Long Fame Poems
Long Fame Poems. Below are the most popular long Fame by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fame poems by poem length and keyword.
Come all, sail along with me!
Welcome aboard to a Pirate's Ship of World History
I’ll be your story teller, to you I will relay
All about the great buccaneer named, Sir Henry
Sir Henry Morgan was his complete name
Whose valiance had brought him huge wealth and fame
Plundering ships…. storming the Spanish Main
Doing his mission with no mercy…his fierceness’ flame!
This valiant Welsh Army showed his atrocity
Since the later time of sixteenth hundred century
Seizing Providencia, , Puerto Principe and other towns
Elected as admiral after conquering them all successfully.
Ruthless attacks went on… invading Spanish settlements
No fear at all, a notorious privateer of English men
Aiming Puerto Bello, a city with vast treasure that time
He took over 200,000 pieces of eight, such a glorious reign!
Gathering all men to his eleven-ship fleet
Deliberating Cartagena de Indias, their next hit
But his intoxicated men had accidentally ignited his ship
His fleet was reduced, Maracaibo was the next goal to defeat
‘Though he’d sometimes unlucky chances along the way
Storms, striking reefs, or captured ships….yet, no dismay
Epic voyage continued in large vessels with his unique tactics
Most Audacious Leader of Expedition: his West Indies’ Name Display
That was his most significant voyage from 1665 and beyond
Where he also sailed with greater fate at Cow Island
On 1670, he targeted Panama firing and burning its ground
And conquered the whole troops of Gov. Perez de Guzman
Sir Henry Morgan was a respectable man ‘til he died
For he did his mission for England’s sake, 'though he was tried
His immense contributions to Jamaica were remarkable
A dependable Hero in his power, one of the England’s Prides!
©2016Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Dec. 30, 2015 1.55pm
I'm proud to be born in April
feeling thrill
to share my birth date twenty third April
with Majestic persona William Shakespeare.
Also, Bengali Film Director Satyajit Ray
winning International fame in Film Industry
holds same birth date as mine.
Bengali New Year starts in April.
In childhood days,
Dad always bought me two new dresses in April
to wear one on Bengali New Year Day
and next on my Birth Day.
April is an Auspicious Month in my life.
Month April initiates
most exciting wonderful storm named
" Kal Baisakhi" after the name of
first month 'Baisakh'
of Bengali New Year.
The charming storm is enjoyable to
watch Nature's glamour with
joyful dance of leaves and branches
chased by strong storm along with
first cluster of grey and black clouds
assembled with loud thunderbolt.
First shower of Summer is poured
some times with hails.
It is a fun for children to run in rains
collecting little pieces of hail stones.
Still feeling nostalgic remembering childhood days.
Last night I was in your head, as we slept,
Remember the dream that you can't quite place?
Where shadows of need through your mind softly crept,
And strangers bore kindness with no hint of disgrace.
You walked a street where no banners flew,
No cheers, no chants, no cameras bright.
Your hands were empty, your pockets bare,
And hunger gnawed sharp in your middle there.
A woman paused at a market stall,
Her apron frayed, her face lined with care.
She offered a loaf, though you had no coin,
'Take it, sir, there's enough here to share.'
A child approached with a trembling hand,
Pressing a dollar, though small was her frame.
'Here, mister, ' she whispered, 'we're all the same.'
Her eyes held a truth no rhetoric could shame.
Then faces gathered, a crowd unplanned,
They gave and gave, though they had so little.
Their voices rose in a tender demand:
'Feed the hungry, no matter their race.'
You woke before you could speak their plea,
But it lingers still in the light of the day.
Do you wonder now at the cost of your fame,
And the weight of the paths your choices now lay?
Dear Governor, dreams are not idle things;
They stir the heart where truths unfold.
Last night, you saw what no title brings—
A wealth far greater than power or gold.
So remember the dream you can't quite place,
Where hands reached out without disdain.
