Long Council Poems
Long Council Poems. Below are the most popular long Council by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Council poems by poem length and keyword.
From behind
a great wall
immortal love
speaks in council
from within
one's soul
imprisoned silver reflections
dance within
staring upon
the moon face
written from
the oracles
of life
re emerging emotions
beating drumbeats
echoes deep
lighting up chambers
oh princess
star within
the ocean
a warrior
of light
scared wounds heal
in golden living feelings
draws the sword
defending such rare beauty
a gift from above
love soldiers on
fights within darkness
breathing mist
alive feelings
overcoming shadows
faith seals
the battle
within middle earth
breaking binding chains
spirit of an eagle cries
escaping a dark dungeon
draws a line
upon the sand
every tear
that was shed
in baptism
of love
wounded emotion
stands upon
the crossroads
inner vision
opens one's eyes
greatest living emotion
now one seeks
on wings
of an angel
faraway is a dream
raising the sword
in defending
her light
begins shining anew
polishing armor
this crusade begins
in a Celtic heart
within the ocean
this ship
raises sails
sailing to you
with love
it conquers all
In the late, sleepless hours of night, a meandering takes up form.
Whilst in the distance thunders peal and clear skies
Relent to storm—
Giving backdrop to fervent feelings
That much is not of goodly norm,
Nor the seeping reelings
Of a kingdom falling
With the entirety of its soul,
As those e'er trusted
Play a vile and ruthless role—
Shattering with ruinous deeds—
Its cornerstones.
When the eye tenderly looks away,
The head bow'd in shy disgrace,
Like the budding flower downturn'd;
The petals red, like the blushing face—
Evil will have learned,
Which beguiling smile may prevail,
Which pretty words lend thee sweep
Thy locks aside
And rest thee asleep,
Thy head in the soft down of cushion'd pride;
Thy alarms wrapt and silenc'd
In purposed arms,
As soft whispers fall
In lulls and lullaby-songs.
Where, when thou art rous'd awake,
Thou join'st the countless throngs;
Unabiding of the council of reason,
Thou wouldst become a tool of treason,
Blinded by the flattering colours shone before thy vanity
And the wrathful power of
A wielded disparity.
Thou lisp'st among the high,
Thou watch'st the lowly try to climb,
But with beauteous, graceful foot
And an armored heel
Push'st them down
And give'st up thy soul to feel
Forever a cruel power wound—
Within a frail frame
That but yesterday
Champion'd the poor,
The forsaken,
And held down
With rallying voice
That once won them choice,
And a voice to be heard
And deem'd worthy
And abiding in untarnish'd honor,
Where now thine is lost
At the cost of thy ruined
Family name and a withering fame,
Now known'st only well for naught
But shame.
Beware the attentive,
timely, charming stranger's smile.
Friends are more than sweet looks
And courtesies—free yet costly;
Comely with a dubiety earn'd,
Seen clear through the puissance of self
And a wise, unerring vigilance.
Say goodbye to Pretty Polly
The lass from the Co-op store
She went and joined the Army
And they sent her off to War
Off to far Afghanistan
To set the people free
Pretty Polly’s was blown up
By a roadside I.E.D.
The armour saved her physically
But mentally she was gone
Stuck there in a time warp
Wasn’t able to move on.
They didn’t just desert her
The counsellors really tried
But out there in Afghanistan
Some part of her had died.
But Pretty Polly was a soldier
And a soldier’s life is cheap
So they gave her a War Pension
And out on the scrap heap.
Pretty Polly didn’t moan
And Pretty Polly didn’t whine
She had after all voluntarily
Signed on the dotted line.
She slept rough in the woods
Bivvying on open ground
Alert and awakened by
Every single little sound.
Sat on a shop doorsteep
For hours every single day
Until the police or the council
Finally moved her on her way.
They found her in a wood
Hanging from a rope
Pretty Polly it seems
Had finally lost all hope.
Just another Veteran
Who chose to end life like that
They bore Standards at her funeral
The coffin bore her Dress Hat.
The Padre told her story
The family held a wake
Some of her Regiment came
Just for old times sake
To saygoodbye to Pretty Polly
The lass from the Co-op store
Just another senseless victim
Of another senseless war.
