Long Grovel Poems
Long Grovel Poems. Below are the most popular long Grovel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grovel poems by poem length and keyword.
THE PARABLE OF THE TALENTS
The grave he dug, the monument he built.
No one saw the single coin that died so fast.
No time for a blessing, nevertheless knees stained,
In the dingy, dirty dark where seeds lambast.
On topsoil, five coins flitter between a man’s fingers.
The magician amazes the crowd, he doubles his wages.
His master will cheer him on, with soulful eyes.
Of his faithfulness, angels dictate lovely pages.
Yes, those who doubled their score whether small or great
will find favor and a hefty inheritance at the pearly gates.
But for the ones who bury their treasure and sit upon it
a sharp shovel will grovel, gripe and shape their fate.
10/7/2018
Contest: The Parable of the Talents
Sponsor: Holly Hippocampus
VII
There never was an army quite like Xerxes’.
Hyrcanians, Medes, Egyptians, Syrians, Scyths –
soon, Greece would grovel at its tender mercies –
a fate more gruesome than the grimmest myths.
It drank whole rivers dry. Took three days with
the crossing of the bridge. Then came a scare:
as Persian lava swamped its xenolith,
the portents were not good. A pregnant mare
gave birth to healthy offspring. But it was a hare.
VIII
A blundering boxer trying to swat a fly,
the Persian force could lunge, but could not kill:
it lost all credit at Thermopylae.
The Greeks, hard pressed, were in the battle still.
To win a war, you break the other’s will,
and this was not occurring. Could the key
be naval warfare? So, for good or ill,
Salamis earned its place in history.
The fleets would clash there. Whose would be the victory?
IX
A tyrant’s strength is his Achilles’ Heel.
His habit of command, of being obeyed,
occludes capacity to see and feel.
To trap them at their moorings seemed a raid
assured to smash the Greeks. Their fleet once flayed,
they could not go on fighting. They must lose.
But Persia’s pride, colossal numbers, made
disaster certain. Tangled, cramped, confused,
the sharks became the bait. For Xerxes, dreadful news.
X
“My bridge. Is it still standing?” Xerxes asked.
Oh, in that question, what a universe!
The pampered prince who - up to now - had basked
in sunshine felt a clutch of fear, and worse:
the tide of fortune, swinging to reverse,
began to drain him of all certainty.
The bridge was now his lifeline, and his curse,
his last hope and his vulnerability.
Persepolis lay far away, fenced off by sea.
XI
So, despots kneel before their own adventures,
become the playthings of their crazy schemes,
contract with Fate, creating wild debentures,
condemn themselves by sure-to-crumble dreams.
Unhappy with mere wealth, they seek extremes
which bring no comfort: sick ambitions bloat
and fester. Most familiar of themes,
Great Xerxes’ boasts grew more and more remote,
until the day his restless minions cut his throat.
It's true, you don't have to kneel to shine/
Saints are not made by chains divine/
I stand unbowed, my spirit whole/
Too pure to yield, too fierce to fold/
Heaven's gates demand my knees/
Yet I walk past with steady ease/
An iron fist may rule the sky/
But I refuse to live that lie/
Let guilt decay where it was spun/
I do not answer, I do not run/
No shadowed throne can force my soul/
No scripture binds, no weight controls/
The say the saints bear burdens tight/
But I will rise beyond their plight/
If purity means silent chains/
Then let me stray beyond their claims/
I am not bound by written lore/
No holy debt that I must store/
My life is mine; my love is free/
No book, no fist, no rule on me/
I do not grovel; I do not plea/
I do not bend; I do not flee/
I walk the path where stars ignite/
Too pure for Heaven, fierce in flight/
My hands unchained, my heart untamed/
No throne to beg, no sin proclaimed/
I rise, I soar, I stand alone/
Too pure for Heaven, made my own/
In amongst the burning trees
Stood a creature still as breeze
In its eyes burned a fire
Its contagion was its strange attire.
There about its godly perch
I lost all senses as it chirped
its vessel bore the marks of greed
Its beak inscribed a slave's decree
And when it suddenly spoke to me
My heart came empty, skipped a beat
For shock was not the words there spoken
But of its tone and raw emotion
There I listened to its pain
How man had made it feel disgrace
Instead of healing or pain erase
Was forced to bid man's selfish gain
And as Lady Star drifted away
so to the phoenix burst into flames
Carnage in a cloud of ashes
Memories left were subtly passive
Was I to quiet my soul to sleep!
Pretend next lifetime explores peace
These thoughts left me in shock of dread
that all things living must grovel and beg.
