Long Conclave Poems
Long Conclave Poems. Below are the most popular long Conclave by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conclave poems by poem length and keyword.
2.
The Light Returns
I feel myself oh so slowly rise
Through the Abysmal black of surgical sleep
Wakening, drawn to the distant sound
Of my own moans.
When my lids flutter back
Sight is rewarded with the prescence of all my Beloveds
Gathered in conclave 'round my I.C.U. bed;
My travel-companion souls
Who bear the love and light that leads my own.
The doctor enters bearing good tidings;
The beast within was found and slain,
Its loss complete
At the sacrifice of nearly the whole of my stomach.
So I lay grateful and gutted,
Though within it felt like the aftermath
Of worlds in collision.
A wreckage within;
When they make me rise for the first time the very next day,
I feel a slow tide of broken glass and metal
Fall in chaos through my new internal spaces.
Still, it's a lovely thing to be rising,
At all.
I was interested in what will happen.
In the endmost fate of this debilitating dimness.
An insightful major established man advised me:
It will be a time when one's destiny will be entwined.
Traditions and elderly people are no longer honored.
Poorer families will be vying to pay for food and need.
Individuals who are dumb yet rich will become educated.
All earth lose the propensity to characterize what has occurred.
Individuals talents come from a lack of accessible record.
Everyday food and service prices drastically skyrocketed.
There is no fuel or cars, and all freshwater has receded.
Audacious ascension to the foolhardy conclave held
What would we expect from this cutting-edge time period?
Maybe it was the way her lips pouted so -
Full, inviting beneath vacant eyes;
Perhaps it was the leonine way she strolled,
Like a beast without mind,
All power, proud but unreflective.
More likely, though, it was the dress,
That jungle-green velvet that rode her
Tight and high like a desperate caress
Revealing much more than nakedness would"ve
The dress, that held her, reflecting cool light
From video machines
Giving off waves of visceral potential -
It called my eyes back, time and again,
Speaking volumes in an animal tongue
Addressed to the animal crouched within me;
The two conversed without knowledge or distraction
Holding conclave for some moments
Before she disappeared.
What they said to one another left me burning,
A willing slave to feral dreams
Days and nights thereafter.
Pamela Relph wanted to join the army, the Royal Engineers,
Because she was funded by them for sixth form fun arrears,
But she got arthritis just when she was eighteen and keen,
And so undertook a BSc at Birmingham in physics, mean.
In 2011 she won gold at the World Rowing Championships,
With three others, her team also including Broecke, a cox,
In 3 minutes 27.10 seconds they did travel one kilometre,
To qualify for the 2012 Paralympics in London’s theatre.
She, Riches, Smith and Row pulled the boat through wave,
Along the river at Eton Dorney to win gold in their conclave,
And they retained their title at the 2013 World’s in August,
But with a new team, as medical ills did make Smith bust.
There they took gold again ahead of Italy and South Africa,
This time faster, 3 minutes and 16.12 seconds to plaster,
And then in 2014 with one new crew mate in Grace Clough,
The team successfully won gold again at the World’s bough.
So as a result of that they will compete in the 2016’s, Rio,
And Relph is an MBE as of 2013’s New Year Honours row;
Her sister Monica, who’s a GB rower in the Senior Squad,
Got her into rowing originally, where she’s now like a god!
Polithieves
On my behalf, a conclave of crows
Then, my Imminent appointment follows
Orchastrated triumph at the polls
Heralds me into Parliament of Owls
Perching in the FAAC Convocation
In control of State notes
I go swift lyk Abacha o.
I have the antidote to your sting
The unremitted signed-off sum
arouses my Swiss account into ******
While you ejaculate Pains after intense
romance with poverty
In my hands lies the antidote to poverty's
venomous sting in your lives.
With unclouded vision
I see the bruised Roads
hospitals with chronic illness
sick Schools diagnosed with illiteracy
Upon dusk, the 9th Plague of God
on Egypt is reawakened:
Transformers with no heartbeat.
