Long England Poems
Long England Poems. Below are the most popular long England by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long England poems by poem length and keyword.
He's a visual fusion of forest and inner flame,
A radiant pulse of abundance.
Clad in crafted clothing of galore,
Stitched in autumn tones from folklore.
He wears leaves of distinction, orange embers,
Yellow, citrine, and emerald green.
He nurtures the woodlands in newborn sunrays
That fall through the morning haze,
Striking the heart where his roots belong,
Enhancing the mind with crystal-clear gleam.
Twinkling truths highlight his daydreams.
The Green Man dances readily,
Saged in spirals for centuries,
Giving journeymen paths to fae lights,
Readily twisting around flowers, foliage, and sprite's limbs,
Stretched in sacred homage.
Breath in breeze
Body entwined with trees
By myth decreed
By birthright and galore
Wanderer between roots and stars forevermore.
He was the bard from Stratford, and as a teenager
he helped his father in his trade; he married and had children
and became the most popular and admired play writer
in all England...acting was also his other pleasurable passion.
Curious Queen Elisabeth was one of the thousand spectators,
who came to see him in the Globe theater...she shed tears,
and was stunned by the performance of his timeless plays,
and yet, some of his fellow-poets criticized him for his writings!
I wish I had lived in that Victorian era so intellectual and refined,
and had met him in person and had showed him my ample admiration;
I would have asked him the secret, which made him so legendary and loved...
and he would have whispered it to me, to make me revel in that revelation!
I have read his inspiring works, and tragedies rampantly occur
from " Romeo and Juliet"...the Verona's immortal lovers, through" Hamlet "
whose insanity was undoubtedly caused by the specter of his father;
and why didn't Shakespeare choose less dramatic plays not ending in death?
He wanted to teach us indelible lessons to show us how the human spirit
can be passionate, adamant, loveless, envious, cruel, unfair and treacherous...
to outline all kinds of guilt: from murder to envy so well-expressed with eloquence;
it's no mystery to anyone how he conjured up such plots with grief, madness and wit!
Shakespeare was no ordinary kid, and he played with his siblings on Henley Street,
neighbors saw him trot to his grammar school, later he would make everyone weep;
early in adolescence, did his prodigious mind envision one from a vague thought?
It's no wonder that he is widely read even today...hear his speak, he'll impart worth!
Entered in Amy Green's contest, " Wow Me With Inspiration "
Wake up, citizens of Europe.
Your nations are dying in silence.
Criminals wear crowns of democracy.
They serve not you, but their ego.
They speak of freedom,
while selling war.
They wave the flag of peace,
but their hands drip with oil and blood.
Ukraine burns.
Children cry beneath falling skies.
And they call it strategy.
Tell me,
in whose interest is this war?
Not yours.
Not the farmer.
Not the worker.
Not the mother who prays at night.
NATO does not speak for you.
It speaks for the few
who feast while you starve.
Your taxes feed the war machine.
Your sweat builds their empires.
While you stand in cold streets,
searching for work,
they count their gold.
Rise, citizens of Europe.
Before silence becomes your grave.
Before your cities become ashes
and your children forget your voice.
Europe is bleeding.
Her heart grows weak.
You can still save her—
but not with fear,
not with hate,
only with courage and truth.
The time is now.
Unite.
Speak.
Act.
Or history will whisper your shame.
no shortage of familiar metier real
(material) aye attest
welling up within thy breast
merely a predicament how to winnow
junk bonded barnacled
accretion encrusted
amidst gems buried
within treasure chest,
yet vigilant to sift,
viz figurative fine tooth comb
uprooting excrescence laired plethora
incognito, sans faux
couture doggerel habiliment dressed
necessitating painstaking
poetic rock climbing
ala scaling Mount Everest
imbedding, hooking, grappling
fingered duple crampons
aye con fessed
to myself, the futility
to wrest Shakespearean nuggets,
which analogy hyperbole you guessed
nor does modesty allow me feeble effort
(trite) on par with August bard,
who would rank him,
the highest allotted value
upon assigned (absolute)
value of playing card,
hence tis the gold standard thee
verse a tile scribe based
at Stratford on Avon
this here wordsmith wields
his own literary might always on guard
to stave reprehensible tar tarred plaque
like encrustation glued hard
akin to a geode methodical
mother lode extraction jarred
by the slightest distraction,
thus with bold
ness sigh hermetically
seal off every cerebral fold
vectors against superfluous mind chatter
can upend fragile tenuous hold
when merest wisp of nearly
elusive mental thread escapes,
i feign scold
ding this paperback
bestseller wannabe with told
cha so Harris, thus
keep dreaming envisioning
an green acred Edenic demesne
sprawling across wide webbed wold.
