't know that it was for their sin
He was dying.
They didn't know that He was the one
they had been waiting for:
their Messiah, Deliverer, King.
They didn't know how much He loved them
as His blood
flowed
down.
Against a browning hill
oak trees' bleeding limbs are stretched;
some drops release to softly fall
some cling to dry encrusted scars.
A few short months and we will walk
beneath the springing trees
marking their swords of thinnest green
stabbing at the stars.
And so, life seasons make their rounds
in nature and in men
the flower wilts, the rose is pruned,
the leaves must fall again.
Everything of lasting worth
contains a seed of loss;
on young love's throbbing circlet
hangs a bitter cross.
We will walk life's lanes together,
cherishing this pain we share
for spring will come tomorrow
and bloom on our despair.
Copyright, November 11, 2014
Beneath the large, banyan tree in a set shed,
On the out-skirts of the lush green little town,
Beside the lone pathway to the holy riverside,
He sat firmly ready, styled himself in much pride,
As a soothsayer clad only all in a crimson gown,
And added self made circlet white ,on the head
His temple had the smear lines of sacred ash
With the focussed vermilion round mid- mark;
Beside him was his only asset,an old bag torn
Which showed his meek, simple wealth worn --
An almanac, some small cowries,and all stark;
His eager keen eyes did at passers by aye flash
He spared no sad a look, nor weak mind any,
But nodded them, and surely they were there,
Well within his reach,ready to set up to his tune;
Common ailments he loudly professed to prune,
But only added in multiples more to their scare;
With pomp -words sonorous, profuse and many
The day was cloudy and few ventured to go out
Which disheartened the seer and his day's gain
Yet he sat in all pretence and posture purely fake;
Smile spread on his face; he made no mistake
The intruder was not the one who hid his pain
And distress manifest in his looks sans doubt
Readily,as he was beckoned, closed on the other
Who left no chance for his prey but yield straight
And to empty his purse,back home from hard toil
For the day between the twilights two, in turmoil;
The common worldly plea was used as sure bait,
And fear worked strongly, the reason to smother
"Beware the ides of the next month you mortal ! "
"A big serpent will cause you some trouble great"
Chill quiver ran through his body, tired and frail ;
And he stretched his hands for the luck to prevail
Changing all his wages for the talisman to abate;
The amulet trivial was to evade the event fatal !
Soon the place was desolate and the glad gainer
Turned to abandon it, unaware of things to ensue
A stray bull darted,and his horns lofted the herald
Tossing the body with its bleeding bare head bald
Those who play with time and fate pay their due
Nature sways her sceptre evenly on the feigner !!