Long Graven Poems
Long Graven Poems. Below are the most popular long Graven by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Graven poems by poem length and keyword.
She leaves footprints –
on the wet concrete of blinded doubts,
For she has carved lives - -
like graven images on the palms of her hands,
There is substance in her eyes,
fire in her soul,
zest in her spirit,
And her passion? –
She is anchor, rudder and dock, sail and compass,
Storms are her vanquished
for she kindles hope to enliven her faith,
Wars and Victories are her poems –
inked with blood, sweat and tears,
For she flames her faith –
with the winged cherubim and seraphim of prayers,
And in her steadfast stride,
barely noticeable are her hurts and pain,
She is wife and mother,
teacher and mentor,
support and pillar,
Give her a reason or none at all,
she is battle, she is warrior,
the Lord her Banner.
This fourth day of the second month –
she still writes her walk and talk,
With testimonies –
of unrelentless dauntlessness and dare,
She is that indomitable woman –
true to her name,
‘Nurturer and protector’ – Isadora
The dulcet notes of "Taps" echoed o'er the field of honored dead.
The rising moon's mellow glow upon the peaceful scene was spread.
Its rays grazed the worthy name that upon each stone was graven;
'Neath the clay lay heroes asleep in their hallowed haven.
On such brightly moonlit nights, according to local lore,
A spectral sentry is seen on duty (known by the uniform he wore).
'Tis said his restless spirit seems to be on an endless quest,
Searching, ever searching as if for his own eternal rest.
He is heard to count cadence as he walks his lonely post.
'Tis said that he carries a lantern, this melancholy ghost.
He kneels at each stone and peers at the name etched thereon.
He is heard softly sobbing as he salutes and then moves on.
Is he searching for a comrade, who with him bore the awful strife,
And, 'midst the cannon's roar and musket's rattle forfeited life?
Or, does he seek his name on every polished marble stone?
Alas, could it be that his reads: "Known But To God Alone"?
As he makes his ghostly rounds, heard are his plaintive moans,
When he gently caresses the name on each of the moonlit stones.
The restless phantom presses on, wearily, wearily lurching,
Faithfully walking his post, searching, ever searching.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for No. 1 in Carolyn Devonshire/Jack Horne "Ghost" Contest - June 2011
The Spear of Destiny
pierced Jesus’ side for you and me
It was thrust in
to make sure that Jesus died for our sin
Did it help Charlemagne garner number forty-seven?
Did it help (in battle) all who called upon it to win?
All men claim to be turned into gods
But Jesus’ claim is that He became Man
Something unique in HIStory
So take the Galileans' hand
The Buddha's tooth is like the Evolutionary pig tooth
That has sunk its teeth into bad theories
In today’s world you must be careful
Into what you look and call queries
If Eve would not have eaten the fruit
Because it would ruin her fig’r
Would it still be sin?
Yes, because in both cases it’s a trig’r:
To get you to doubt what God has said
To get you to fall for a play on words instead
God said “If you eat of that tree, you shall surely die”
Satan said “don’t swallow that lie”
Satan said this to get your ears,
and play on every fear
So, call out to God
while He is yet near
Jesus doesn't sidle
So you can make Him into an idol
But will bridle
the idle that idle
But teaches His philosophy
To release our minds in bondage
from besetting sin to thinking free
"I will choose freewill" [1]
Don't fall for that tautology
The very essence of this mindset
Is that no choosing in necessary
Don’t make any graven images of Me
Or (of and in) the earth, the sky or the sea
All holy relics are forged, but don’t comport
In place of the place, we worship The LORD
Why God allowed His Image to be sullied by the masses
Is a mystery to me, an enigma (as He speaks through asses)
And if He did not speak rocks would cry out
Whenever the Second Coming is, that day will be loud [2]
Long time ago when I was still a child,
I watched my grandpa in his shrine pour out libation,
Under the tree and amidst sun’s ferocious tide,
To a graven image constructed out of determination.
Sacred worships to gods known and unknown,
Handed-down by tradition as the story told,
In memory of the dead known and unknown,
Grandpa the sacred tradition his turn to hold.
And then the white man came,
From his roaming about though uninvited,
Grandpa responded and offered a game,
As demanded by his culture when by a stranger visited.
The white man introduced his own idea of worship,
Though of better value by my judgement,
I pondered what in man craves for worship,
May be the soul is afraid of judgement.
The white man brought a book,
In it was written many stories,
About a righteous man whose life they took,
Who went about doing good as told by the stories.
Grandpa believed what the white man brought,
The book he called the holy bible,
Where God will bring all wickedness to naught,
A message of hope to the people.
Grandpa his shrine began to destroy,
Cathedrals they began to build,
Materials they began to deploy,
Block by block they began to build.
On the alter is laid a cross,
To guide them by persecution will fall their faith,
To remind them to carry their daily cross,
Thus is formed my faith, oh the sound of faith.
What reason shuns our born and lifelong vows
to celebrate the lives that sell their souls,
and conscience where a humble heart allows
a hope for furtive thoughts a lost love stole.
While nonchalant, the world forgets its birth
and measures value by another god
whose graven gilded form defies its worth -
the tin is hidden by a gold facade.
Now Hollywood consumes the devil's sheep,
a flock who sacrificed their own sad lives;
upon the crimson carpets where they creep,
each posing in their struggle to survive.
The love that's lost for self within the smiles,
is found before the Heaven's holy trials.
Past a peaceful day out Western Trail way,
Our lowing herd settled on coarse sand bars.
We hands bunched under prancing prairie stars,
Once clean grub tins and cups were put away,
For tall yarn desserts, dance, and campfire songs.
Lit by burning buffalo chips and sage,
Our campfire blazed hot, challenging the dark,
Holding at bay the prairie wind’s chill bark.
