Long Conquest Poems
Long Conquest Poems. Below are the most popular long Conquest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conquest poems by poem length and keyword.
Europe.
America.
You call yourselves
masters.
But to many,
you have become
parasites.
Living
from the labor
and wealth
of weaker nations.
For centuries,
you have extended
your influence,
manipulating
the host,
draining
its resources
to sustain
your own power.
Like a leech,
feeding
upon the blood
of the weak.
Your cruelty.
Your ambition.
Your greed.
Have left
many nations
in poverty.
Your deeds
have become,
to your critics,
a symbol
of evil.
Your institutions,
they say,
were not built
to uplift,
but to dominate.
To divide.
To control.
Racism
has become
the poison
of your heart.
Division
has become
your favorite weapon.
You have
suffocated
Africa.
You have
manipulated
Asia.
And still,
you speak
of civilization.
But history
never sleeps.
It remembers
every empire.
Every conquest.
Every wound.
The mirror
of history
stands waiting.
And every nation
must one day
face
its own reflection.
For no empire
can outrun
the shadow
of its deeds.
Power fades.
Truth remains.
And history,
however patient,
always returns
to collect
its account.
The smiling assassin does twist and plot
and I can see his Sword of Damocles,
for blind to wept plaintive cries I am not
nor blind to the conquest of vanities.
Aggrieved beats an inconsolable heart
betrayed by the Big Peacock born to strut -
not whole but divided in fractured part
by Zorba and Candy with tongues that cut.
Methinks the time has come to call a bluff -
to visit on Ellysian a Greek end
and let the dogs of Sparta huff and puff
in that way which conspirators defend.
Beware the pimp behind the Grecian mask
and the whore of his bidding he does task.
Written: November 2006
Mighty Ra.
Through the sky
Thy benign presence journeys
Unto us thy glory to dole
Thy aureole, a hollowed
Light radiates.
And into our burden
Darkened psyches
It permeates to illuminate
And unto our entirety
Healing to bring.
To thee,in worship
Our knees bend
For none else,but thou
Mighty Ra
Could these deeds wrought.
In glory art thou robed
And in majesty crowned.
Rock of ages, immortal art thou.
Thy hands, mighty art.
For,by them,all things became.
In battle,by them,
Thy raging foes abseiled,
Firm the cosmos stands
And in tranquility remains.
Even the eerie night
With myriads of eyes
That sees not
In battle before thee roared,
But, beneath the anger of
Thy hallowed light it
submerged,
The morn, a tale of
Thy conquest it tells.
And on thy eastern throne
In glory thou,eternally sits.
Mighty Ra.
(Ra is an Egyptian sun god)
Against pressures of daily demands
my physique yields to debilitating energy...
…thus, I admit need for invigoration
to relax with serenity’s bliss, nestling in God’s strength
cuddled by His wondrous pampering presence
while rejuvenated through reverberating Gospel music
filling my haven’s retreat-room
securing me complete rest toward functionality's brace.
Amidst rigors of ministerial endeavours
my spirit grows weary in striving well...
…hence, I succumb to divine refreshing offers
as the Lord invites me for a sweet respite in His bosom
to meditate His wondrous Word: illumining, comforting, upholding
paving for assured revival and thank-propped joy
He grants by our vibrant fellowship together at His altar of grace
enclosing me --- toward a sublime hiatus of heavenly moments.
Along burdensome battles for triumphant faith
my human nature gives in to fleshly cravings
and soul concedes to worldly conquest dominated by pride…
...so I confess falling into temptation, weak and drained
oh, earnestly begging for God’s sanctifying forgiveness
as well as empowering mercy for holiness’ pursuits
available whenever I abide in Christ*
Who provides hiatus haven for recovery and sound well-being.
*Psalm 91:1 He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
February 10, 2021
3rd place, "Your best free verse so far this year" Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton; judged on 5/25/2021.
I’m called to meet a challenge, everyday:
my manner meek, my slow approach quite tame,
I timidly attack the threshold frame
that guards the gate and keeps the weak at bay.
My mind my sword, my enemy the fray
of a whirlwind day, vortex of shame,
I trepidate—I prove myself thus lame,
for conquest is beyond my make of clay.
But, urged along by necessity, I,
drawing on every store of strength available,
gathering my courage for this gory chore,
breathe deep down and let a tremendous sigh
from my heaving breast. “This is assailable,”
I tell myself, walking through my front door.
... in the quiet moments
Love enters the arena
to no applause
yet, it is clearly seen
pushing through the ceiling
the entire world crumbles
at Love’s feet
it is a giant cyclops
one eye on everything
it is heard in the heart
felt in the mind
a contradiction
where old dreams
split at the seams
the meaning of it all
unmeasured,
deeper
than the deepest sea
you'd walk across an ocean
for Love,
a universe contained
in the playing
of a thumping organ
keeping time eternal
like a stop watch
with no pause
like there will be
no tomorrow
Love stands its
territory in wars
like a god
and its legions
then,
following conquest,
holds you firm
in its arms
under silken covers
of dark night,
Love follows
you in your dreams
you cannot see it
but somewhere
behind the everchanging
cast of characters morphing
all together, and miraculously,
like only a harmless savant could,
you sense it, in you,
hibernating then
waking live, electric,
something so complex
is remarkably
simple, common,
the breadth of a life
like a small room
implodes
the expanse
ruptures dimensions
and all angels
above and below
lose their feathers
all shining and tarnished
halos gone bedlam
in the quiet moments
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Lark...
