Long Herald Poems
Long Herald Poems. Below are the most popular long Herald by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Herald poems by poem length and keyword.
Gloriously - Golden - Trumpeting - Daffodils - Herald that spring is almost here
As sap arises my spirit soars with expectations for my favourite time of year
Rising early to hear the dawn chorus, celebrate the birth of a bright new morn
Daffodils hosting a springtime party, awaiting a kaleidoscope of colours reborn
Each one exquisite they dress to impress, for now is their time for to shine
Never will a garden look more enchanting; a palette of colour completely divine
Such piquant aromas intoxicate my mind, as I celebrate spring with a glass of fine wine
Written 19th February 2019
Contest: Gardens
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Contest March 19
Sponsor Brian Strand
3rd place
He sang of the wreck of 1975
Memorializing sailors who didn't survive
Honouring heroes in the story he tells
Visiting the cathedral still ringing its bells
29 chimes every year for their souls
The Mariners church where the solemn bell tolls
He sang of their courage in mountainous waves
Those left behind in legacy a tragedy paves
He hailed from Orillia when just a small town
Take care and step lightly in peace at sundown
He told us what a tale his thoughts could tell
With words that live on we remember them well
Born in November not far from the great lakes
That hosted the gales in the highest of stakes
So sing to the sailors whose spirits still stay
And await a lost crew to finally make Whitefish Bay
Sing to the ones you never let be forgotten
The ones lost at sea to a storm they were caught in
Sing to the heroes who are waiting for you
Captain and shipmates of immortalized crew
Perhaps it was destined that you be their herald
To never let the world forget the Edmund Fitzgerald
This year if you listen to the mariners chimes
It's rings not 29, but 30 unearthly times
The Mariners Church in Detroit rings its bells for each of the
29 lost sailors in the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. On May 2nd 2023, the day after Gordon Lightfoot passed away, the
Bells rang 30 times. I thought that was a wonderful tribute.
(Apologies if I got any information wrong)
Some kings are borne in magnificent coaches gilt with gold.
With great pomp and blare of trumpet, their procession is foretold.
Others are borne on ornate sedan chairs, clad in purple gowns.
Upon their royal brows rest elaborate, jeweled crowns.
Christ forsook such trumpery for His triumphal celebration.
Instead, He chose a lowly donkey as His means of transportation.
Thro' the streets of Jerusalem the Man of Galilee was borne;
He of royal lineage, destined to wear a crown of thorn.
Exultant crowds spread cloaks and palm fronds along the mews,
Shouting "Hosanna In the Highest!", to the herald of Good News!
This festive occasion was revealed by the Prophet Zecharia,
Who foretold that a humble donkey would bear the great Messiah!
Tho' The Prince of Peace could've sat upon a prancing Arabian steed,
Or a lavishly bespangled camel of exceptional breed,
This modest yet majestic preacher, teacher, physician,
Chose to ride a simple donkey to fulfill His earthly mission.
Tho' the Savior of humankind was in a lowly stable born,
And suffered a lifetime of ridicule, hate and scorn,
He endured trials and temptations but overcame such things,
And arose victorious o'er the grave to become the King of Kings!
Entry for Anthony Slausen's "Jesus" Contest
He watched her all day,
From behind his window,
fascinated by her persistence,
Hoping for a wholesome dinner,
the warmth and comfort of a home.
She stood, instead, in the telephone box
calling no one, receiving no one.
Surely if she did not phone anyone
One could assume she was waiting for one.
But no one rang. All Christmas Eve.
The wind blew icy cold and it was clear
she was not adequately clothed.
She must have been suffering a lot.
He wanted to shout to her:
Call it a truce, forget the caller,
come to my humble abode
and rest a while. Here's plenty to eat,
turkey, vegetables, mince pies and cakes
and a warmed red sangria
to pump some blood into your face.
She stayed put until midnight
as winter's blizzard opened its doors,
to herald in the birth of Christ.
Her ghost cared not for this,
and tired out she fell
crumbled dead on the floor
of an abandoned telephone box.
Next day they took her away.
He remained at the window,
angry, wondering the why of it all.
It was days later that he remembered.
Then he felt the terrible shame.
He had not helped for her at all.
At dawn the bay bed glows peachy yellow.
The waters above blue-green and gleaming.
Further out a grey shroud of ripples entraps the yachts
with lace nets en-snaring a flock of hulls.
Yet farther out still, the sea surface glistens and sparkles.
Then, the bay yawns and stretches, waking up, refreshed.
The first breaths of wind seep in like fingers
grabbing to get a finger hold to pull
the windy gusts in, with big blow coming.
Soon the sea is a field of grey ripples,
which grow to wavelets lipped with flecks of white spray.
Now the yachts wake up and jostle like horses
pulling at their moorings, dragging side to side.
Listen, you can hear the dash of splashes prancing
on wave crests as the winds build up in the bay.
Sea's morn color and transparency now blurred.
Dawn's calm serenity and beauty now forgotten
Koala Bay's agenda has shifted to: Up anchor, Set sail and Play
The boat skippers and crew flock bayside to make it happen.
Both sailboats and sailors love to rock and roll in bay streaked
with gusts driving white horses with jockeys wearing white caps.
Hoist the sails, drop the mooring lines, tighten the sheets.
The yachts surge forward, like race horses, with muscles and sinew straining.