A curled-up bundle of skin and hair
Adorns the window-seat
The sorry remains of Kitty
The old lady down the street
To those who saw her struggle daily
With her heavy shopping trolley
All of her ignorant neighbours
And her estranged sister Polly
To all of the people
Who used to stand and laugh
Here lies Kitty, loner Kitty
Written on her epitaph
Kitty was a lonely soul
No family or friends had she
Only the teenagers two doors down
Tony, Beth and Marie
They'd pop in on pension day
And ask her for a loan
With no intention of paying her back
Got money for drugs then left her alone
Just the other day
She'd decided to have a look
In the sideboard drawer
For her pension book
The book wasn't where she'd put it
In the right-hand drawer
Maybe she'd done like two weeks ago
Dropped it on the post-office floor
Mrs Kemp had brought it round
Said she'd noticed it after she'd left
She stressed she was lucky that it had been found
Nearly a victim of I.D theft
Her state benefit had been cut
Though not told the reason why
Thinking about rent and energy bills
She'd often sit and cry
Tony, Beth and Marie are banging on the door
What do they want from Kitty?
They've had it all and they want more
Kitty is now at peace
Her maker she has met
She died alone in squalor
Her heart filled with regret
The council fumigated the house
Used disinfectant till it was replete
The only evidence of Kitty
A large stain on the window seat
There are so many like Kitty
But no-one cares ask why
Abandoned by society
And left alone to die
All that remained of Kitty
Was curled up on the window-seat
The quiet soul with no-one
The old lady down the street
Queens are all over, and there are festivals, parades, banners and stuff.
I wanted to be Corn Queen once, but they chose a girl from Council Bluff.
Our phenomenal state fairs have a bunch of pageants galore.
We watch these winners parade in with titles, banners, and more.
Miss Atom was fine, looked great in her huge science lab.
Everyone was glad she got it, for she had the gift of gab.
Ms. Plastic Surgery had lips that kept falling off,
So her title was given to Miss Whopping Cough.
The men have their own competitions, of course.
Some bring their own cow, their llama or horse.
Mr. Cowboy for the West part of the state,
Was given a chilly reception, being six minutes late.
Stripped of his title, it pleased his first runner up.
Who had also won Mr. Lassie and Mr. Buttercup.
Mr. Elf on the Shelf was irritated ‘because he thought he had it.
Mr. Emergency laughed, for he was named Mr. Bad It.
Mrs. Hostess Snowball wore snowballs strategically placed,
And Mrs. Not—Ever-Ready wore a corny veil ribboned with lace.
Queens and Kings, running around, winning titles fast and furiously.
To put on their resume’s or job applications? I am guessing curiously.
Not being in a pageant, myself, I truly do not understand.
But there are contests for queens and kings all over our land.
Showing off titles, and banners and stuff.
Here is Mrs. Wart Hog cemetery. Her hide is tough!
Hollow eyes of a skull shrouded by a heavy mist
People suffer condemning others within foul hate
Hateful stares piercing through the back of their skulls soul domain
Raping hearts violently shred inner purity
Inside deep council weeping in ugly visions hurt
Tainted with nightshades unforgiving it creates wars
Ugly bitterness seeping into their spines chilling
Nobility breaking chains in bondage heart aching
Blood sucking leeches drain life from the living temple
Greedy vultures picking dead meat from the bones altar
Twisted talons, judgment overpowers emotions
Merciless machines killing without love and conscience
Turns upside down human virtue inside this world's wrath
We all know our hearts plea for justice's sake writhes in lies
Devoured by parasites, greed is the choice of weapon
Yet ignorance plays its role turning blindly the eyes
Rolling down crocodile tears, colorless emotions
Tears bleed bathing inside heartache's shameful reminder
Raindrops of deep hurt remains within salted old wounds
Holding love as the most precious and purest gift pearl
Undying beauty fading ashes dust blowing
Over memories stored in a yellowish photo
In what is right and what is wrong we cannot deny
Rainbow remnants pull on a thread of thought sewn deeply
A Collaborated Poem by Liam Mc Daid and Angeline lim
This poem is written in the Unheavenly style that we created. It's written in 6 lines of 13 syllables.
In the halls of the
United Nations
truth walks slowly.
Speeches travel faster.
António Guterres,
are you leading—
or following?
A throne of diplomacy
was given to you.
Not to decorate silence.
But to confront power.
Yet the world burns.
Gaza
is smoke.
Lebanon trembles.
Syria bleeds.
Iran stands
under the shadow of war.
Inside the chamber
men speak of peace.
Outside the chamber
guns answer.
This is the theatre of nations.
A place where rulers perform
virtue
while power writes the script.
Machiavelli knew this truth:
A prince who cannot act
becomes a symbol.
And symbols
do not stop wars.
Tell me then—
What is the value
of a council of nations
that cannot restrain
the violence of kings?