***
Your rivers of gold enticing enough
to lure Oludumare dine with injustice
Greediness vampired you with Insatiable
thirst for wealth
Conscience numb like the corpse of Bin Laden;
With flaming greed, that ablazes the ocean.
You emissaries of Esu
Bearers of anguish
Farmers with bountiful reaping yet no sowing.
Santas with sack bulging with hoarded wealth
Drownless river trickles down our faces
Hades empathise, but with you - epicaricacy.
"Tins go beta" - their ghost promise
Yet we are maltreated wives to poverty
Submerged in sorrow with no depth
Our rainy eyes experience no drought
From the carnival circle race goes off the course
the vintage carousel of bobbing corralled horse,
galloping skyward from the field of fiesta fair
through the music of wind jingling everywhere.
With teen fantasy on ornate steed out of chain,
he holds the rein in the strands of ebon mane,
canters up above the spire of the castle in the air,
far from the meandering rivers on the land bare.
In sprightly strides his reverie climbs the space high
to the conclave of clouds caressing the satin sky.
Returning after merrily going round the land of fairy,
on the carousel of life all his dreams he’ll carry.
April 5, 2020
Contest : Carousel Picture Prompt
Sponsor : Eve Roper
In the Sistine chapel where frescos peep,
away from watchful devote eyes that weep,
a conclave gathers in reflection deep,
to choose a shepherd for gospels to keep.
Amidst partisan whispers, day and night,
behind closed doors, their sacred task in sight,
as God’s intercessions arouse their might,
where truth and faith commingle to shed light.
Alternate hues from chimneys rise profound,
an opera of prospects missing sound,
a scribble in silence heavenly bound,
in black or white, the church fate is found.
But, between the creases of priestly robe,
a shadow loiters, an ominous probe,
where the past rekindles under a strobe,
when hearts were shattered all over the globe.
The culprits’ scandals stain the sacred ground,
where trust and honor should always abound.
Yet, once these hidden horrors are unbound,
distrust will rile and redemptions compound.
So let the papal smoke ascend on high,
while prayers for their penance fill the sky.
In black or white we stop to question why,
and in God’s faith we find the strength to try
For ‘midst these tribulations there’s a ray,
a bright beacon of hope to light the way.
For the church leadership we kneel and pray,
for redemption to dawn on a new day.
06/04/2025
Pope Leo XIV has been elected 05/09/2025 - American Robert Prevost
"Yo, it’s a swingin’ machine, Man, popin' through the city like a late-night pulse/Soul groove in the gears, a brass-tuned Tower of Power horn section that never clocks out/
Word from Bird slides through the air, quick as a sparrow in the valley of smoky jazz clubs/
Coltrane follows with a long, silver breath, reed-wide open as the horizon sets up the day/
The street becomes a jazz club man, don't ya know/ Soul Shack, sugar shack watch your back jack/
a doorway of rock soul 45s stacked high, where the past nods to the future to be sure/
Break it down, count down, the rhythm rebuilds itself in bricks to the soul jazz tempo/
Nu Jazz banners wave, NEW YORK Monday traffic slows to listen, and the gypsy cab, Latin tinge kool sound to refresh the hot summer day/ each car on their horns like a big band sound section/
Lou Rawls drifts in on a velvet breeze, baritone city slick, smooth in the morning/ His "Lady Love" waits for his embrace/
Philly Joe Jones keeps the clock honest as he jams in hi-fi/ sticks snapping a cadence snare to bass drum that won’t quit/
Settin’ the soul jazz pace, jazz hipsters walk the line between memory and invention, jazz players go toe to toe with the possibility of coming up with the new jazz thing/
Work it out, Mel Torme's "Comin' Home Baby" is out there, some were, every note a workout to dig up a new way to say the same thing/
over and over every chord change every beat every solo every Tenor conclave man, all night long/