Night herd began with strums of a guitar
Backed by a fiddle and an Ozark harp.
Cowboys sang of Betsy from Pike’s sweet charms,
Dancing do-si-dos with scarves on their arms.
Two waddies circled our bedded down herd,
Singing Old Paint to the beat of horse hooves,
Echoing us boys’ songs by the fire
As coyotes chorus to the sparkling sky.
Past riding drag, eating dust all day
Worn waddies could cough up a few tunes.
Our homesick cowboy choir danced and sang
Then tiptoed to bed rolls for a few winks
Until our turns, on the down low, to croon
A sorrowful Red River lullaby
For trail weary doggies laying at rest,
Promising fresh rich grass in the Big Sky.
At the break of dawn, we were up and gone
Roping and riding; trying not to yawn.
A clear morning sky offered welcome news
No thunderstorms, floods, or frosted-up dews.
A stove-up drover that morn did advise
“Savor your quiet nights and be trail wise
For a cowboy’s work is never to cease
Before the railhead and cattle’s release.
Some year, long paired iron rails must appear
With barbed wire strands to encumber our way
As Progress closes up loved cattle trails,
Dooming open range to vanish away.
As the parched summer grass, we too shall fade,
Our names lichen covered on graven stone,
But breathing as legends we shall live on,
Riding trail bred tales our kids will hear.”
In Small Doses
Living a life is like taking poison –you die a little each day.
I am screwed
Know not when? Know not how? –Marriage happened.
Gone Astray
Religion is a well-traversed road –I am lost!
Favored
There’s no substitute for hard work and perseverance –except luck.
Fool of Wisdom
It requires wisdom to comprehend –a fool.
Recipe for Success
The ingredients for a successful life –Passion, Perfection, Patience.
Salvation
Sailing upstream against the wind –I have a strayed soul to summon.
Legally moral
When it becomes legal, it becomes moral –then, it's normal.
Common Factor
We are common people; the tail-enders –we hide between the legs in adversity.
Good for nothing
A good deed with ulterior motive is worse than a bad deed –with good intent.
Back Street blues
Don’t be scared of the back alleys –they might get you home quicker.
Idolatry
I picked a stray stone and carved a graven image of my God –I then worshiped.
Heavenly Bliss
Nothing happens by just wishing for the heaven –You have to first die for it.
Afterlife
There's only one sure way to immortality –die young.
False Hope
Gives you what was never yours to begin with –Chasing illusions.
Tarry no longer
A wet knot is hard to untie. Vet the person you marry –before you tie the knot.
Postscript
Poison, Potion, Prayer –either make you ill, immune or immortal.
~04/28/22
~Contest: A Brian Strand Premiere
Hold on to yourselves
It’s going to be a long one
I forgive you but I do not
Remember me
Or have you forgotten
I am the soul of Martha Carrier
I am the cold amongst un-forgiven barriers
If life were as smooth as fairytales
I’d lust with Arial
Young Goodman Brown
Trust is often dreamt upon
But never truly found
Marry me not
For Religion is often a foolish sound
I am the trust that never funds
The river that seas beyond and will never bond
I am the tissue that forever mends our scars visible
I am the light that shines only in hopes that my shadow may dim
I am, I am, Sam, I am not
Though my summers shall hoist the founding days
Oh I am
I am an artist amongst poets severely recognized
I am the misery, the matter that pours from within your eyes
I am the cake, the plate,
The smile which your child exhibits on common days
I am the Shakespeare within in lyrics
The only god to bring about tragedies to treasure
With out the theatre in play
The hollow that sleeps not to wish nor weep upon tomorrow
I am the founder of nothing
The whereabouts of that slave in Sounder
Who found more than nothing
Will you remind me when my days have finally dissolved?
Upon my graven lay I may receive but random applauds
I am the love you lost
The dove
Your lost savior
Stricken upon a cross
Get over yourself world
My cape
My suede
My vengeance
Receive my blade
Farewell love
All is well
Today, we pause to honor those who've given their full measure,
Heroes all, upholding the flag and the liberties we all treasure.
Gallant "Peacemakers" who have borne the battle's strife,
Sacrificing all that we may maintain the American way of life!
Rows of simple marble stones are etched with a hero's name.
Some graven, "Known But To God Alone" await His acclaim.
Alas, others unaccounted for lie in lonely unmarked graves,
Others on hallowed battlefields or beneath the billowing waves!
The clarion notes of "Taps" will echo throughout the land today.
Tiny flags will flutter to honor valiant warriors where they lay.
A grateful nation honors them for all that they have done,
And for their dedication to this nation and for laurels won!
Heroic men and women have fought and died on alien shores,
Offering a message of hope and freedom, striving to end all wars.
Their firm resolve has ever broken tyranny's binding chain.
America remains a beacon of hope, proof that they didn't die in vain!
As we remember those who sacrificed their lives for freedom's cause,
And as we stroll about hallowed ground, may we ponder and pause:
"Would we still enjoy the liberties that we cherish in this great land,
Had not generations of brave patriots taken a courageous stand?"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
My muse hides from sight in the Sonnet C
Surfing the waves of rhyme, ignoring me
We unlock the secrets of the Silence
Poet Destroyer’s mine in alliance
You forged a fling in the Winged Warrior?
Fly clear of any grammar barrier,
or did you play SKAT and steal an Ace card?
I know you slept and dreamt of him, The Bard
Fly back, leave the Red Fiery and her friends
At Broken Wings? we can still make amends!
Drink my words and fuel your buoyant mind
We paint a picture, one in mastermind
Art lives for ever, lead my words my muse
No death can from this page our words refuse
disclaimer:
Respect to Shakespeare’s Sonnet C
and all other poets listed or implied
Sonnet C
Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long,
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time's spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
Shakespeare