Long Clarion Poems
Long Clarion Poems. Below are the most popular long Clarion by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clarion poems by poem length and keyword.
I hear the clarion bugle calls at Fort Carson when conditions are just right,
Sounding "Reveille" at break of dawn to the mournful sound of "Taps" at night!
"Reveille" 'wakes soldiers from their well-deserved rest to begin another day
Of training to protect our freedoms, though they do it for very meager pay!
The bugle sounds "Chow Call" at noon for lunch, the most welcome of calls!
The dining facilities peal with laughter, Yankee twang and Texas drawls!
The bugle calls "Retreat" and the roar of cannon is heard to end the day.
Old Glory is slowly lowered, solemnly folded and tenderly stowed away.
The plaintive sound of "Taps" is played at ten PM echoing as clearly as a bell!
Its peaceful call heralds, "You've earned your rest, God is nigh and all is well!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
We are hours into the mountain riverway, the current unfriendly to us
paddling earlier had simply strained the men to burning exhaustion,
those who have the shoulder strength are paddling the two larger canoes
while the other six vessels are being pulled along in the side shadows with elk skin rope,
their feet and ankles paying the price,
an incredible sight is rapidly, dramatically coming towards us,
two hundred yards from where the river bends
an unmanned horse is galloping in our direction
with a confident craze in it's agility as it stomps through the rocky mud shore to the left,
running like a messenger of madness, reckless and unstoppable in passion,
a white, grey spotted horse, mane long, white and smoking in the wind,
it has already run past my canoe 50 yards off shore
but Sheild's canoe, being pulled very close to it's path
and McNeal has gotten a rope to lasso this animal,
in trying to claim it they have only sped the horse's instincts
McNeal nearly trampled, has gotten a face full of rock water for his effort,
that beauty is long gone, but everyone saw the sign,
the hip of the horse had a skull, and crossbones of rifles painted in black,
suffice it to say our hearts are humpin hot!
down here where we are predictable targets confined to the river's warpath
in order to saddle up on the upcoming banks some of our men must remain exposed
everyone else has rifles lead ready and hugged, telescopes spying space,
Clark and I kneeling with plank boards for armor, rifles in hand
Sacagawea standing inbetween us at the nose of our trespassing vessel
breasts uncovered, her son Jean in her arms swaddled in a U.S. flag
repeating a Shoshone lyric of peace, her clarion voice of sincere spirit
echoing through the mountain passes like an angel of sapphire wisdom
in this methodical moment of cautious maneuver
I realize that I love her,
I love her like eyes love color,
she is so above the ordinary, so forbidden to me,
we must clarify to the unseen onlookers that we are no warparty
but that we are no laundry squaws either,
20 minutes later we find a suitable shore line and disembark swiftly,
there be no indication of Indians, no presence of hostility,
J.A.B.
Vera Lynn's, "There'll Be Bluebirds Over, The White Cliffs Of Dover",
Keeps streaming through my brain like a wafting zephyr over and over!
'Tis a poignant reminder of sad and cheerless days during World War Two,
Yet, the Cliffs themselves were a beacon of hope when things were looking blue.
What a beautiful sight for weary bomber crews returning from flak-filled skies!
Seeing those venerable Cliffs, thanking God for their safe return with joyous cries!
Brave young men would live another day to carry on the battle with wings of flight;
On the 'morrow some to live, some to die to rid the world of tyranny's blight!
Royal Air Force pilots clashed in battle o'er the Cliffs - so very few, the very brave,
Defending Britain's shores as enemy planes flew from France in wave after wave!
Alas, many forfeited their lives on The Altar of Honor defending precious liberty.
They placed national destiny above their own that their countrymen might live free.
On a clear day the Cliffs could be seen gleaming from across the Dover Straits.
'Twas surely a beacon of hope for those across the sea facing uncertain fates.
They placed their hope in God praying that their comrades from across the way,
Would come to carry the Torch of Freedom to their shores one glorious day!
The magnificent South Foreland Lighthouse above the Cliffs today stands tall,
And brave men lie in hallowed graves awaiting Gabriel's clarion bugle call.
And Vera Lynn's "There'll Be Bluebirds Over, The White Cliffs Of Dover",
Yet streams through my brain like a wafting zephyr over and over and over!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Bard, write through the blizzard!
Icicles, grow from ink!
Gibbous at the gizzard?
Thus, trickery, I think.
Ginkgo, garish gecko.
What herbivore eats this?
Drink thy sweetened tea down slow!
Crow carrion, abyss!
Death. O riddle, wrought in red?
City, rise the dead.
Heaven and Hell, hold thy head!
Careful where ye tread!
Hate, boil up inside my skull!
Overflow and burn!
Clean the end of every trull?
Turmoil taciturn.
Clarion? The count concurs.
Minnow, thy murmurs.
Yellowing scroll, languid lures.
Blue as vision blurs.
Adhesive, thy autopsy.
Blackguard, bounty's broadloom.
Stuck inside, apostrophe?
Apostasy, doom.
Motifs of the hedgerows?
Escarpment, extinction.
Ocean water, harsh thy blows!
Prose, profit the pun.
Toadstool? Viscosity of blood.
Food for thought and gods.
Sonic rain, hurricane, flood.
Vintage, O voivods...
You hastily spilled a loaded jar of stained language.
Sky aglow by a rainbow, as sunsets below a ledge.
Pouring a layer of dullness into a pristine scene.
Murky clouds have drowned the gentle sunshine.
Unscrupulous guarantees, sand-tidied venturing,
And the heart will stow away in the way they review.
In the azure sky, golden rings are instantly plunging.
Blackbirds crow around humans peacefully withdrew.
Storm haze from a weakening typhoon stream.
Realizing the window curtains inhibit late-day sun.