You had no money, so we gave you some,
To remind you of love that softens every Floridian's pain.
men of war have been sworn to hate
rivers of red won't be their own fate
few of them seen most unknown
they new who they where since they where born
their is winners and losers in every game
but these are the black op soldiers , not for fame
have your money ready , don't take a check
cold hard cash , will pay for this harden tech
no questions asked , no answers given
you can watch the tele , and all the devastation
he has no family and he likes it that way
so you better pay him or he will have the last say
all of this training all of these years
so many lives and haunted by fears
you better watch out and have some clout
or you might be buried before night is out
men of war have been sworn
Individualism
Being true to yourself, till your very last breath
Never looking for fame is the real test
Always outrageous, in your own inimitable way
Being true to yourself, to your very last breath
People love originals and shout hurray
Your main goal is always being your best
Being true to yourself, till your very last breath
Never looking for fame is the real test
June 3, 2020
4:30pm PST
Poem # 1,220
“The Man Who Taught Me How”
Verse 1
He wakes up early, same old routine
Coffee cup and a quiet dream
Hands tell stories, lines of time
Built his world and then built mine
He never bragged, never loud
But somehow stood above the crowd
Every lesson, every scar
Showed me who we really are
Pre-Chorus
When I stumbled, when I fell
He knew just what not to tell
Let me learn, let me try
Caught me every time I cried
Chorus
He’s the man who taught me how
To stand my ground, to make him proud
Through the hard days, through it all
He was there when I’d call
I am stronger here and now
Because of the man who taught me how
Verse 2
Old songs playing in the car
Talking dreams beneath the stars
Sometimes silence said enough
Love was quiet, love was tough
He carried weight I couldn’t see
Still made room to carry me
Every sacrifice he made
Lit the path I’m walking today
Pre-Chorus
He didn’t have to say the words
I felt his love in what he did
In every “you’ll be fine”
In every step he walked behind
Chorus
He’s the man who taught me how
To rise again, to not back down
Through the long nights, through the doubt
He believed when I couldn’t shout
I am who I am right now
Because of the man who taught me how
Bridge
And if I ever lose my way
I hear his voice, it still remains
“Be kind, be brave, be true”
Those words still pull me through
Final Chorus
He’s my hero, not by fame
But by love and quiet strength
Every road, every vow
Leads me back to him somehow
I hope he knows, I hope he’s proud
Of the life he showed me how
Outro
Yeah, I’m standing here right now
Because of my dad
Because of the man who taught me how
For most of us, we strive to do our best
Exceeding expectations earnestly
Our pinnacle is average at best
Which serves to satisfy our vanity
When lights come on, some move toward the light
Attracted like a moth drawn to a flame
We watch, amazed, the risk they take in flight
Admiring and bestowing them with fame
But when they burn and crash there is no net
We judge them from the cheap seats as they fall
The beauty of their greatness we forget
A falling star is all we can recall
For those of you who don't already know
Man's greatness is a peak not a plateau.
by Daniel Turner
WHEN BOYS BECAME PREY IN THE INDUSTRY (1)
Hollywood, the shadow of the spotlight's glow,
Where primal power and innocence collide,
Before our eyes unfold stories, a truth to show,
Stories of young dreams exploited & hearts divide.
Hollywood rises & drowns just like molly would.
Folly in the hood, and a sparkling childhood,
But the promises & stardom never ends up good.
A world where dogs eat dogs, & in no one to confide.
It's a whirlwind industry where fame and abuse entwine,
Respected mentors' guise can mask their pride,
And verified vulnerability becomes capital crime.
At the dawn of youth, their stars took flight,
Among "Jackson five", MJ at 5, shone bright.
Then Bobby Brown’s nine, a rising star’s sign,
Lil Wayne’s 9 rise in "raps", with rhymes & rhythms in his spine.
Usher's voice soared at 13, a teen sensation,
His rhythm & soul-food breeds a new generation,
At fifteen , RnB star Trey Songz found his tune,
Chris Brown also at 15 reached the stars & the moon.
