Long Est Poems
Long Est Poems. Below are the most popular long Est by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Est poems by poem length and keyword.
We named him Buddy. He is a Great Dane German Shepherd mix
A baby; we keep saying we should have called him Marmaduke.
In one month he has chewed up at least a hundred things.
He has chewed the lids off of twenty-four water bottles and six juices.
Did he dump them? No. He did it without spelling a drop of juice.
I am down to two pairs of shoes.. Four are tattered and torn.
He chewed up a brand-new car cover which had never been used.
He demolished a package of Styrofoam paper plates too.
When we go to bed we don’t know what we will wake up to.
The living room is usually full of things we forgot that we had owned.
One day I recognized the shredded material but did not know why.
It was a child’s umbrella, I had not seen for ten years.
He is the chewing-est dog we have ever had.
And we have adopted nineteen dogs.
If he ever decides to chew up the furniture
We might have to think of obedience school.
We have chew marks on our TV remotes.
He demolished an Amazon gift card box.
Need I go on? We love the big lug.
We call him the big galoot; and we are glad he was dumped here.
What I sing from my chest
Only for ivory keys to hear.
Are the same old words
That cracked lips bear.
That familiar tune that calloused fingers play
Is the one that my own heart aches to say.
I have plucked and I have strummed
But when its my own heartstrings
That are plucked for the masses
Will my soul succumb or burn to ashes?
If a song is played for others to judge
Its worth is no longer for me alone.
My fears replayed as feedback
And my own tune I have outgrown.
When the keys have cracked
And guitar strings snapped;
Is the silence left a rest
Or is it forever prolonged?
I have played my part
And sang my chant
My ear worm finally laid to rest.
Yet a few notes linger in the air
Awaiting the song to begin again.
Deus Caritas Est L
(God is love)
By: Miracle Man
3-22-2020
God has given to each His love without fuss,
Through love He gave us his only begotten son.
While we were yet sinners Jesus died for us,
Promising everlasting life when our race is run.
God gave us a commandment to love each other,
If we can’t love another then God we don’t know.
As He loved us, we’re to likewise love our brother,
and will be held accountable for the seed we sow.
So unto God’s teachings let us always adhere,
remembering, His perfect love casteth out all fear:
Matthew 10:28 (KJV)
28 And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.
Hoc est corpus*, hocus pocus
Legerdemaine, a shift in focus
Hoc est corpus, from the Mass
Hocus pocus, parody crass
Transubstantiation phrase
Ridicule, to baser plays
Papists, Protestants at odds
Declaring doctrines with regards
To our Lord’s communinion meal
Causing strife, divisions real
Luther replaced trans with con
Zwingli’s bread, alone anon
Calvin said we participate,
Joined to Christ when we partake
Hocus Pocus, thus a slur
“Magical”, what was inferred.
After Christ’s blood, more was shed
Strange remembrance, but ‘nuf said…
----------
*Hoc est corpus meum, Latin for ‘This is my body’
From what I can find, Hocus Pocus was the stage name for a magician who performed around 1640. Somewhere along the way, someone noted a similarity of sound between 'hoc est corpus' and 'hocus pocus', and observed (sarcastically) that the Catholics must believe magic occurred during the reciting of the mass to change the wine and bread into the blood and body of Christ...
(The Italian wine "Est! Est! Est!" got its
curious name because 900 years ago a
German bishop liked it so much, he
drank himself to death.)
Those bishop guys in days gone by
were deep and subtle thinkers.
They knew their scripture -- and no lie -
were quite accomplished drinkers.
A German prelate of the Church
was summoned down to Rome:
his servants helped him in his search
for taverns ("home from home").
How lucky we, with S.U.V.,
and motorways, and such:
twelfth century was leisurely --
ten miles a day was much!
What matter if the sun may grin,
and forest flame viridian?
To find an inn to shelter in,
their keen concern quotidian.
Not uninclined to "give it large",
unlike before or since,
he travelled with an entourage,
this spiritual prince.
Each morn he'd send a runner off
to scout the road ahead,
to find a decent Gastenhof,
and guarantee a bed.
The bishop stout (need we point out?),
a man of moral fiber,
was quite devout (but there's no doubt,
he was a keen imbiber!)
"Just take this chalk," (so went his talk,
to servants sent before):
"And do not balk. When you uncork
good liquor, mark the door."