This fear involves a torrential downpour dream.
Nowhere for adoration untamed stallion to run,
He wanders around this forsaken dust bowl land.
Without a stated objective, just a promise in hand.
Dreams of enigmatic and utterly ease dry,
The rises speak culpability as they move away.
Written; December 26, 2021
A fearful mind approves each deft move.
As a roving lout, I have a soft spot and am sensitive.
Your clarion call ought to be a full-scale disorder.
I'm weaving dim deceptions over my slander.
Charming Patterns
An eyelet wheel models medieval embroidery
Aromatic, ornamental garden ballet steps for lovers
Strolling in stately patterns of noble estate
Savory’s romance looping through lavender labyrinths
Lost in curves of sweet scented anise dreams
A pavel of peace in pungent fans of feathery dill
Set in soothing circles of demure comfort,
Inside squares of loyal rosemary tied with ribbons of sage
Trimmed with clarion harmony of marjoram’s gailland
And arches of drizzles leap as parsley festivity
Joyfully brushes the fingertips of rows in oregano courants
A center pistel radiates lines of tarragon in devotion
Dotted by French knots of thyme
With rosettes of mint scattered in diamonds about the maze
Virtuous embraces of shy courtly kisses
In basil’s blush of chain stitch purity
And to the almain of lutes and of lyres
To the harp strum, to the chaste flute,
A castle garden dances faithful fidelity
Telling the story of love’s longevity
In charming patterns.
10-6-21
Contest: Charming Patterns
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Embroidery stitches: eyelet wheel, loops, drizzles, pistel, French knot, rosettes, chain stitch
Medieval Instruments: clarion, lute, lyre, flute, harp
Elizabethan Dances: ballet, pavel, gailland, courant, almain
Knot gardens of herbs are based on the intricate embroidery patterns of the Elizabethan age.
Last night, the "wolf moon's" crepuscular aura glowed.
A luminous peach orb, it hung in its abode
so spectacularly, that I silently slowed
my weekend walk through the willowwacks, while words flowed,
as molten lava from volcanoes would explode.
Its afterimage was like a handsel bestowed,
bewitching in a pulchritudinous yellowed
radiation that etiolated, 'twas stowed
in the recesses of my mind, an episode,
a pageant suspended in mythopoeic mode,
that called out in its classical clarion code -
thoughts emanating from moonlight, my path had showed.
01/14/17
-
ENERGY- Destruction precedes creation, quoth Picasso
ATMOSPHERE- Earthen demigods, this is the way
Has no one informed you?
STRATOSPHERE - The earth was broken before there was light
Everything comes forth through the birth canal
Pain before joy. Tuesday before Wednesday
BIOSPHERE - Resistance is futile. Denial is cliche
Stop asking
Every talented sophomore cannot be He
Rendering creation as vulgar
KINGDOM - Friction heralds the fruit to come
Friday’s blank page intimidates
The white canvas pisseth on your palette
Indeed, upon all who dare step up
Is everybody listening?
CONSCIOUSNESS - Listen to the unborn voices and do your job
Water the seedlings pining for your attention
Quit ticking them off with sundry excuses
Because their affection for you ends on Saturday
And don’t get angry, this is your Universe
Draw nigh and look busy in front of it
CONTEMPLATION - A Creator has created Creators
In His image He has created Them
Life is art, quoth Goethe
All art is a self-portrait, quoth Wiley
The painterly sky is clarion on Sunday
When I say He, take it personally
This is the way
Another day is o'er, the sun sinks slowly in the west.
I stroll upon hallowed ground, where heroes lie at rest.
The clarion, yet somber notes of "Taps" echoes across the way.
I pause to contemplate the serene expanse where brave soldiers lay.
Marble stones perfectly arrayed, each etched with a patriot's name,
In remembrance of his service, each deserving the nation's acclaim.
Others contain the poignant phrase, "Known But To God Alone."
'Twill be en scribed in The Book Of Life, "He died for wrongs to atone."
Yonder lies a soldier who stormed Normandy in June of forty-four.
Near him a young marine, who died on Iwo Jima's shore.
I kneel at the grave of an airman who died flying his fighter plane.
There's a coast guard lass who guarded our shores plying the briny main.
On yon knoll lies a sailor who died in the Pearl Harbor affair.
As I stroll about and ponder, for each I offer a thankful prayer.
Heroes of all creeds lie side by side in manicured plot,
All a brave band of brothers and sisters, rank here matters not.
Myriad untold stories are buried with these guardians so brave,
Now forfeited with the young lives they so freely gave.
Treasured memories that their children and grandchildren will never hear.
They sacrificed all on the Altar of Honor for all we hold so dear.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Many seasons have come and gone since the frightful battle.
Eerie calm pervades the field that knew the musket's rattle.
The verdant plain where once the blood of youth was spewed,
Has healed its battle scars - nature's grandeur again renewed.
O'er the rolling hills where the machines of war once trod,
Marble stones now stand honoring those who lie beneath the sod.
On that hallowed ground, gallant men forfeited limb and life,
Bravely facing their Armageddon to the beat of drum and fife.
"Press on, comrades, Press On!" was their battle cry.
Marching shoulder to shoulder, some to live, some to die.
Ten thousand souls sleep awaiting Gabriel's clarion call,
For the final calling of the roll and to shed their funereal pall.
Veterans return to the field where with the foe they clashed.
They weep o'er their brother's graves, completely unabashed.
Some bring their grandsons to show them the futility of war,
Praying they will never suffer the hell on earth that they bore.
According to local lore (albeit warrior friends or foes),
'Tis said that where a soldier fell, there a flower grows.
The plaintive notes of "Taps" echo o'er the field at close of day,
To honor the courageous heroes who lie 'neath sacred clay.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)