They leap through the waves with leaps, bounds, thumps and jumps.
The spray flies, flung by the wind against weather beaten faces
It is noisy now, with bash and splash and skippers yelping and barking at the crew.
Koala Bay loves the performance, loves to entertain.
Tonight the bay will be calm and serene again.
Time to herald the bay's softer underbelly of shear stunning beauty.
Tomorrow the wind will conduct and conjure up another day of rollicking fun and adventure.
My hands will glow,
rising higher, ebbing
and flowing
with the gold-glass sea.
Herald of angels in our midst
as we kiss the feet of Christ.
For the earth is His hassock.
My soles will rejoice
as they crush
sweet-scented petals.
Invisible to the naked
eye. Good news spreads fast.
A whirlwind of death to life.
My arms will reach
the pinnacles of
pearly gates. There’s healing
in each touch, a cure
to empathize with hurts,
not lording over, but
holding on, catching
each tear.
There is profundity
in togetherness,
in what we share.
Strength of mine
delivered to the weak
and the next time
I am the weak.
Sometimes I am here sometimes I am there
I feel mostly I am everywhere.
What makes a man weep what makes a man cry?
Sometimes the blood of a loved one is in my eye.
It’s a strange world it never stops
Wish sometimes I could just jump off.
Go into oblivion become just another.
Isn’t that what they mean by statistical death?
When you end the run and it seems you’re done.
It seems a cruel time to come into my vision.
You walk with a stagger your on a mission.
I want to be gone never to return.
But you seem intent on making me burn.
My mind is a grain of sand it moves through the timer.
In certain terms I have lived too long.
Maybe that’s the problem with me being always wrong.
As I hear tick tock of my biological clock.
My blood runs ever long its red to the core.
I don’t want to go through this life any more.
Maybe you’re right I know you’re wrong.
You always tell me what to do.
But you never follow through on your wishes and dreams.
And I know your honest lies always make things seem
Like life is worth living under your roof.
But I can’t plug the leaks. Of the cruelty you reap.
You’re binding me too tightly to the mortal coil.
What you say but don’t do makes my blood boil.
Some say you’re a saint for being with me.
That’s all they see in their short memory.
One word from you and a sentence is spoken.
If they knew what you were really like
Their friendship bond would be broken.
As I lay in my death I feel no breath.
I become joyous at the parting.
No more will I see all the bad you did to me.
Here at my rest I consider my scope.
No more bad times no being tied to the yoke.
I am free as a bird I am allowed to soar.
Angel wings are given to me. I shine like the stars.
One day I look down and see you at rest.
Your sins are before you and so is your mess.
You see me flying so high and you cry.
My love was always right but oh so wrong.
I forgive you and gather you in my arms.
And take you before the herald of heaven.
Because I see your spirit is true.
I will always love you.
I asked him, my friend
Who are the heroes of the world?
He said, "Heroes, the War-Giants."
Alexander to Maj. Gen. Herald Ikiants,
Revolutionaries – Ideologues, Demagogues.” He named.
I quizzed his seminal brain
"What about saviors and saints?"
He was composite and took no strain
To answer my query pains,
“Of course, Saints!”
And he had no feel of hailing
The heroes of war veins
As he believes history’s kneeling
And he trusts in evidence
So scientific and evidence.
"History is past blundrance." I tried.
He only said very firm
"It is evidence."
"Learn from the evidence"-I,
He confirms, he uses occurrence
As he still has a belief
History repeats itself.
He proves again quoting History mischief,
History does not repeat, but rewritten with the dictum
"History is not of warriors but of the makers of life"
The Earth would only say
"How mean you are
Learn from the past errors."
fall serenade
serenade of fall
nor'easters and southerlies ~
bittersweet in bloom
leaves sing with the winds
arias of rising gales ~
pumpkins harmonize
bare branches in tune
thrum rhythms of autumn ~
acorn symphonies
blast of icy frost
elegies for summer air ~
rainbow hued harvest
hues of country roads
chant scarlet, gold, umber notes ~
wheat fields intone fall
draughts herald autumn
fall ruffles and flourishes ~
corn stalks beat in time
autumn song resounds
carols of butterfly bush ~
chimes float on flurries
10-4-22
Syllables checked with www.howmanysyllables
Merriam Webster spells nor'easters with punctuation.
Written in tribute to William Wordsworths 'Daffodils'
Earth’s mantle slowly turns from white to green
As born of winter’s womb new life begins
Shoots grow, restoring colours to the scene
To herald Mother Earth’s awakening,
Who on arising casts off winter’s throw
Enlivened by the warmth of the sun’s first glow
Her wakening is welcomed by the trees
Who’ve stood for so long bleak against the sky
They feel her sweet caress within the breeze
That spirals ‘tween each branch as she goes by,
Boughs which once were barren, cold, and grey
Now blossom, as within her arms they lay.
The plenitude of Mother Earth abounds
As nature’s kisses fall in April showers
Rejuvenating seeds, laying dormant underground
Bringing forth a myriad of blossoming flowers,
Land once covered by a veil of white
Is now a mass of colour, fresh and bright
Fields and woodland brim with new creation
Who give thanks to Mother Earth for all her gifts,
Birds upon the wing sing exultations
As winter’s deep depression finally lifts
The last remaining shadows, eclipsed now by the sun
A sonorous proclamation that spring, at last, has come.