Long Consign Poems
Long Consign Poems. Below are the most popular long Consign by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Consign poems by poem length and keyword.
Wake up every day, give thanks to the Lord
An expression of gratitude you can surely afford
Then take a minute, just a minute, to contemplate
Is there anyone on this Earth whom I think that I hate
If so, purge that hate from your heart; it has no place there
Consign it to ashes; of its return - please beware
After that one more minute - OK - maybe two
Infuse your heart with love for every person you knew
and now know... at home, at school, at work, on the street
Vow to receive with good cheer every new face you meet
Manifest the image of God; He's yours to glorify
Fill your heart with pure love ~ in abundant supply
The snowstorm done, I venture out
from here inside my rented space-
a cabin near the mountainside;
I'm lured by beauty, all about.
How still the air- such quiet calm
the dim-lit moon and stars provide.
But, shadows add a warning sign;
I must respect my inner qualm.
The woods around still beckon me;
snow-laden trees, their limbs consign
a sense of peace, for without doubt-
state of quiescence, guarantee.
Whose woods these are, I think I know-
this sacred bliss, God did bestow.
I wish to venture in- but no!
For now, paths hide beneath the snow.
February 16, 2020
~1st Place~
Contest: Lines To Awaken Your Muse
Sponsor: Joseph May
Judged: 03/02/2020
Inspired by prompt 4:
"Whose woods these are I think I know" - Robert Frost
Required Rhyme Scheme: abca dced feaf hhhh
Joe Biden now rules our White House
Together with his 'doctor' spouse.
His blunders, for sure-
We have to endure;
To caring, he does not espouse.
Those mishaps, like names he misspoke-
For sure, were not meant as a joke.
But much worse by far
His failures that scar-
Appeasing the will of the woke'!
Day-one, he shut down the pipeline-
made our oil production decline.
Gas prices- despise!
While heating bills rise!
We now must import and consign!
Appalling- how he shut that door
To exit the long Afghan war!
Left our troops behind-
Their rescue declined
In spite of their sacrifice bore!
Our vast Southern border, exposed-
All previous rules- he opposed.
He let millions in
And, to our chagrin-
Come outlaws and drugs- unopposed!
Bad crimes multiply by the day;
The victims now feel cast away.
With no fines or bail,
Or time spent in jail-
No need that bad guys must obey!
Inflation's gone way off the chart;
We dread the time spent at the mart.
Less food we now choose
For his brainless ruse-
Just printing out money's not smart!
And, last but not least, Hunter's life!
This son and his dad cause us strife.
With Chinese, each deals-
While 'The Big Guy' steals;
Through quid pro quo- they become rife!
Our media hypes left-wing views-
So, therefore, presenting fake news;
When really, they should
Show bad with the good;
Lay out all the facts to peruse!
November 25, 2022
Contest: The Bidens Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Whenever we feel we are incomplete,
as in a contraction, a sense of lack,
fake smile on our face, heart sunk to our feet,
shrouded in gloom, as subtle fears attack,
how much we wish to get our laughter back!
Oh hermit! Simply look at source of thought,
rooted in attachments, ego begot,
bubbles of illusion, borne of desire,
mirrored by fears, spiralling narrow slots.
Feeding them not, consign thoughts to the pyre!
Abiding then, in thought rested silence,
we let go of all that binds and confines,
ceasing striving, reclaiming innocence,
gently, head and heart, with conscience align,
imbibing bliss, as the love throb assigns!
Oh hermit! Know no doing need be done.
Just let past conditioning be undone,
shifting thus from seizing to connecting,
free like the breeze, whilst basking in the sun,
blissful in the current scintillating!
28-March-2021
The Mourning Morning 100 and 50 Years On
Robert Graves lies in Wilfried Owen’s grave ponders the War
to end all Wars that continue with nothing else for us in store
and Barry Mc Guire sang summed it all up in 65 in destruction’s
eve thereof a cold dawn of reckoning conscience lost ever more
My Lai lives on and Srebrenica in naked truth of persecution
soars Wall Street Abrams Challenger Tanks as the best solution
for keeping pacifism social justice common sense at dismembered
arm’s length and loss still counts body bags for the good of delusion
Wounded Knee White and other blood rivers Tigris Euphrates
Nyabarongo swell swollen this morning today at great ease
with buried tears pounding of drums the pride and disgrace’
falsified messages broken walls shots of money’s droned lease
You can’t bury the dead and not leave a trace but attempt very well
to photo-shop engage propaganda erase meaning and sell sell sell
Marches alone will not consign madness ethnic cleansing proven
genocidal greedy insanity but disapprove sin and continue to tell
About 'Eve Of Destruction' like Graves Ghandi Mc Guire 50 years on
tune protest poetry and rock ballads shout clear in more than a song
Contemplate on the call up imagine a battle and nobody goes forth
scream howl against dogs of war and their masters please sing along
31st August 2016
The briny tears have dried
The sounding knells are stilled
The grieving crowd, dispersed
The parting pain, allayed
Benumbed lie the dead
Beneath the marble vaults
Bereft of power and prowess
Benighted and beaten.
