Long Halls Poems
Long Halls Poems. Below are the most popular long Halls by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Halls poems by poem length and keyword.
Mending holes in time
Healing rifts in space
Moving always moving
Place to threatened place
Disasters averted
Mostly
Mistakes can prove
So very costly
Here an entity slips through
And is only just caught
Its unplanned birth
Could have brought to naught
Eons of planning
In that great scheme
Carefully monitored
From the Halls of Dreams
The Great Whales are moving
Singing as they glide
Through the Whole Cosmos
In their endless ride
Effortlessly waltzing
To the music of the spheres
Their eternal duets
So beautiful to hear
Concentration lapses
So very easy to make
In a nano second
A Catastrophic mistake
But the Watchers are watched
Gently eased back to plan
Observing observing observing
Through a duty span
Mending holes in time
Healing rifts in space
Moving always moving
Place to threatened place
If you don't play the game, the game plays you,
In the world of politics, it rings true.
With power and influence, they all vie,
A constant battle beneath the sky.
Promises whispered, ambitions unfurled,
Crafting speeches to sway the world.
Lobbyists whispering in halls of might,
Their agendas hidden, out of sight.
Election seasons, a grand charade,
Words spun like silk, a masquerade.
Debates become spectacles, filled with ire,
As politicians dance upon the wire.
Corruption lurks in the shadows deep,
A poison that seeps, its secrets keep.
The common folk yearning for a voice,
Caught in the currents, without a choice.
But change can come, a glimmer of hope,
When unity rises and we elope,
From divisive tactics that tear us apart,
To a future where compassion is the start.
So heed this call, and be not blind,
To the games played by those unkind.
Empowerment lies within our hands,
To shape a future where justice stands.
(A lone voice whispers)
In the deepest of my wildest lucid dreams, she always comes my way. And as the waking world dims, her shadow appears like a familiar shade. Slowly walking in.
Like a haunting love song, my soul's only angel over my guarded bed. I can't erase.
Opening a secret portal above where I lie to another realm where we can play. Telling me to take her hand, so we can slip away through its black gates.
No more worn or tired but too brave to consiouness retire.
We always fly as two, entwined into the grey smoke and translucent blue. And as always, while we fly, she always whispers, **"Do you love me as much as I love you?"**
And I always answer like the wild chancer I am.
**"As much as Adam loved Eve, for in me do believe as we fly. The king and You, his queen, into the dark rift of The Great In-Between.**
**As watching angels sing as we are seen.**
**Oh rejoice! They have returned. The two once more reunited until dawn's new light.**
**The white feather and the flame. Praise be their names.**
**Oh, rejoice. Praise be they return tomorrow night.**
**Praise be. Oh, rejoice."**
And so we fly into the smoky halls of the Greatest of Games. Spiritual lovers forever entwined until the day we die.
The White Feather and the Flame.
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Silences
Down the halls, walking among the walls
of silence, mine and Of, and wonder?,
should I speak in words of thunder,
shatter the empty spaces of either,
or quietly refrain and do neither,
display nothing of what lies behind
those empty spaces - by kind?
Winds so silent, scream, on their way
down the hallways of my brain,
tearing to shreds, what is left
of the curtains that hide emotions.
Hide from those seekers of the soul,
who might care to know
what it is that protects the weakened spirit.
A spirit that waits for a sound so soft,
so pure, so innocent, it enlightens,
lightens the beating heart so heavy
with sadness, creating depressions
that are but gigantic holes
in the life of what is left
of a living being.
An organism - reaching beyond,
beyond it's single celled existence,
beyond it;s sterile, four cornered room -
am I, reaching out, trying to be more then
the nucleus of a protozoan, I am becoming,
more then the vapours of Saint Elmo's fire,
reaching out for warmth, passion, compassion.
B. J. "A" 2
December 24th 2010
What is this ticking inside of me,
a heart that beats lesser than time?