Red Garland Quintet threads the Something Else needle on collective Improvisation with swingin' abstract jazz with pocketfuls of tempo logic/
Rellin’ with the Fellin’ in, Man, It's Sonny Rollins he folds space like a drum-major bending time, the horn colossus in his prime/
May Fifth, 2019, A Personal Tribute
Known as Bubba and,
she hapt tubby renown
to savor livingsocial
to five grandchildren, (now grown),
my late mother fourteen
journeys around nearest star died,
nonetheless fought tooth, nail and bone
years presence christened and known
since November 13th, 1935,
though last few years transformed
her into a crone,
yes Harriet Harris chose cremation,
versus purchasing costly plot,
plus an inert headstone
departed realm of the living, her ashes
long since scattered,
linkedin, determined, foregone
within conclave among wind deities,
analogous to mourning doves doleful drone
whipped urning's contents, sans cyclone,
where remains got blown
dispersed along favorite hiking trail
adjacent to Revolutionary War Cider Mill
ghosts of militia long since flown
(situated within Arcola, Pennsylvania),
this sole son January 13 mcmlix,
whom ye birthed, forever alone
within my emotional wilderness
puberty, yours truly tried to postpone
belated gratuity maternal nursing skills
deployed to thwart anorexia,
yet these latter days getting older prone
to reckon eyes, how deathly frightened
ye and papa felt, where grim reaper
got called from me on his telephone
mother intervened ghastly stentorian tone
now, reminiscing tender loving care qualities,
proffered, while warmed by hearthstone,
though I always remained a stranger to thee
as this Norwegian bachelor
signs off from Lake Woebegone.
Spoken Word Poetry: JAZZ ALIVE
Man alive, and this ain’t no jive, I’m diggin’ on jazz to stay alive/
East Coast rhythms from the 50’s and 60’s, in the heart of the city, where the music breaths/
Up all night to dig the modern jazz scene, and out of the cool midnight cookin’ shows at the Blue Note/Located at 131west 3rd St. NYC the place to be/
City lights flashing, hipsters, record buying, dressed to the nines in retro threads at dive bars and clubs where the real jazz magic spreads/
Catch the scene, and get hip to the latest with the 50s swingin’ jazz machine/
Bill Evans Trio, Modern Jazz Quartet, Miles Davis, Lester Young – Can You Feel the Beat/ It’s Milestones with Miles/At that recording, Davis’s bebop/hardbop music was manifesting into his future modal thing/
Milt Jackson, Chet Baker’s smooth serenade, Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” in Five Four Time, John Coltrane’s Cascade, Cannonball Adderley, Wynton Kelly’s embrace, Paul Chamers, Jimmy Cobb, all left their trace/
The city never sleeps, no change of pace, play your gig till 2 AM/
Chase the night with grace/catch a cab, hit the jam, Sweet Basil’s swinging where the music never dims/
Women strong and fierce, oh how they loved their jazz men/
Financial support flowed like a sweet refrain/
“This Here, “Dat Dare,” and “Moanin’” what sounds, in Bobby Timmons groove/you know what I mean/
The Tenor Conclave, Hank Mobley, Al Cohn, John Coltrane, Zoot Sims/ Hi-Fi jam sessions to no end/
Max Roach on the scene, Deeds Not Words, his LP/
Abby Lincoln, Helen Humes, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington – jazz voices supreme all greats in their prime/
new record companies popping, day into night: Jazzland, Riverside, Atlantic, Prestige all shining bright/
Philly Joe Jones, Blues for Dracula, man what a scene, what a feeling on Halloween’s Eve, back in the day when Everybody dug jazz, but what happened to the Five Spot Café where the legends would play? /
So dig this, I’m walkin’ to Jazz Alley, Soulmates on my cell I know so well, Ben Webster and Zawinul, their melodies swell/
In this world of music vibes, man, I find my reprieve in modern jazz rhythm and choose to believe in the downbeat of jazz to set me free