The sun shall never cast its glorious rays
The stars shall never their brilliance shed
The breeze never shall bring tidings new
The showers shall no more drench them through
A thoughtful friend sometimes seen around
A fervent prayer at times chanted aloud
A plaited wreath, rarely laid over
A trite rite, randomly carried out
There’s none left to mourn or weep
Nor anyone to sing, sigh or sob
Leaving the dead to rot in the closure of graves
To life’s alluring charms, the dear depart.
Cold as clay the dead lie so still
To be feasted on by maggots and the worms
Life with all its glory – defunct
Its fever and fret too – extinct.
How in vain we run after wealth
The power and position we deem so great
Shall come to naught within Time’s gloomy vault
Yet we run and yet we straggle behind.
In vain ends our travail for might
Inglorious is our quest after fame
Transient turn the riches, we garner
Short lived is their gleam and glitter.
Oh Lord! Lead us not into illusory charms
Deliver us of our avarice to hoard
For all that is born and made
‘Must consign to death and come to dust.’
Placed Third
March. 1. 2022
'G'. Give me a New Poem- Any Form
Poetry Contest
Subject- Death
Sponsor- Constance La France
DEVINE PARENTAGE:
Praise be unto JEHOVAH!
The GOD who has no rootage,
And no one knows his lineage.
His holiness is basically not a heritage,
And His divinity spiritually holds a mileage,
Which is affirmed with a homage.
Praise be unto JEHOVAH!
The GOD who is a perpetual Mother...
A good Mother full of honour,
Whose breastmilk carries power,
Nourishing Her offsprings with brainpower.
Her eternal nurturing for them is without a cessation.
Her intellectuality is with perfection.
Her heart beats with compassion,
Forgiving them of their transgressions.
And saving them from destructions.
Praise be unto JEHOVAH!
The GOD who is an everlasting father...
A Father who really loves his children.
His heart is a fine accommodation,
Providing them food and protection.
He advices and motivates them with affection,
Making His fatherhood based on confection,
So that He chooses no to consign.
And in Him do the children confine,
As He makes their life so fine.
Yes,JEHOVAH is a Mother...,
Yes,JEHOVAH is a Father...,
His parenthood overwhelms.
And He rules in all realms,
Because,the universe dwells in his hands.
And with His rulership,no one can withstand.
Gentle as you are, you come uninvited but oh so quietly
as your floral scents permeate you arrive bipinnately
Invigorating every tree and garden full of parsley
with evening's refresh breezing in succinctly
With futuristic birth that winter could not borrow
you draw us in then gift us with tomorrow
Sprigs of blooming life grow inside your yarrows
insuring us with every shade of rainbow
Calendar favored you are the in between season
ear marked for a very good reason
renewed and refreshed you are a beacon
without treason
Gentle as you are Spring, you arrive just in time
like a rose, getting ready to consign.
I have the rhythm of a winding road
how do I consign myself to being confined...
rows of poplar pillars prop
rendezvous canopies beneath we meet
—I self-cajole on ooh-la-la afternoon
yellow eyes; daffodils watching
lean into gossip groups nodding
a prodding breeze instigating deep-freeze—
I am a sweet weed in this place of sway and betray
with a stranger I stroll my arranged betrothed
height of his black top hat challenges trees
much like Corinthian columns
guards of an aisle I must walk —dear God! must walk
trepidation trips down my bridal spinal column
tiger eyes; lilies watching wish they were me
dare they dream they could uproot their roots like me
wish they could wedding waltz like I must —like I must
but their envy-leaves remain embrace-less
—I secretly envy lilies’ arms empty of yet unmet love
daffodils; empty-headed —laugh
they try to read my mind to fill their own
what do I care of their curdled thoughts lemon tart
and orange lilies’ with their brocade brimstone
what do I fear of fire-breathers burn of words
undergrowth feels the square heels of my lace-up boots
post impression grows more expressive than first—
beware French tongues of sundew and burdock burr
marriage-carriage rolls in ruts to Versailles
where my coerced corset of hooks and ties lie
rhythm of a winding road dies in minuet strangle-hold
To Lesley do I owe a big debt
No more over verse will I ever sweat
Reading her nuanced advice between the lines
My motivation to versify sharply declines
It has become clear to me that my rotten rhyme
Is so very close to being a humanitarian crime.
So,Ms Duncan,to you must I convey my thanks
That no longer will I invest in poetry banks.
Now must I banish my obsession with a final farewell
And consign all future thoughts of poetry to the fires of hell.
Without me,may all you genuine poets flourish
And your love of poetry always and ever nourish.
With a truly sad heart I do lay down my pen
And I will not demean Parnassus ever again
And yet who can ever be fully sure and rightly know
When the Pierian spring through one will once again flow?