Long Heritage Poems
Long Heritage Poems. Below are the most popular long Heritage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heritage poems by poem length and keyword.
Most of us should know that the fourth Thursday,
is called a Thanksgiving Day celebration.
The first Tuesday after the first Monday,
we elect the leaders of our nation.
Maybe you even know the first Sunday,
is when Daylight Savings comes to an end.
But did you know on November the first,
National Pomegranate Month begins.
Also, Native Heritage and Military Family Month,
Epilepsy, Alzheimer’s, and COPD awareness.
How about NAN-O-WRI-MO or Pancreatic Cancer too,
we’ll throw in No Shave November just for fairness.
The first Wednesday is Eating Healthy Day,
the first Thursday is Man Makes Dinner.
The first Friday is Samoan Arbor Day,
and of course, Black Friday is always a winner.
Who can forget World Vegan Day,
or Coronation Day of the fifth Druk in Bhutan.
It’s Liberty Day in the Virgin Islands,
Self-Defense Forces Commemoration in Japan.
It is Veterans Day on the eleventh,
Pneumonia Day on the twelve.
Parfait day on the twenty-fifth,
if you don’t care about your health.
I could just go on and on listing them,
but just between me and you.
We’d still be here reading next November,
and we probably still would not be through.
Horror!
The faces of the fallen earth.
Disgrace,
In long lost lands my people, hear!
Hope comes-
The love and faith of your ancestors.
Be strong,
Till when your dignity is returned.
Fight too,
For pride in the battle-fields you’ve lost.
Imprint,
Upon your foes’ skins with wielded swords.
And grace,
Their flesh of filth with thy golden blades.
To make,
Them know that t’was your ancestral trade
Live on,
These memories of mine, a golden age
And bear,
My being by sitting forever on the stage
My heart,
Will sing then for everything great
My soul
Would float above to seek heaven’s face
To let
The featherless wings of tomorrow so
Grow strong,
And wise to seek those paths and follow
To make,
All of them more blessed than us
And give
To their fingers what we could have not
Gracious
God above who knows about us all
Wonders
He works and sinners, he solely calls
Please hear
Me pray now just as I say
Save us
Let us not ever know to stray.
Form:
Unhooking the chain
I opened the rusty gates
to Olive Branch Cemetery
Hallowed ground of yesteryear
Peaceful as the name sounds.
There is a place of comfort sweet
Near to the heart of God
A place where we our Savior meet
Near to the heart of God
Like a white butterfly fluttering from
One headstone to another headstone
where sweet clover blossoms rested their heads
protecting the ancestors of long ago—
Stopping by each one
I gently touch and wonder
Standing on rolling hills of countryside
Six-foot tall or five-foot short
giants of the soil
English honest proud
farmers tilling the land
children by their side helping
with French heritage mother
who listened to the tears,
cooked meals, washed clothes
lesser than the men but carried on.
Walking in time thinking, then
Seeing it!
I lifted up Nancy Emily’s initialed stone
N E P lying on the ground
young farm girl no state aid
rocking her baby boy
For when my heart is troubled, filled with fear,
Jesus whispers peace
Young lad gladdening saddened family hearts.
I wonder her pain kept a secret
Until descendants began to unearth
digging deeper than her simple grave
Nancy Emily, rest well knowing
your descendants are bright and fruitful
healing the sick
teaching children
keeping the law
at home and afar raising children to become.
Whispering hope, O how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrows rejoice
Oh! Family of long ago
toiling planting reaping caring
lying now on former fields
with mottled stones announcing your place.
N E P stands upright.
Feeling like a mighty oak tree
faithful and fulfilled,
I leave
fastening tight the rusty gates—
past secured for future
Sometimes, reflections from my mirror,
recall when I slumbered at nature's nadir,
as naysayers whispered in whiskey breaths.
Bewildered, I wandered in the wilderness,
until the mercy of verse reversed the curse.
Poetry you've always been the legacy of my heritage,
a shimmering nimbus, where my words reside by petals,
but if this was my last poem,
it would be the death of an alchemist's magic.
There would be no potion to persecute my pain,
bleeding ink of wounds would have no quill mistress.