I feel as though I have departed
into the halls of my own death,
life is but an echo
of footsteps fading
behind my back.
Am I too fat on life,
this trimming of me
is it to rid all but death?
I look into my own reflection
and see the fullness of years
laughing back, as if I was a joke,
yet I am a mere skeleton
of what I once was.
Is it an anorexic mind
trying to shed my own flesh
and spread me into ashless dust?
I was catholic, once
but parted to become something else,
is it that part of me, undernourished,
that feels the rest of me should starve?
Has something died and left me
only to masquerade as a life
where my own existence
is just a shadow cast
upon the ground?
What is this ticking inside of me,
a heart that beats lesser than time?
Pride goeth before a fall,
It shall be said, long after.
How well the phrase fits this Argive king,
Come far across the wine-dark seas
In his gleaming ships of war
To rape the wealth of other men's homes
All for the sake of a woman;
So it was said.
Here in the smoke of the ruins,
Behind walls breached at the last by treachery,
- 10 years' bloodshed not enough to have battered them down -
Troy's temples lay sacked and belching fumes for incense,
Then here he comes, blazing in bronze, puffed with pride,
To claim you, as his rightful prize alone!
You,
Whom even the gods respect.
Mad you are, blissfully so.
Yours eyes, flashing in your mantic states
See farther and more truly than those
Of any other mortal.
You know the things to be all too well,
For this you were cursed with a great gift of prophecy
Forever doomed to fall upon deaf ears.
But today the curse becomes the gift it should have been,
If to see a proud victor's doom
Riding hard upon his heels, he all unknowing
Be any comfort to the defeated.
He takes you to his death and your own besides,
Mistaking the darkness of your smile
For the resignation of the lost.
He bears home with you the fall of all his house,
Many a proud one shall join you both
In Hades' cold halls ere long has passed.
So bid your mother not despair
To see you taken and treated so lowly;
Bid her rejoice in your ravings,
Tell her raise the torch and call on Hymen
To bless and seal this doom
Which has been set to avenge your righteous dead
Who fell beneath these now so hollow walls.
Exhort her not to weep for her mad daughter,
Who, in being made concubine to this beast
Weds high indeed in final truth,
As through this match she goes to a god,
And he the one most truly feared.
The torchlight flashing
Like starlight in your rolling eyes!
Your beauty as you whirled there,
Absorbed in frenzied grief
Became a sight before which divinity trembled!
Your broken people smiled in pity for you,
Eyes full and dimmed with tears.
Yet it is enough, perhaps, for you alone to know
As you are carried off across the lashing seas
To the enemy land,
The flames of your dead city
Lighting the night's horizon,
Holding in your heart the bittersweet truth none would believe,
You commune with the Eternal,
Bearing gall and misery
To an arrogant fool.
When I was younger, days moved softly,
an endless waltz of hours beneath the cherry blossoms
where I walked alone, convincing myself
that solitude was sweet, that love was for the others.
My footsteps in the fall, crisp and solitary,
echoed through halls of laughter I dared not enter.
So assured was I in my unworthiness,
a specter at the feast of hearts, unseen and unseeing.
Now, here, amid these whitewashed walls that hum
with whispers of who should care,
I sit in my assigned chair, watching pairs of old hands clasp,
wondering how love sounds when it calls your name.
They tell me stories of my past, lit by the flicker
of doubtful memories; they paint me loved and cherished.
I nod, wearing their fiction like a threadbare coat
in a winter that I’ve claimed too long as mine.
It’s easier to believe in this curated past,
where phantom kisses mark my cheek,
and phantoms of embraces wrap me in warmth
I never felt—each lie a balm to the soul I doubted.
Night falls heavy here, and in the quiet,
I hear the young man I once was, whispering
through the crackling static of years,
how he wished to be proved wrong, yet never dared to ask.
What ghosts will they say loved me,
when I am gone, my seat left cool and empty?
