Long Heroism Poems
Long Heroism Poems. Below are the most popular long Heroism by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heroism poems by poem length and keyword.
socialism communism fascism despotism
buddhism catholicism hinduism zoroastrianism
territorialism colonialism imperialism expansionism
positivism relativism behaviorism existentialism
adventurism escapism negativism nihilism
puritanism fanaticism extremism terrorism
sexism chauvinism ultra-nationalism jingoism
hedonism epicureanism ~ stoicism asceticism
patriotism heroism altruism idealism
activism idealism individualism exceptionalism
atheism deism monotheism paganism
optimism pessimism cynicism romanticism
atheism secularism humanism utopianism
hypnotism mysticism exorcism surrealism
~ and what if there were a schism in each and every 'ism!'
There are things that we sow, and we do not desire to reap their harvest.
In fact, we might later engender aversions to the distaste we created.
But there is a fixed law that says, 'we reap what we sow'.
Inertia remains until an outside force alters its status.
Inertia must be a rarity in our vast volatile universe
because it seems that everything out there is in motion.
Commitment and consistency are always welcome,
But repetition that hopes for change yields a
sameness that is tantamount to insanity.
Dark, demonic, and horror books and movies,
I cannot abide and refuse to read or watch them.
To certain things, I must close my mind.
Our mortal being desires what it sees and feels.
Whether informed or ignorant of the actual cost,
Often, we do not desire to pay the hefty price.
I have an aversion to inhumane traditions.
Does it serve the few and enslave the many?
Is it demoralizing, humiliating, and racist?
I have an aversion to half-heartedness.
Should we not give it our all or not at all?
Sincerity alone does not make it holy.
And I think insincerity is repulsive.
Clearly, Hypocrisy has no winners.
I find narcissism most repugnant.
We have been told that fools rush in
where angels fear to tread. Some fears are
healthy. If the traffic light is red, wait.
Have respect for the ways of Rose as well as Ray.
If an entity is not broken, leave it be; Let it lay.
However, if it is broken, fix it now without delay.
Heroism is earned, not self-proclaimed.
Once upon a time, bleeding the ill was
a medical procedure that later proved
to be totally worthless and deadly.
I suppose that water takes the course of least
resistance because she feels that it is essential
to keep flowing. May we be conduits through which
God's love flows like an ever-flowing river.
092422PSCtest, A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest.
Strand. 5P
Just a single astral flicker births upon the darkness a crest of day,
A lone strand of wax, dancing its aura
Dispels the night –
In a delirium of glimmers that chase away the phantoms of fear,
Shaking the hegemony of silence with a hymn of photons.
Only a lone flake of snow, in its silvery cascades,
Composes a divine ode
That could launch upon the crests of time
An avalanche of harmonic purity,
That seraphically fills the flesh of the world with psalms of clear powers.
Just one rebel petal upright in gales and storms,
Rising like an oasis in wild deserts,
Adorning resignation with an outpouring of grandeur,
Alone in its belief,
Nameless heroism - an avalanche of stout essences,
A cry that blossoms in orbits of daring.
Just an echo of prayer, the murmur of a pierced chest,
Can transform souls into gusts of wind,
In the avalanche of affection that overflows unnatural boundaries
Dressing enmity in cocoons of phosphorescent loves.
So shine, divine pioneer, with your eternal wick,
Wave galleries of grace over expanses of shadow,
Your spark rustles - an awakening avalanche –
The hour of resurrection in the crucible of deep night.
Be that snow that snows from the wisdom of endurance,
The flower that unfurls storms,
The candelabra of life in crypts of mist,
The pulsating prayer, the heart of celestial chant,
Constant in the celebration of its sidereal rebirth.
Because Her Heart Is Tender, for Beth
by Michael R. Burch
She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget”
dove-white on her car’s window (though the wren,
because its heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her). As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget!”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET!”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
(The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when nestlings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
love's reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.)
She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET!”
because her heart is tender with regret.
Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, Nietzsche Twilight, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International
Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.
Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.
Because her heart is tender
Jacob’s Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.
Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!
Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch
The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.
It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.
It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.
Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble,
just like getting sloshed in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.
Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.
You really know
how to get to me, and tear
me o p e n.
You know my ticks,
my triggers, but,
surely, you,
of all people,
the one who bred me life and breath,
wouldn't do,
something so calculated.
Please,
don't hurt me,
I am-
fragile
and so are you.
It seems,
I am becoming you.
Or maybe you are becoming,
the product of
my actions.
And so inversed at crossroads,
I falter,
faced with, all my sins
that I can no longer remember.
If you can no longer recall,
those horrid sins,
then are you even fit to be on this planet,
and breathe the same air?
Maybe I'm the product of imagination,
but, still,
I would rather live a life of delusional heroism
in the face of you,
and pay for my crimes
where you can't see me.
If I am a flower,
then you,
are a drought,
and you are not there, to see
me and wilt die,
because I destroyed my own roots.
How would it feel having no single woe to bear,
In that sooty heart oft stung by ceaseless tear?
Wouldn't the sobs-accustomed soul court pain,
To save those melancholic rhythms in its stain?
It's abnormal for usually teary eyes not to cry,
For that erstwhile crestfallen spirit not to sulk.
