Long Cloaked Poems
Long Cloaked Poems. Below are the most popular long Cloaked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cloaked poems by poem length and keyword.
Mother whispered stories from the start,
Of the day that etched her heart.
A newborn cry, her tears flowed free,
Tears of joy—for that cry was me.
The family gathered, throwing their bids,
Choosing a name to crown her kid.
A title stamped upon my brow,
A world of promise awaited somehow.
Then comes a day, stark and bare,
When life no longer lingers there.
All you owned, gone in a breath,
Leaving behind a trace of death.
A final paper marked my name,
A hollow milestone cloaked in shame.
Again, my mother’s tears would flow,
Not joy this time, just sorrow's glow.
Her child departed—not by flight,
Nor by ship, nor wheels of might.
This journey knew no engine's churn,
Only silence, cold and stern.
The dead, remembered briefly so,
While the living hold their grief to show.
They praised the child on that last day,
But not when he needed it along the way.
So when I leave, keep it brief,
No need for shows to mask the grief.
For that day holds no grand design,
Let me fade from heart and mind.
Life's value lies not in just two dates—
The birth we hail, the death we state.
But in the days of triumph untold,
And the stories of a life made bold.
Cat Fishing
Written: by Tom Wright
7/15/2019
Some have approached me cloaked as a friend,
But friendship is respect, and truth that don’t bend.
They were just “Cat Fishing” for what could be learned,
And now find me chilly because my trust was spurned.
They betrayed my trust causing me to question why?
But God forgave me, and to his command I’ll comply.*
*Matthew 5:44-
But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;
*Ephesians 4:32-
And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another,
Even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.
He stands, golden, cloaked in ruin’s thread,
A radiant god among shadows that writhe.
The scorch of brimstone lingers around him,
Perfumed on whispers where lies take flight.
Hell’s legions bend the knee, adorned in silk,
Doctors, judges, priests, throats stuffed with power.
Their temples gleam with duty unspoken, rotten.
Mouths curl prayers that burn in their teeth.
Apollo waits, for 40,000 breaths of time,
A king of truth in deception’s masquerade.
His hands, a forge of judgment, white-hot.
Will they kneel? Or crumble under his gaze?
Servants wear abundance like shrouds of virtue;
In boardrooms, clinics, altars stained sacred,
Their words, a balm, empty. Ferocious as shadows.
The cigarette flares in Apollo’s cold hands.
Touch their foreheads, he muses, then marks them.
Pain is worship; they sip its poison.
Do they hunger for freedom? Never, they crave;
The one who loves will weigh them all.
The sun god waits, his mercy feral.
Not wrath, but a decision, shaped in flame.
Each condemned by whispers they thought sacred,
His light reveals: the truth has wings, and teeth.
Written: May 09, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "There is a loneliness more precious than life, there is a freedom more precious than the world." By Rumi
****************
The frosty night breeze embraces me tight,
Such as a moth-eaten shield, enticing flight.
Bitter rain lashes against the sidewalk face,
Delicate drops pirouette, each finding its place.
Visions flicker by in headlight, fleeting beams,
Love's echoes glimmer akin to vanished dreams.
How jaded lovers lose spark, turning strangers,
Specters in their home, now cloaked in danger.
Foreign dialects speak in words we once knew,
Widening cracks claim seismic shifts through.
Still, optimism clings as I traverse the city chill,
Dreams still nudge that love may cure what is ill.
Silent tears trace paths down my weary skin,
Longing for dawn light, for a raw start within.
As the sun rises, distances wantonly wane,
As rainfall fuels flowers, may our link heal again.
Not much is known about the man named Anton Mogart.
His history is cloaked in darkness -
a darkness like his deeds.
He stole jewels and works of art.
Despite all this, his motives were not about his needs,
but more about a blackened heart.
Going by the name of the Midnight Man,
he lived with splendid wealth
until he met up with Moon Knight
and saw a great deterioration of his health.
Caught by Moon Knight as he stole a rare Monet,
he fell into the river, landing in a sewer
on that fateful day.
Hiding three days in that awful place,
he got deformed by sewage melting on his face!
He lost all that he had.
So then, stark raving mad,
he lived again in sewers
where trash became his treasure.
I suppose that hoarding stuff
was his greatest pleasure!
Not surprisingly, the Midnight Man
got cancer, but before
he met his death, he first tried to restore
the secrets of his trade to a son he’d never known.
He begged this son to still avoid crime.
So strange this was after all the things to his son he’d shown
In the end, the Midnight Man had his final fight.
He lost his life for that,
challenging Moon Knight!