ascending
The singer looks at the now empty stage
His voice guarded deep in his warm throat
Shielded by a high neck shirt he wore
Singing with passion from down within
Rehearsing day and night until it’s right
Blended rhythms and notes run the scales
Clinging in smoky night clubs like a shadow
Getting your pay with crumbled dollar bills
Go from gig to gig if it makes you whole
Your songs will make them dance and spin
Like a magic spell being cast far and wide
Allow your words to heal wounds and scars
And when you have earned your keep
Collect the spoils from your conquest sweet
Gobbled champagne and fancy caviars
And your heart beats crashed musical chart
Find the singer who was once loved
The brilliant heart that once lived in joy
Consider yourself a singer without a heart
Who has traded his soul from the start
As it ends the conquest will lose its spark
Come to your senses and stop this slide
You may be witted and sharp as a tack
Don’t get eluded and slip—stay on track
Comments: This is a narrative dialogue poem. It sets the stage one may
probably find in a conflicting situation. It develops into a complication, reaches a
crisis then falls into a resolution. It displays connections, alienation,
disconnections, and a turning point where a change takes place between a
protagonist and antagonist. The ending brings about a resolution after a
dramatic point has been reached. Give it a try one day, and I will give it a review
for you. It must be very interesting and relates to real life.
Vae victis! Her quick eyes spy out the field.
Reconnoitred, the foe's dispositions have been noted,
quantified, assessed. The forces of order
and tidiness, in neat array,
perfect their alignment, await onslaught.
The sentinels stand guard:
A pot of jam, a jar of marmalade are emplaced
on the strategic salient of the dining-room table.
In battle-dress, knives, forks and spoons,
the infantry, have been fully mobilized. Now battle!
The moment's silence is conflict's omen.
Certain of the issue, she advances,
knowing all order is as brief as day,
while primal Chaos ruled
when all was void.
She crawls towards an unwary footstool,
a defenceless lone straggler near the door.
This, with one fell blow knocked out,
her target would now appear to be the oak sideboard.
With a sideways reel, the feint is over.
Blitzkrieg is launched on the dining-room table,
the heart of enemy operations. She tugs
the table-cloth; a pepper-bomb descends,
inducing heavy sneezing fits
(didn't they outlaw biological warfare?)
Thus repulsed, she makes for the paper-stand;
papers, magazines, ordered by number, edition or day,
take heavy poundings till they lie scattered,
littered on the floor.
The main assault no longer brooks delay! She tugs again -
the infantry charge down.
They miss the mark but make a hellish din.
With head well positioned for cover, she tugs
a third time, and with a mighty splut
the jam-jars teeter, topple and tumble,
and tumblers crash down with deafening jars.
With jammy hands, the victress daubs the walls,
and in triumph commemorates her feat.
By the shindy wakened, Father stalks in,
his face like that of Jupiter tonans
before the fatal blow.
Her sunny smiles pierce the dismal gloom -
O double conquest! Did Gaul, cowering
to the gore-drenched blade, love Caesar,
the British tribes, defeated, bless Agricola?
What smiles leave hard a little tear
makes tender as a lamb, and Dad,
a willing captive to her wiles, gives in -
surrender unconditional.
And Mum?
She'll do the mopping up, of course!
He oozed charm, this aging lothario.
Gallantry was his middle name.
Yet, he lived in the past
in the glory days of football wins
and cheerleaders…
denying his saggy abdomen
blind eye, and fungus crusted feet…
Gallantry was his middle name
and he wheedled his way into the affections
of many lost and lonely woman.
When the only women
of true importance in his life
were his daughters…
He lived in the past
slept with his dog, and swam in Speedos
bald pate shining in the sun.
Once, long ago he was married to a cheerleader.
She’s stopped cheering, as his life filled
with their daughter and she was no longer his girl.
Caught between life, death,
and the deep blue sea, he swam.
Arriving at the home of each new prospective conquest
with the requisite flowers and small talk.
The glory days of football still danced
before his single good eye upon the giant bar screen,
where he served mimosa’s and other drinks with a wink.
He smiled with a well-worn charm, and didn’t touch the stuff.
Still, he tried. But, most times,
he felt more at home
with his daughters…
A silver shield—
not polished,
but burnished with time,
like moonlight caught in stone.
This is not a banner of conquest,
but of endurance.
At its center: a fox,
mid-step, not snarling—
alert, alive,
the patron saint of disappearing
without being lost.
She knows the back ways,
the soft ground,
the difference between retreat
and wisdom.
Beneath her paws:
wild thyme and yarrow,
not roses—never roses.
I want the plants that heal quietly,
that grow in stubborn places,
whose roots remember drought
and bloom anyway.
Two crossed quills above her head:
one black,
one gold.
Words as weapons,
words as balm.
My shield is etched with stories
that cut and comfort both.
Colors?
Deep forest green—
for stillness.
Ink blue—
for the sea I never stop carrying in my chest.
And a single streak of ember orange—
foxfire,
the moment just before change,
or flight,
or truth.
And the motto, curling beneath in worn script:
“Not loud, but lasting.”
Let them come with their noise.
This is the crest of the patient,
the watchers,
the ones who survive
by becoming
exactly themselves.