Long Heroine Poems
Long Heroine Poems. Below are the most popular long Heroine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heroine poems by poem length and keyword.
Comrades, feminine energy is not a sudden outcome, It originated from the past to the present world order, The women are the preachers of the deaf and the dumb, Mercy,love, patience and intuition are creations of that performer. During a fierce battle,Kaikeyi saved Dasharath's life, Lord Krishna accompanied by Sathyabama defeated the demon, The feminine energy of Savithri rescued Satyavan's life , Kannagi ,an epic heroine sought justice for a real reason. Manimekalai rejected the romance of life to become a nun , Tamil culture was shaped by Avvaiyar, the great Tamil poet, Mother Teresa dedicated her life to the poor sick and dying ones, Helen Keller,a feminist used Braille system and its kit. Kalpana inspired millions of girls to pursue careers in aerospace, Marie Curie was the only woman to win in two scientific fields, No wonder Indira Gandhi was the iron lady with a strong base, World remembered Diana who worked for sick people as a shield. Our people could understand anything through reason and evidence, No human being in the world is a supernatural power, We follow in the footsteps of feminists as an act of reverence, Masculine energy protect us but feminine energy heals us like a flower.
Something haunting about his voice.
Sorrowful, lingering around the edges.
I do not fully see him,
he is a grayscale blur, something elusive
The lyrics are lonely and sad.
His mother prayed him into existence,
he sings this as if he thinks it was an unhappy circumstance
Love for his father comes through
He claims loneliness, yet is it not self-imposed?
He wrote one hundred songs in his twenty-five years.
Was encouraged and coached by the Beach Boys
A little Iowa child, like me, born six months before I was
The last photo of Tommy taken back stage
made it into Rolling Stone Magazine.
He was big time, but may not have known it.
John Marlowe, of the Miami News said,
“Take care of yourself.”
He said, “Don’t worry. I will be here a long time”.
He died a few hours later
Heroine, cocaine, alcohol and barbiturates.
Something haunting about his voice.
she had lost the plot long before in an insane labyrinth of her mind
trapped in the rat race of high speed and the volume on full blast
incarcerated shackled and straight jacketed thumb screws and all
contorting denial delusion and psychedelic support to no valid avail
and the wall of her self-imposed prison was barbed with wire of pain
the maze of synaptic connections discharged commands of unreason
torturous wheels of cognition failed to balance fierce contradictions
twisting and hurting she succumbed to a myriad of fake solutions
turning the tourniquet tight to receive the message of brown sugar
winding serpentine paths misconstrued from temptation and promise
and still the garden remained a wasteland of intemperate indignation
she had fallen off the wagon so many times that the engine had stalled
sinews lay bare under a sinuous array of purulent scars and punctures
a tattered puzzle of perplexed bewilderment awaiting the ultimate shot
the heroine submerged in near namesake poison in face of the needle
as the epitaph neared completion and the funeral cortege proceeded
she prayed and surrendered to a white knuckling ride of withdrawal
dragons danced with cold turkeys on her tomb stone but they refused
to relinquish hope for affronted vultures puked at sight of her ghost and
she recalls near death experiences and abstinence as a miraculous gift
25th June 2020
Giant tiger laid herself over the enormous hill.
Staring down the tanks, guns and soldiers down there still.
She knew on the other side of the hill was an elementary school.
Tiger stood guard until the army got frightened by her toothy drool.
The soldiers began to turn away, terrified by the giant beast.
She held her ground, staring them down, anticipating a feast.
The few who ventured up there got gobbled up right away.
Only the villagers knew who the giant tiger had saved that day.
She was their heroine now, and they made a national Tiger Day.
They took care of her the rest of her life and her babies Tom and Tay.
Few creatures had ever saved them from a fate like this.
They adored their super hero tiger, whose name was Missy Miss.
________________
Heroine content with her beloved’s
love, affection and dedication,
one with her own mind.