This way, the churchman planned to pass,
when pausing for a rest,
fun nights in vino veritas,
partaking of the best.
"So, sup the wine, and if it's fine,
write on the lintel (lest
I miss the sign and fail to dine
there) 'Vinum Bonum Est!'"
Off went the servant at a trot.
Would we were in his shoes!
To earn our pay, we play the sot,
by "testing" all the booze!
From bar to bar, he wanders far,
obeying that behest:
but "Vinum Bonum" starts to jar:
He shortens it to "Est"!
He sips this wine, he guzzles that,
and if he is impressed,
he makes a holy concordat,
and marks the doorway, "Est!"
Down through the Alps the servant wends,
to tread Italian soil:
so many blends, to greet as friends!
Unto his task, stays loyal.
Both white and red, their bottles bled,
are flowing like the Arno:
by destiny, the servant's led
to Montepulciano!
Volcanic slopes (some are the Pope's!)
make wine that's heaven-blessed:
and, titillated as he topes,
he chalks up, "Est! Est! Est!"
Some days elapse -- a week, perhaps.
Beneath the tavern's eaves,
round Bishop wraps the sweetest of traps --
he arrives, but never leaves!
The wine is fine -- almost divine --
Soft, like an angel's breath;
To toe the line, he's disinclined --
and drinks himself to death!
And though this tale's beyond the pale,
a moral you may wrest --
each holy grail's adorned with nails --
go slow with Est! Est! Est!
It’s like all the sudden something said "OK Ingrid, now it is time to write again"
So here we are… we two
….you and I swimming amongst these circles and squares...these dashes,darts and dots
jumps...stoppings and startings...periods and lack there of
...of course
So...It begins now
but then that is ridiculous
It began a long time ago in a land so far from me now I have to stop to recall it, as one would stop to recall a book they once read…the plot, the characters all so familiar and on the tip of mind and tongue but then of course not
and one is found floundering and searching …all the while wearing the most preposterous expression
It is impossible to search ones memory and have even the semblance of a sophisticated knowing expression on one's face
It is just part of the human condition
the great equalizer …the rich and the poor, the philosophically advanced and the dumb as dirt
ALL must flounder on memories forgotten and ever relentlessly forgetting shores.
We are not lemmings we are fish
Forgive my pun and weak humor… it is all I have got to try to amuse you while pondering and musing away the time ahead of us about the likes of….
Brown paper bags
Bags….ENORMOUS bags of candy: They MUST have weighed at least 5 lbs
but for a penny a piece =a quarter could make you
Queen of the gum ball and Sorceress of the jaw breaker for at least an entire day.
It is A wonder of nature we are not all dying of diabetes …..and very bad parenting
or are we?
But that is not our real subject…our real subject is the lay of the land
The dot dot dot of it…the slicing of any apple…the creating of a word...a letter …a phrase …any! and all! expression of the depthful interiors of the artistic vase with in
that est perfectum
not because it works and is perfect
but because it exists
at all
in mind and in daring
in ink
We never could get on. This was the last
of our attempts to find the golden mean.
We'd come here to the South of France, with wives,
a summer holiday of mending fences,
two colleagues seeking ways to rub along.
In Antibes (or in Aix - I don't recall),
as we were strolling down some tree-lined street,
I noticed an hotel. So very French.
Neat wooden shutters, graceful balcony.
The plaque above the threshold caught my eye:
"Here, on this very balcony, the great
Napoleon, escaped from Elba, made
an inspired speech. His fortunes at low ebb,
and hunted by his foreign enemies,
he spoke to France, and France took up his call.
His former soldiers, sent to capture him,
threw down their arms and wept. So Bonaparte,
here on this spot, resolved to fight again,
and see what kind of mistress Fate might prove."
Here. On this spot. A bankrupt, beaten man,
that Spring of eighteen fifteen, chose to roll
the dice again, to shape Earth's destiny.
I heard "Vive l'Empereur!" I felt the drums!
"You're so insensitive!" an English cry
thrust through my daydream like a metal spike.
McGill was pointing to a motor-bike.
"You walked right past this awesome piece of kit,
And didn't even notice!" That was it.
The die was cast. For good or ill, I knew
my fate lay elsewhere. This was Waterloo.
All hope of reconciliation gone,
McGill and I had crossed our Rubicon.