Nov. 13, 2022
for Robert James Liguori's Moon Knight Friend Or Foe 2 Poetry Contest
Venus
Casts a tiny shadow
Upon the ghostly snow
From its candle held by an extended hand
Of a cloaked man
Who trips through the stripped trees
Follows the fresh trail of reindeer
To our second-floor windowsills
Then on to rooftops lined with owls
Comet tails thrashing through the oval
Stars
The kids pretend to sleep
To the faint smell of hay
Their red stockings overflow with candy canes
Earlier in the gray day
As I walked my dog alone in the park
A herd of deer
Found a barren patch of grass
In the backyard of a farmhouse
Laid themselves out
Like real life figurines to a nativity scene
Four does curled up on all fours
Three bucks standing over them
Antlers like crowns
Two more does
Heads bowed
Grazing
Kitchen light
On
In the window
Next to a frozen pond
A swan curtsies and a sandhill crane bows
They nearly kiss
Looking on
In our bed
Between my wife and I
With his furry head laid on our pillow
Our golden retriever jerks from a dream
Whimpers perhaps
For my hand cupping his treat
Both cats stretch
Between our legs
Ears twitching to moles jingling
To the faint guiding light
Outside
It’s five before midnight
The animals will soon begin to talk
Though I’ve heard them
All my life
Hallelujah!
When did I stop believing in magic?
Where did my Giants go?
A blindfold of fear
I've binded myself in
Make-believe courage
That for a time deceived me
Made it impossible to battle
Through this raging storm
Memorys of the sun's warmth
Gradually dissipate
Yet the silver light of the moon
Still tugs at my heart
And wrestles a forced smile
Upon my face
Unable to move forward
Useless to look back
Terrified of revelations
My blindness has cloaked
Who am I without my delusions
What has been sacrificed
In my resolve to keep them
If my watchers still watch
It's time to hit play
01/08/21
Crumpled Thoughts Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John lawless
Vampire vixens
Sharing their spoils
Lusting crimsons
Bodies coil
Fencing tongues
Caressing of flesh
Internal erectness
State of undress
Bodies drenched
Thirst quenched
Red flow run
Sexual scent
Midnight writhe
Before the dawn
Vixens of darkness
The dark ones spawn
Entrance he makes
Cloaked in death
To taste their blood
On his vixens breath
Cloak strewn
Bared and chaired
This blood lust two
Master shared
The dawn is near
As this threesome sleep
In their crypt
Darkened deep
Two blood lust souls
Innocent no more
Lured from earths
Living floor
Paths chosen
No turning back
These vampire vixens
In the world of black
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/myth-fantasy.php
The sky was draped in night’s black cloak,
With a sprinkle of white specks in bloom.
The yellow moon slipped into a gibbous cocoon,
As sunshine fretted in crescent-shaped kites.
But the streets today were painted in bright colours—
They cloaked the rainbow in a toga of envy.
Many danced and sang in melodious harmony,
Dressed like masquerades with neither masks nor veils.
The clouds were clear and gleamed with a faint glow,
Since the last drop of rain they’d stored was in October.
It was the music, played on hand-held instruments,
That shook off harmattan’s dryness from trees and grasses.
"This carnival is like no other,"
A lady in red and white whispered to her husband.
They, like many others, had traveled from far and wide,
To sway their hips and jiggle their feet to Motherland Africa.
The hordes of strange faces mingled with local ones—
Each year, new loves are sparked, and babies are born.
Many a mulatto grows with one half of their roots in photos,
Yet every year brings memories sweet and strong.
A Knight from the vast Kingdom
of The King of Holy Throne.
Michael slept within a castle
on beds of peat moss, and of loam.
His face was sedimentary,
though laughter mapped its course.
And his gleaming hair cascaded,
much like a Viking of the Norse.
His raiment wasn’t fancy.
No silk nor satin hose.
But his mind was quick as silver
and his heart was pure as gold.
Cloaked without, by a robe of integrity.
Fortified within, by a will of steel.
He wielded the Sword of Justice,
while holding Truth up as his shield.
Saint Michael’s crusade was legendary,
as was the power of his sword.
Forged to slay the inner dragons,
in reverent service to our Lord.
Countless times the blade was tested,
for malice dwells not on defeat.
Never lacked he for contenders,
disciples of rumors and deceit.
Bad Rumor sowed the seed of doubt
within the mind of man.
Watered from the trough of spite,
he conceived his evil plan.
Each rancid seed that sprouted
grew to a bud of tarnished mail.
Thus, shrouded by corrosion,
he sought corruption to prevail.
When Rumor heard of Saint Michael,
his phosphorous eyes lit up with hate.
Armed with his pitchfork and scythe,
he charged through his hellish gates.
Targeted by dark ambition,
saddled by vicious greed,
he raced upon the clouds fate,
engulfed by jealousy.
.
Michael felt the evil presence
and strapped on his Mighty Sword.
Then he rode off to a clearing,
in the sweet realm of The Lord.
Rumor attacked with animosity,
his trident held, as if a spear.
But as the Sword of God unsheathed,
Rumor was lanced by sudden fear.
Michael raised the Sword of Eminence
as if to pierce the sky.
While sunlight sparked along its blade
a beam smote Rumor’s eye.
Blazing light seized Rumor’s mind.
It seared his ravaged soul.
And when the inner battle ended,
Rumor’s heart was charred to coal.
As Saint Michael wiped soot and ashes
from the length of his trusted sword,
his eyes fell upon the hilt
to runes inscribed there, by The Lord:
“May The Force be your faith
May your spirit know The Lamb
May Love guard your heart
May The Light guide your hand.”