____________________
Heard had I tales of male malefaction
By and large true, far from fiction,
As happens oft, one out to prey
Gets hunted O to be the prey.
Full of hopes I’m your spouse,
Not filled with any grouse,
For, you my love belied this old wisdom,
I’ve been a free bird in your kingdom--
A truth that needs no proof,
Nor display from a tallest roof.
Lifelong shall ye be my temple’s deity,
We shall be together for life
Lived forever and rife
If not for eternity.
_______________________
Natya Shastra |08.02.2025| Free verse,
Note: This is eighth of Ashta-Nayikas, eight heroine types, as classified in a Sanskrit treatise on performing arts in Bharata’s Natya-Shastra. The state (avastha) of the eight romantic heroines widely themed in Indian paintings, literature, sculpture, classical dance forms and music. Swadhina-bhatruka is the eighth of the eight such heroines depicted here in poetic form.
___________
The dejected heroine stands up to her beloved’s deceit,
suffers a slew of mental states: despair, deliberation,
weakness, weariness, and indignation.
______________
Despair writ large in her red eyes,
And deliberation otherwise,
Weak and weary on waiting,
Flames of fire from eyes flaring,
Indignant, lapses she in past at last,
Now and then oh what a contrast!
Then, I longed for a few free days from him,
Yet, it never came true-- eluding dream--
Hope, that ghee-less would go his lamp,
Yet, never got folded his camp,
Is it that I no longer attract
Him? O come let me know the fact.
_______________________
Natya Shastra | 04.02.2025 | Free verse, emotions, despair, heartbroken
Note: This is fourth of Ashta-Nayikas, eight heroine types, as classified in a Sanskrit treatise on performing arts in Bharata’s Natya-Shastra. The state (avastha) of the eight romantic heroines widely themed in Indian paintings, literature, sculpture, classical dance forms and music. Vipralabdha is the fourth of the eight such heroines depicted here in poetic form.
I wish I had known that the cocaine and heroine
That killed my friends in the sixties and seventies
Would become an “Opioid Crisis” in my later years.
I wish I had known that somehow the same bad choices
That not only killed but criminalized my friends back then
Would make today’s addicts poor victims who need accommodation.
I wish I had known that the press and government
Would create the battle cry “Opioid Crisis” as a way to get readers and votes
Without considering the consequences in our healthcare system.
I wish I had known that because of measures taken
To protect other people’s children who chose to misuse an illegal substance
My child dying of cancer would be treated like a criminal when obtaining prescribed pain meds
I wish I had known that at almost 60 years of age I would be fighting
To get pain medicine I clearly need for a diagnosed condition
And be treated like an addict on the street was in my youth
I wish I had known that despite friends and family who love and care
This would be the loneliest, most painful time of life
Because those with the power to help are busy completing forms and counting pills.
But I didn’t know. And the life I’ve lived has been a clean one in which I always strived to make the right choices,
No speeding tickets, no parking tickets, no arrests, church on Sunday;
And no relief from the pain that now fills the long nights.
I didn’t know that I would have to watch a sweet young woman with stage four cancer
Jump through hoops to get the meds that make her comfortable
While addicts who overdose are fawned over, given expensive drugs, and promised no consequence.
I didn’t know that I survived an abusive household growing up
With alcoholic parents who enjoyed belittling me
Only to find myself understanding suicidal depression for the first time as a senior adult.
But now you know.