We love to drag male artists for their toxic ways Such as cheating, the scandals; they're attacked like preys
What if some of the very men we love to cancel
Were actually the first victims in the game or puzzle,
What if they're in a game way bigger than them?
Just because they represent the music industry's dark theme?
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©6th June 2025.
Who would have thought that scarlet thread would save you,
hung from your window ledge close by our harlot bed.
You own that Inn, built into Jericho’s thick and stone built wall.
Who would have thought the God you feared,
with army’s last triumphant trumpet blast,
would cause that wall to fall.
That same windowed wall shows faces of the men you bed
while rooftop flax dries in the sun, and money from that sex,
and money from your flax cloth spun, hard earned to feed your family,
hard earned for all, hard won, hard earned for one and all.
And now the terror of that tribe, whose fear of God-reknown
has gripped your town and now knocks on your door.
Not another customer, 'dear', but spies that come before your dread,
before each stone comes rushing down,
before those stones crush every head,
before the curse to make your town no more.
Who would have thought to place your name with Sarah's faith
when in haste you hid those men in rooftop flaxen den,
and bargained each for saving lives before invading men
would come again. Yes, should spies go and not be found,
they would surely come again, burning Jericho to the ground.
Who would have thought in time to see your name with Judah's lion.
No longer harlot's shame but in mother-line to Christ our Lord
whose faith, with Sarah and with Abraham,
in Hebrews and in James, is something we acclaim,
beside those greater honoured names in faith's fine hall of fame.
Who would have thought your scarlet thread,
perhaps snatched from your shameful bed,
would win acclaiming faith and save those souls most certain dead,
your work that saved through faith, both work and faith,
with saving grace, saved losing of your head.
That day the saving scarlet thread was seen,
and also bloody red, from hand and foot and thorny crown,
and holding all your harlot’s blame, and all your harlot’s shame,
your Christ dropped bloody scarlet threads, dripped quietly to the ground.
Thus Rahab takes a finer name, that name above all other names,
and through her line, and scarlet thread,
shall rise with Christ's own rising dead.
Book I: The Summons of the Muse
O Muse, descend from lofty starry sphere,
And lend thine aid to sing what men hold dear:
Not wars of kings, nor blood on Pharsal’s plain,
But forks and spoons that strove for sovereign reign.
When knives did rule the board with iron hand,
And lentils leapt like rebels through the land,
There came a wight from future’s secret shore,
Who brought strange engines ne’er beheld before.
“Behold,” quoth he, “these prongs of tempered might,
Shall pierce thy meats and set thy board aright!
No more shall broth upon thy toga stray,
Nor figs escape like traitors in dismay.”
The Senate stared: “What witchcraft dost thou bring?
A trident small? Is that Neptune’s petty thing?”
Book II: The War of Utensilia
Then spoons advanced with bowls of rounded grace,
And forks with prongs did storm the festive place.
The knives, aghast, their empire rent in twain,
Cried, “Shall these toys our sovereignty disdain?”
As Mars himself, with crimson helm and shield,
Beheld the fray upon the banquet field,
He cried to Jove: “What madness dost thou see?
Shall mortals war for broth and fricassee?”
Then Jove, with laughter shaking heaven’s dome,
Declared: “Let forks and spoons have place in Rome!
For knives alone breed chaos, stains, and strife—
Give order now to Caesar’s dinner life!”
So thunder rolled, and lightning flashed on high,
While spoons sang hymns and forks let prongs fly.
The knives fell back, their edges dulled with shame,
And cursed the hour that forks to Rome first came.
Book III: The Feast and the Folly
The traveler laughed: “My work is near complete—
Rome shall not fall to stew upon the seat!”
He dreamt of fame, of statues carved in gold,
Of Cicero declaiming, grave and bold:
“Behold the man who civil order wrought,
And tamed the chaos of the Roman pot!”
Yet Fate, that jester, played a cruel device:
He spilled his wine and paid the final price.
The toga stained, the Senate roared with mirth,
And Nero sang: “A fork hath slain his worth!”
So sing we now of him whose fork did reign,
While Nero sung an ode to spoons in vain.