Yet, I yearn to leave evidence of my existence,
but my narration is not as lucid as
black pigment upon white pages,
because poetic colours have their own stories.
I'm tired from hiding behind idioms,
where metaphors drip in liquid lies,
veiled within tracing lines of heartbreak.
Whilst sleeping under cherry blossom trees,
I look back upon my life wondering
what purpose summons us,
as I've lost all faith in strange dreams coming true.
I've grown up surrounded by the scent of sorrow,
forsaken in seasonal spheres of fragility,
masticating upon mourning morsels,
adorning garlands of grief soaked in rainfall,
plundering like the tears of Earth,
but even when confusion composed its cruelty,
I fought back to rise, each time I fell.
There has always been pressure
from the heavyweight of darkness,
where I screamed songs of desperation,
as lamenting lyrics resembled emotions of a falling star.
When the breeze blew away the confetti of my stardust,
my heart remained like unblossomed florets -
so I became my own poetic gardener
and planted my own blooms.
Sins of humanity plague me into a withering leaf,
turning invisible, softly settling in sinister silence.
I search for a Godforsaken garden,
where my hands can heal fruitless soil.
Poetry, nobody feels like you,
yet, it's you I sacrifice, before my heart clasps,
as the soul sinks in ideologies of faith and fate.
I can't justify shadows with excuses from expression,
I'm letting go of bitter reflections from photographs.
as it's time to heal the scars from my bloody hands.
Wishing to remain quenched, but drenched in love,
so fate can prepare a grave for my sorrows.
I can't waste time wondering if I'll be remembered,
so, I wave goodbye, floating away like a feather,
executing the articulation of my senses.
As a war on life intesifys the land of Britian must soon decide.' How and what they'll put inside; their bodies.'
That their earth and farmers provide.' Will it be earwigs?
Or potatoes and beef? To be honest my choice will not
Give me much greif' good pasture produce from familiy
Farms; as its been for millenia will do me no harm.' A
Salute to the people up working at five to get through the
Milking as they deal with their many trials.' Heritage custodians
With (a country to feed) backstabbed by complete morons
Motivated by greed.? Or just pure sadistic.? In the style
Of one' the reverend? john smyth! swinging a cane' the very thought? It gets me so riled' was he powered by cucumber
Sandwiches.? PRAY TELL? The dirty filthy coward.' It seems theres much similarity with the suits in whitehall' or should that be hell?does the world
Look in horror.?? Thinking is this how Britian falls.? Tied
Up by mincers word dicers; distributors of pure lies.' Who pretend
That they are careing; learned and wise.? When they are but
(w e f) led, agents and sples.' Robotic dead-namers cultuerless fools, who agreed with stabbing of a m n r a
drug.' Into the human gene pool' For no good reason,,from within a billionaires fug.'
No such things did the farmers, they just got on with life
I respect them for their service.' And their actions as they
Face now such un-called for spite.'
You are the royal bubbles
In our eyes as your dimples
melt our plight hope we both find
In our minds
Princess
you are the essence
of our love
As our fate dissolves
In your very smiles
Is instilled precious chimes
A bouquet of sweet lullaby
only we can scribe
rare rhymes
from fable shines
are your delight
at night.
your sake
I shake
O baby my princess
of essences
when my succulent flesh of milkiness
flows into your milky teeth of goodness
My hand smoothens your cheek
On which vanilla colour fix
Golden laughter
sweetie you cluster
baby you are the heavenly soulmate
the Lord created till date
to be an heritage
to our earthly lineage.
Your pinky sapphire
shoes catches the desire
Of all who feels
your heels
O my bubu princess
Almighty God sent his angels in excess
colorfully paint you favour
to all your endeavor
our earthy royal measure
can scent your pleasure
You warm
In my arms
your eyes glow
winkles glow
I feel your calm
in my palms.