May 15, 2019
no scrap of wrestle left inside and the battle remains
the same each morning in and all night out of peace
rock bottom ground control on empty remote chance
that this too shall pass in lost resolve of moving on
getting out of bed leaves a struggle
pajamas drenched in sweat and tears of vacant promises
bottom with deep sores of apathy and motionless arrest
tied to inertia and its evil stagnant imposition on a ghost
in search of anything worthwhile to rescue from the bones
brushing teeth a swedge too hard to heed
darkness leaves a forlorn trace of self-negating shadows
curtains drawn at the interface of death apart from living
random rays of sunlight blind weary eyes that saw enough
contrast of mangy soullessness with manic delirious craze
one more thought too much to bear
the heroine can’t lick her oozing wounds at risk of drowning
ear drums burst from constant onslaught of crescendo’s call
the double bladed tongue of reason scrapes lips and excoriation
and yet reception is on auto pilot and the dial of feeling stuck
emotion hurts any sensation on repeat
multiple voices offer an affray of inconsequential shouting
accuse betray condense deceive reflect guilt anger angst and shame
who would not admire the brave courage to brace the screaming pain
to endure and tolerate the injustices abuse neglect and evil spiral
while the clasp of nothingness prevails
just then he gently wipes her brow and plants a tender patient kiss
one gesture of love contains more compassion than a hundred words
and quietly they suffer together the difference kindness can make
the greatest struggles never see the light of public dispensation
and she replies in whispers I love you too my dear friend
08th March 2021
May we be saluted as we stand brave and tall.
For we do not smile into the face of danger, though we brace ready for the brawl.
What is that, that that I see, it's the
Dark Angel glaring down upon me.
Hold still my courage tightly grasped.
Guard it against my building weakness.
Surely my hedge stone of strength falls fast.
For with gaping mouth, my soul's aghast.
O guardian angles where art thou?
Of your essence, I do not see!
Upon you, I trust all that make me
The vivacious heroine I currently-be.
Yet, now I am fallen on bend-of-knee
With mounting weariness, my nerves grow thin.
Windows wide opened reveals stark fear within.
Take charge "my" icy stare frozen sickles brightly glare.
Of this moment of graved aware
Affixed to root a solid mass vital seconds now to pass.
Still no twitch or flick of "foot", all thoughts to flee, all thoughts last.
With outstretched hands grant me my honor.
Of restoring please do not ignore.
Return to me my pride and glory.
On this notion, I do implore.
Do not snatch the life within me.
Release my breathing so it flows free.
Of my name, you do not see.
On the list given unto thee.
Go thy way yonder time to come.
Here now living I’m not done.
~~~Preludes in the poem "Tones"
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/tones_1198731
“Saint Joan Of Arc The Maid of Orléans””
“Jehanne la Pucelle”
Joan of Arc a pious peasant farmer's daughter
In her times alone, she spent it in adoration
~
Ten year old Joan runs in joyful play
Through the field of red poppies
Taking a shortcut through the forest
Anxious to get to her father's farm
~
Sunlight burst with wind and the sounds of voices
Blowing through the tendrils of limbs and leaves
"Save France from her enemies and bring them back to the hands of God"
~
A young uneducated woman with no military experience
Gave hope to a monarchy and brought unity to a nation
A fearless inspirational warrior that never raised her sword to kill
But to give hard clouts to trollops and run them off from camp
~
Under divine guidance Joan Of Arc a seventeen-year old heroine
Of the Hundred Years' War between France and England
Led battle after victorious battle
~
Those that praised her ended up plotting against her
She was captured by the Burgundians
~
The English then purchased her and charged her for treason
By ecclesiastical court at the English stronghold of Rouen
Furious at the audacity of a young peasant girl
Could be a battlefield commander and could bring down a country
They couldn't charge her for her victories
So they charged her for with witchcraft, magic, impiety, and wearing men’s clothes.
~
To the very end at the cemetery of St-Ouen
Facing death by fire
She claimed she was guided by voices from God
She asked for a cross kissed it and held it to her chest, repeating
"Jesus"
"Jesus"
"Jesus"
~
She was burned alive
9/12/2015
Joan Of Arc, nicknamed “The Maid of Orléans” is considered a heroine of France for her role during the Lancastrian phase of the Hundred Years’ War, and was canonized as a Roman Catholic saint.
Born: 1412 Domrémy-la-Pucelle, France Died: May 30, 1431