What is the worth
of authority
that commands no obedience?
If power hides behind speeches
it becomes ritual.
And ritual
comforts the powerful
while the weak suffer.
The world listens
to the sound of declarations.
But history listens
for courage.
For in the end
the question is simple:
Did the chair of power
guide the world—
or merely watch
as it burned?
Meet Rob Ford.
A panda in this land.
The Mayor of Toronto.
A hero they have banned.
A servant of Toronto
and maybe the whole world.
A will as strong as iron.
A faith that has been furled.
A man who loves his country.
Who worked for greater good.
A Saint who smoked a crack pipe.
An average people's hood.
The leader of a city.
assaulted by the press;
Then kissed upon the lips.
when council was a mess.
A liar for our nation.
They cut him to the rib.
Exposing what is private.
The mayor had to fib.
Now rise up Mayor Ford.
Your wounds have all our names.
Your critics are of Hell
but your fans ignore the flames.
Your legacy is leaving you.
No council to administer.
But keep your faith as close to you
that one day your Prime Minister.
With all the new ones returned from eternity, a cohort of bewitched fates,
we'll long through the spell of forgetting, the tiny ones with giants' shades,
sad avatars with grins of joy, the graveyards blooming bright,
mountains with a view toward the sea from inverted mirror's sight,
the many words gone silent, the mute ones crying out in spectral echoes
to bring us memory from the future past, just for a day
white-as-the-night, a necklace made of crystal tears, the summer wise
insane for the first eternal time, from peak-abyss, a flood
of drought, asthenic evening electric, maidenhood's path-wise,
floating burden of your mind heavy as smoke, from a
spring buried in August that was forgotten-remembered,
like before that winter wise demented in my mind
burning with astral ice, temperature without degree, curvature
without angle, a sacred parody of healing sickness, appendix
yellow-violet of autumn living-dead, of your hysterical
zen leaf that dances ritual on the dead branch full of sap...
Pun hard as water, vapor made of stone, fog curly-smooth,
amor of alchemical longing, magic council of pithecanthrope
illuminated priests, sweet pain from priceless wealth, dowry stolen
by fairies, story-truth, of her hair's arrow-crests,
with cursed grace, but causeless gift, my nocturnal spark
diurnal, with you-phantom, alone in crowds, on a sky
of earth with private-public stars, in total part,
to me and you and no one, the eye-full fate blind-seeing
in cubes of hot ice baked-raw like burnt honey,
of your mute desire for whispers like thunder in the fullness of silence...
How can we not have this conversation
where footprints of the poor vanish
beneath the boots of investors,
and the river sings only
to those who can afford its luxury?
In Chobe, the elephants roam free,
but people walk caged in poverty.
We call it coexistence
when tusks are protected,
but mothers bury their sons
gored near neglected kraals.
And no one comes
unless it's a game drive
and the victim is not black.
How can we not speak
when the lion's roar is louder
than a widow's cry for compensation?
When leopards eat goats
and ministries write reports not cheques?
Let's talk about the five-star smiles
that greet foreign tongues
while the Batswana mop floors, serve beer, and sleep on concrete after ten-hour shifts.
Let's talk about uniforms and pay slips
that smell like servitude,
contracts folded into silence
in offices lined with antelope heads.
And let's speak of the racism
how a Black woman was shot by a white woman
who said, "I thought it was a monkey."
As if her body was a silhouette of threat.
As if Blackness is always a blur
on the edge of someone else's comfort.
The river bore witness, but the law shrugged,
and headlines softened the bullet.
Let's talk of fishermen
banished from their birthright,
told their canoes spoil the view,
that their laughter scares the tourists,
that their presence is pollution.
Let's speak of lodge owners
who toss insults like breadcrumbs
to those who clean their sheets
lazy, slow, replaceable.
No chains, but contracts.
No slurs, just smiles
with knives beneath them.
We cannot be quiet
when the sun sets
behind lodges built on lies,
and the river is fenced
not for safety, but exclusion.
How can we not speak
of the politics of permits,
where land is leased
like livestock,
and council seats are auctioned
to the highest foreign bidder?
Corruption blooms like water hyacinth,
choking life from the roots
of communal trust.
The sand knows.
The baobabs know.
Even the crocodiles know
how long we've swallowed
our own tongues
to protect the myth of peace.
So let us talk.
Let us gather in the heat
of midday truth,
where no luxury air-con hums.
Let us speak until the sky listens,
until justice stalks this land
as fiercely as the wild.
Because silence, here,
is complicity.
And we have been quiet
for far too long.
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