I see me
you feel me
1ST Place Win
BRIAN'S CHOICE N,any form,any theme
Green grass,
Blue skies
Sick people,
Sad goodbyes
Dark days,
Empty nights
People dying,
Violent fights
Frightened kids,
Scared moms
Divorced parents,
Lost bonds
Starving children,
Bloodthirsty thugs
Innocent victims,
Kid's with drug's
Devil worshippers,
Constant crime
Shot of a gun,
Nothing is fine
Confused youth,
Careless adults
Child abuse,
Countless faults
Selling drugs,
Peer pressure
Spreading aids,
Prostitute pleasure
Daily abduction,
Victims of rape
So much pain,
Few ever escape
Turning to suicide,
Ending a life
Psycho path killers,
Blade of a knife
Agony of loss,
A broken heart
Painful love,
Being ripped apart
Homeless people,
The joy of hurting
A love child,
So many uncertain
Pregnant teens,
Unstoppable s.t.d.'s.
Ashamed heritage,
Dangerous obsessions
Opinionated critics,
Unwanted suggestions
Killing family,
Betraying friends
As today begins,
Yesterday ends
Hopeless tomorrow,
Doubtful future
Destroying the mind,
Sickening humor
Never--ending sickness,
Too much disease
Does it ever stop?
Someone tell me please
Animal torture,
A newborns cry
Abandoned infents
Do we even try?
Sleeping around,
Simply for lust
Deceitful lovers,
Losing all trust
Breaking the law,
Getting away
Courtroom injustice,
It's the victims who pay
Who is wrong?
Who is right?
Criminals admired,
Have we lost sight?
Broken famileis,
Few who pray
The doubtful outlook,
Getting by each day
Forgotten morals,
Money hungry fools
Disgraceful greed,
Those who use
So many questions,
Yet so few answers
The wanting to know,
Happens much faster
When did it happen?
How did it start?
Who is to blame?
For letting our world fall apart?
I guess this is what you would call life.......
In my heart always lingers Dad’s last sigh
Never in oblivion could I bury
Such upholds my hope for heavenly high
Leaving me with adieu of victory*.
With his legacy of love and faith’s zest
In my heart always lingers Dad’s last sigh
Testifying God’s blessings of great best
Marked by thanksgiving no one can deny.
His infirmities propped my trust to fly
As I begged for miracle health's fullness…
In my heart always lingers Dad’s last sigh
Since divine will is eternal wellness.
Midst reminiscence of fatherhood bliss
Valuing heritage money can’t buy
So that next generation will not miss…
In my heart always lingers Dad’s last sigh.
*Isaiah 25:8 He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears from off all faces…
September 1, 2021
3rd place, "This or That, Vol. 6" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh; judged on 9/8/2021.
"Old buildings inspire my poetic soul,
and touch my heart forever."
Quote by _Constance
Love the old heritage buildings in the downtown of my city,
and how architects have let old mingle with modern;
oh, to demolish a beautiful heritage building is a pity !
Yes, I adorn an old building that has been long trodden,
by many people from hundreds of years ago;
in awe I walk on floors where their footsteps have fallen !
Closing my eyes I imagine their spirits still dwell and flow,
and the turrets and moulding details of each inspire me;
one was a jail with bodies of those hung- buried below !
I feel this concern for each old structure and ancient tree,
also some old grand homes are neglected and falling down;
like sad sinking ships in a vast grey sea of concrete !
Oh, I want to save every decaying house that is rundown;
before these once lovely old homes just tumble-down !
_________________
July 14, 2022
Poetry/Terza Rima/Old, But Still Lovely
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1473-640-14
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Five Stanza Terza Rima
sponsor, L MILTON HANKINS, Judged 08/02/2022
We need to remember our heritage and the reason we celebrate the 4th of July.
Have you ever wondered what happened to the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence? Their story. . .
Five signers were captured by the British as traitors, and tortured before they died.
Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned.
Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army; another had two sons captured.
Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War.
They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.
What kind of men were they?
Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists.
Eleven were merchants.
Nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated.
But they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.
Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his ships swept from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay his debts, and died in rags.
Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward.
Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton , Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton.
At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson, Jr., noted that the British General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged General
George Washington to open fire. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt.
Francis Lewis had his home and properties destroyed.
The enemy jailed his wife, and she died within a few months.
John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying.
Their 13 children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For more than a year he lived in forests and caves, returning home to find his wife dead and his children vanished.
So, take a few minutes while enjoying your 4th of July holiday and silently thank these patriots. It's not much to ask for the price they paid.
Remember: freedom is never free!