Will they speak of me as one beloved,
or will they know the truth—that I believed in neither them nor me?
Oh, to have lived differently, unafraid of my own heart,
to have walked into the noise and found my reflection
in eyes not my own, learning too late
that I was worthy, always worthy, of the love I denied myself.
Poiseidon's waters roil and roar
Up and down the craggy coast;
Their winedark waves have brought the host
Of foreign men all drunk for glory,
For the sake of one man's vanity
They traveled to your alien shore
To write with blood and bone a story
Of the Gods' capriciousness towards men,
Of passion's triumph over sanity
Which they shall repeat: again, again.
The men will surge against your city walls
Ten long and doleful years;
Your children, born to violence, shriek, widows' tears
Appeal to you, their hero Prince,
To drive them back to whence they came
As your father walks the palace halls,
As does his shade now, ever since -
Ever since you went to face the foe
To pass to time your noble name,
Their legend and their martyr, hope, and woe.
It was asked by what Creed you chose to live
Before you fell to Fates' perversity,
Before their undeserving Champion dragged you 'round the city.
"Honor the Gods", you said, cruel though they may be.
"Defend your Country", you said, though it be doomed.
"Love your Women", you said, as only they can give
Meaning to the madness from across the sea.
Your father forced to beg your battered corpse; so many dead,
Their faces still now, 'neath the swaying plumes
Of shining helmets, others waiting in their stead.
"Honor the Gods
Defend your Country
Love your women."
- Oh you grey heads who start your wars for Pride,
Go ask Andromache's ghost
What it meant to her.
Little white paws, running thru my halls,
opening all the closets, chasing red balls..
Little white feet on the window sill,
studying the birds as they hop and trill.
Hoping to go out, zero in for a kill,
devour a little birdie and leave it's bill..
Little white feet avoiding the puddles,
hates to get wet, prefers warmth and cuddles..
Little white feet awaiting their massage,
likes the motorized tool, not my effleurage..
Little white feet perched for a treat,
awaiting some temptations or marshmallow so sweet.
Little cat feet now groomed and neat,
at rest in my lap and quietly asleep.
In the safe refuge of lyrical poetry, I cocooned.
My broken shards fell on a tear-stained screen.
I am the one who steers my own route attuned.
With every brushstroke, many specks are seen.
My broken shards fell on a tear-stained screen.
A flawed creation leaves footprints in the sand.
With every brushstroke, many specks are seen.
On a dying star, view the last rays of a light band.
A flawed creation leaves footprints in the sand.
A sorrowfulness may discharge excess perfection.
On a dying star, view the last rays of a light band.
A quivering waltz into the pert halls of reflection.
A sorrowfulness may discharge excess perfection.
Perception releases a melody into the devil's lair.
A quivering waltz into the pert halls of reflection.
Too spry to chase metaphorical kaleidoscope air.
Perception releases a melody into the devil's lair.
A rescuer in the shape of stanchions in the storm
Too spry to chase metaphorical kaleidoscope air.
Sieved in mellifluous rhythm exotic in fictional form.
A rescuer in the shape of stanchions in the storm
Worlds slamming silently into a moonless ocean.
Sieved in mellifluous rhythm exotic in fictional form.
I grasp best in the gloom, smell, passion, and devotion.
Worlds slamming silently into a moonless ocean.
As moths to flame, poetry keeps me alive in my dream.
I grasp best in the gloom, smell, passion, and devotion.
Jaded lack of past, present, and future is my stream.
As moths to flame, poetry keeps me alive in my dream.
As the world, alternate contractures and bruising.
Jaded lack of past, present, and future is my stream.
I'm simmering, burning, splashing, and fusing.
As the world, alternate contractures and bruising
I am the one who steers my own route attuned.
I'm simmering, burning, splashing, and fusing.
In the safe refuge of lyrical poetry, I cocooned.
Written: December 2nd, 2022