4/5/2025
On my picket fence, irritating, screeching black crows at me,
do sounds, so fearlessly make!
So having had it, I bought a lovely, pine cottage, on the
shores of Angel Cloud Lake.
There I will begin writing my book and yes, it already has an editor
and a first custmer…….really is my heart’s secret song.
I am committed to fine work,no matter how long!
My mentor, in England, knows that penning truth is my passion,
aware of both angels and devils, that do abound.
As a fireplace blazes and sets my ideas, so logicallly sound.
Oh, how many decades on doing this, I,with joy, finally found!
I am reaching for the moon, not one to hide from truth, lest I pen
beauty, be neath words of trivial muck and mire!
Or, worse..to write poetry as soul touching, as a flattened, old tire?
The world is full of classic poets, sadly loathed by the younger
generation.
Wherein poets like Shakespeare and Keats, do lie with their works,
devoured by some, mad, popular poet- form infestation!.
Panagiota Romios OPA!
Dedication to Robert Lindley
With my honor and love, to Robert Lindley! Though you are not writing at present, you saw something in me, that I did not see. I do not think I am
great or stunning!….
But you told me that, “even though nobody would read me, to not let that
stop me! I kept my word to him So thank you, Robert wherever you are.. I do miss you. And your impeccable poetry. And character.
Love…Panagiota
I write like bakers bake
my rhymes make earth shake
Going into contest with me was your biggest mistake
I control the earths plates, tectonics, your rhymes are bollocks
I cause land slides and earthquakes
I don't hate but I do devastate,
Is the rhythm of your rhyme hidden?
I'm going back and forth with my decision
I'd like to think it's something I'm missin'
but I cant see it in what you've written,
You stagnate rhymes
I contemplate the punishment for these crimes,
don't harp that you'll defeat me
I'm a giant you can't even see me
Now back and forth like red and meth I hand you over to little missy,
you pissed us both off so we share a rhyme to make you look silly..........
Your rhymes don't even matter
my pockets is gettin' fatter
Yours getting flatter
When you heard the glass shatter
That means me and my homies gathered
Now you bout to feel the wrath of
Somethin' that you wished you hadn't of
And all I can say is back up because I'm bout to act up
It might not concern you but
I'll thermonuclear burn you, you're a human sacrifice
Cuz I be smashing mics with the Passion of Christ and
Stay fully loaded, equipped with action devices
Me n trim shady here to party like Tom Brady
We stay cooler than an Eskimo baby
V is for Victory, we mastered your trickery
Tryna clock like dickory, get smoked like hickory
So please stop the bickery, you can't get rid of me
Fire colabs from here to infinity
you heard her infinity
even with a radar and map you cant find our reality
we're in another galaxy
you've barely the ability of a fetus
how dare you compete with us
and this U S U K special relationship isn't putting you at a handicap
it's natures act, you can't rhyme or rap
put your dick between your legs and make a tail
walk away with your head down cus your insults fail,
the only insult that landed is that you went up against us
with terrible stale dribble
that you squiggle
all brainless and minimal
like an unevolved mammal
writing without the opposable thumb by miracle
sounding dumb and undesirable,
when I read it I became miserable,
I desire a quick fire high flyer
like me with quick wit that aspires but you were dire
and dim, you aint no Trim,
you're a fool who should return to school.
collaboration with Brenda Chiri
first and third Trim
second Brenda
Every woman is someone’s queen, without women what would the world have been.Quote - Poets own
An Historic Queen
If I had been made a Queen of England
Back then in those historic days of yore
I’d have worn a crown, a ring on my hand
And silver and gold would be clothes I wore.
I’d have ladies in waiting - in the wings
Ladies who would tend to my every need
Because I’d wed one of those ancient kings
A king to whom I'd been proudly decreed.
There may have been others he had bedded
Maybe he'd have fallen for someone else
I could've been cruelly beheaded
Or left in a tower all by myself.
Then no one would ever need to curtsy
Yet, if we’d been blessed with a desired son
Then that would have made me truly worthy
In the eyes of the King and everyone.
*+*+*
27th July 2022
*+*
It's All About Three Q's Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Form: No. 1 - Quatrain
Theme: Life
Friday Night Check-ins
The days have been calm and collected.
The guests have been happy, content.
The weekday staff scurry out from the hotel
To avoid the upcoming event.
Weekend receptionists tremble
As the Friday night check-ins approach,
Fearing the tsunami of wrinklies
On their three-day excursions-by-coach.
The first vehicle’s brakes squeal their warning
As its door opens up with a sigh.
The girl at the desk and her male teammate
Watch the porchway with dread in their eyes.
The first wrinkly disembarks backwards,
Reaching up to be handed her Zimmer.