It’s known as the Warrior Poem and is attributed to Tecumseh
a Native American warrior and chief
who as a Native American in the late 17 and early 1800’s
knew his share of war…and pain…and grief…
Though written many years ago
his message is applicable still….
And though we haven’t heeded his words yet…
Perhaps
one day…
we will:
THE WARRIOR POEM
“So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide. Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none. When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision. When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.”
I'm so doggone ugly,
I look like a faded roach;
If I were a pile of roadkill,
The buzzards wouldn't approach!
Oh sweet mirror on the wall,
Why stab me in the back?
You tell me that I'm beautiful,
Then fall to the floor and crack!
I went to a local photographer,
Here's something you won't believe,
He took one look at this ugly mug,
And paid me just to leave!
I can't go to the chicken coop,
To gather a single egg;
Those hens won't let me enter,
Unless I grovel and beg!
I never committed a crime,
Though my picture's on the wall;
Ugliness is a criminal act,
It's certainly against the law!
A cop pulled me over,
I asked what I did wrong;
He took one look at this sourpuss,
And said..."Nuthin', please go home!"
When I walk by flower beds,
The petals begin to wilt;
Every time I play pinball,
The game automatically tilts!
I married an ugly woman,
Someone uglier than me;
We bought ourselves an ugly dog,
Now we're as happy as can be!
Maybe a role reversal would be in order
And us guys could take it or leave it
Whatta mind-blowing experience that would be
The ladies simply couldn't conceive it
Exciting? You ain't just whistling Dixie
There's a stirring deep down in my loins
Sexual in nature maybe my jockeys are too tight
Sometimes I let out a few oinks
Sure would be great to see how that works out
To turn the tables on the ladies
I'd say, “I have a bad headache, maybe December
Right now I'm baking some pastries”
Can you just imagine the look on their faces
They'd start to grovel and whimper
“It's already August, not too long to wait
Before you know it, it'll be winter!”
See, my dear sweeties! How do you like it
To be at the other end of the dial
Can't tell you how much fun that would be
I'd never be able to wipe off the smile
My majestic silhouette is indicornis,
often missed by those who don’t believe;
The idea that I exist they tend to dismiss,
I have just a few tricks up my sleeve;
Longing to be a feline ink trotter
and become less inter-dimensional;
This goal has captivated a plotter,
admittedly ingenious is phenomenal;
I never claimed to be too innocent,
neither does a single mischievous cat;
Lured into such a treacherous scent,
how could I possibly resist that?
So very illusive even in plain view,
shadows in the Sun allow them to hide;
It could be fun to try something new,
I want you to see me feel my stride;
It’s just no fun to remain invisible,
without an audience why shine?
Stripes can be less than agreeable,
still that’s the style I want to be mine;
El Tigre en waters full of chara,
instead of a unicorn in a glittery lake;
Perhaps if I grovel before Ishvara,
I’ll be granted claws for my horn to take.
I’m now downloading Windows Ten.
My laptop has a “relic” rating,
and urgently requires updating
(what coup o’erthrew the placid pen?)
I beard the lion in his den:
don’t know my LAN from Uncle Len.
Why is hi-tech so irritating?
Like Robespierre in Père Duchesne,
I’ll never be the same again.
I’m not convinced I want this tripe.
What makes it worse, we have to pay!
The mugs no longer have a say.
Bombarded by the big boys’ hype,
we take the pain. We’re trained to type
on OneDrive, Watsapp, Webmail, Skype,
and once they take our toys away,
we grimace, grovel, grumble, gripe
but, Paypal paid, evade the wipe.
Big Billy Gates, I hope you’re proud!
Philanthropist? Yeah, thanks a bunch –
you hit me with a sucker punch.
“My business isn’t greed,” you vowed,
proclaiming fairness, long and loud.
Deception is, it seems, allowed
When “care” comes to commercial crunch.
Sequestered on the cyber cloud,
I blog on, bloodied but unbowed.
I have grown tired of the worship of
You- can you lose faith in a god that you created?
I used to pray and beg and grovel for just a sliver of
Your grace, but my knees are bloodied and bruised, and my words now fail me.
I have grown weary of the existence of
You- I don’t look for you in every room anymore, don’t feel your presence
But sometimes I jump when I see the familiar silhouette in
Your shape, and every time, I’m relieved when it’s not you.
I have grown bored of the image of
You- I used to frame portraits and photos of you on the walls
Like you were a priceless work of art, but now
Your pictures collect dust in the corner of an abandoned home.
I am no longer in love with the idea of
You- I am an artist without a muse, a dog without an owner,
A widow grieving a spouse who never died. I never lost you because
You were never mine in the first place.