The scowl on her face giving more than a hint
Of the litany of protests within her.
Slowly the vehicle disgorges
Its fifty malcontent arrivals.
The front desk staff offer a brief heartfelt prayer
For their sanity, composure, survival.
Like an unerring wave of displeasure
The wrinklies shuffle in through the door,
Shoving aside anyone heading out –
They’ve made this manoeuvre before.
The party’s predominantly female,
Determined and far from benign.
Apart from one chap, in windcheater and cap
Looking hen-pecked and toeing the line.
They descend on reception like locusts,
Complaining, demanding and cackling.
The staff at the desk have nowhere to hide
From the surge of objections they’re tackling.
Ground floor room! No steps! Wheelchair access!
Why no lift? Single occupant! Porter!
The tottery old girl with the big Zimmer frame
Demands a young man to escort her.
The onslaught is tough and relentless
As the wrinklies press home their attack.
Then, deftly dealt-with, the tidal wave thins
As they head to their rooms to unpack.
Pleased with the way things were handled,
The reception-staff think they’ve survived.
But outside the lobby, brakes hissing with glee,
Another full coach has arrived…
“Nous nous sommes assises” (“We Sat Down”)
by Renee Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Darling, we were like two exiles
bearing our desolate souls within us.
Dawn broke more revolting than any illness...
Neither of us knew the native language
As we wandered the streets like strangers.
The morning’s stench, so oppressive!
Yet you shone like the sunrise of hope...
2.
As night fell, we sat down,
Your drab dress grey as any evening,
To feel the friendly freshness of kisses.
No longer alone in the universe,
We exchanged lovely verses with languor.
Darling, we dallied, without quite daring to believe,
And I told you: “The evening is far more beautiful than the dawn.”
You nudged me with your forehead, then gave me your hands,
And I no longer feared uncertain tomorrows.
The sunset sashayed off with its splendid insolence,
But no voice dared disturb our silence...
I forgot the houses and their inhospitality...
The sunset dyed my mourning attire purple.
Then I told you, kissing your half-closed eyelids:
“Violets are more beautiful than roses.”
Darkness overwhelmed the horizon...
Harmonious sobs surrounded us...
A strange languor subdued the strident city.
Thus we savored the enigmatic hour.
Slowly death erased all light and noise,
Then I knew the august face of the night.
You let the last veils slip to your nude feet...
Then your body appeared even nobler to me, dimly lit by the stars.
Finally came the appeasement of rest, of returning to ourselves...
And I told you: “Here is the height of love…”
We who had come carrying our desolate souls within us,
like two exiles, like complete strangers.
Renee Vivien, born Pauline Mary Tarn (1877-1909), was a British poet and high-profile lesbian of the Belle Époque who wrote French poems in the style of the Symbolistes and Parnassiens. Keywords/Tags: Renee Vivien, French, translation, England, English, France, lesbian, soul, souls, soulmate, dawn, language, love, kiss, kisses, night, exile, exiles, strangers, misfits
Along the country roads
Still strong they march.
Rocks fitted with intricate care,
Pieced together rock by stone,
Without the help of mortar
A century or more ago
By farmers who ploughed the
Glacial moraine of New England
To plant subsistence crops
Of beans and peas, corn
And potatoes and beets, and
Hay for their animals,
Digging and hauling
The rocks from the stony soil.
Sweating and straining their
Weary muscles to hoist the
Heavy, awkward shapes
Into just the right niche.
They marked boundaries,
Kept animals in their fields,
Protected gardens and chickens
From marauders in the night.
Still they stand strong,
Those ancient rock walls,
Lichen covered and weathered,
Enduring the freezing rain
And ice and snow of winter,
The thunderstorms of summer.
Stoic reminders of the
Stubborn persistence of
Those who, with ox and cart,
Wrestled farms from the
Hard and unforgiving land
And built stone fences.
Along the country roads
Still strong they march.
Rocks fitted with intricate care,
Pieced together rock by stone,
Without the help of mortar
A century or more ago
By farmers who ploughed the
Glacial moraine of New England
To plant subsistence crops
Of beans and peas, corn
And potatoes and beets, and
Hay for their animals,
Digging and hauling
The rocks from the stony soil.
Sweating and straining their
Weary muscles to hoist the
Heavy, awkward shapes
Into just the right niche.
They marked boundaries,
Kept animals in their fields,
Protected gardens and chickens
From marauders in the night.
Still they stand strong,
Those ancient rock walls,
Lichen covered and weathered,
Enduring the freezing rain
And ice and snow of winter,
The thunderstorms of summer.
Stoic reminders of the
Stubborn persistence of
Those who, with ox and cart,
Wrestled farms from the
Hard and unforgiving land
And built stone fences.