Used to endless gall it's sickly to feel brighter,
It's a health disorder to let go of that acid bulk.
And can this be the preponderant reason fair,
Fate gives each mortal breast its itching care?
Could earth's being all-free from fettering cries
Birth taboo alien studs obnoxious to the skies?
I'd wish to pass life's mean hour in gayest glee,
But if Wiser Lot considers it far much saintlier
To lead a gloomy existence by ruings checked,
Thus rightly eschewed by oily mirths let me be.
There's huge heroism in every iron dragon slain;
None in safest paths unmarred by battle's stain.
At
Dunkirk,
where thousands
of stranded men
lined a bloody beach,
hope was draining with each
air strike delivered by the
unrelenting Germans’ aircraft.
Cold, starved, and injured men watched from shore -
their few rescue ships being bombed and sunk.
How must they have felt knowing their homeland
was so close – and yet so far away?
Horrific days passed when at last
brave civilians came with boats,
so it was that ten times
the number of those
not expected
to live were
instead -
SAVED.
Aug. 16, 2017: Double Etheree written for
JPContest 6: WAR AND HEROISM Contest
From Wikipedia:
The Dunkirk evacuation, code-named Operation Dynamo and also known as the Miracle of Dunkirk, was the evacuation of Allied soldiers during World War II from the beaches and harbour of Dunkirk, in the north of France, between 26 May and 4 June 1940.
The operation commenced after large numbers of British, French, and Belgian troops were cut off and surrounded by German troops during the Battle of France. In a speech to the House of Commons, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill called this "a colossal military disaster", saying "the whole root and core and brain of the British Army" had been stranded at Dunkirk and seemed about to perish or be captured.
On the first day only 7,669 men were evacuated, but by the end of the eighth day, 338,226 soldiers had been rescued by a hastily assembled fleet of over 800 boats. Many troops were able to embark from the harbour's protective mole onto 39 destroyers of the British Royal Navy, 4 Royal Canadian Navy destroyers,] and civilian merchant ships, while others had to wade out from the beaches, waiting for hours in shoulder-deep water. Some were ferried to the larger ships by what came to be known as the little ships of Dunkirk, a flotilla of hundreds of merchant marine boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, yachts, and lifeboats called into service from Britain. In his We shall fight on the beaches speech on 4 June, Churchill hailed their rescue as a "miracle of deliverance".
His legendary name will be immortalized
in America's books of history,
and his bravery and heroism
always remembered by us:
the biggest heart driven
by an immense generosity!
When rushed into the thick smoke,
his searching eyes shone
even brighter than the clear morning;
the danger ahead
could not keep him
from saving people trapped in strairways,
people who wailed and waited
in the tower's darkness!
He left behind an indelible legacy,
to let all see what he truly loved;
to inspire them with motivation
and he never was afraid to show affection,
or his unique side of humanity:
that's what he fervently believed!
John,even this total stranger
proudly calls you by name
for having been so brave;
a mother, a father, a son,a sister or friend
who didn't lose anyone, because of your deed,
remembers you in prayer:
and I, a total stranger,related by blood,
praise you in words that'll never grow old!
John,you may be invisible to all,
but your presence is still felt by us;
your handome sons and lovely wife grieve,
but their grief has turned
into something wonderful:
a duty that has been fulfilled
by your call and sacrifice;
a destiny willed by God!
If everyone judges an individual only
by what one has achieved in a lifetime:
you were one of the truest heroes of our time,
who has left his mark on this twentieth century;
and if anyone doubts you did all that,
your devotion can testify and reject that!
Highlighting the Lord God’s omnipotence
Bible stories expose His miracles
along His mercy’s faithful persistence
smiting torturous hatred’s tentacles.
Greatly enthralled by biblical events
my special child yearns for their retelling
animatedly done, no one prevents
his call for these chronicles propelling:
Creation wonders hold his eyes spell bound
as he recites Genesis 1:1 well
with thanksgiving midst praises that abound
through sign language, truth he does clearly tell.
He delights in surveying Noah’s ark
while traveling inside the floating zoo
hearing cats meow, pigs oink, birds chirp, dogs bark
snakes hiss, sheep baa, goats meeh, ducks quack, too.
Glued to Father Abraham’s clear portrait
carrying promised son Isaac gladly
exemplifying faith, superbly great---
dear child of mine keeps clapping blissfully.
Recalling Joseph the Dreamer’s venture
my son mumbles about coat colorful
projecting pit-prison-palace posture
affirming God’s compassion, powerful.
For Moses’ recorded heroism
by the Sovereign’s mighty deliverance
how my child screams beyond optimism
expecting Ten Commandments’ appearance.
Then climaxing his mirth’s jubilation
David emerges triumphant indeed
over Goliath’s defeated sanction
settling genuine godly trust from pride’s greed.
Concluding my son’s jovial Bible trip
he mimics crucifixion soberness
asserting the Saviour’s redemption-grip
offering eternal life’s graciousness.
With joy of pure mirth, shouting victory*
my child hugs me while his book he closes
ending Scripture narration of glory
exuding love the Almighty blesses.
*Psalm 98:1 O sing unto the LORD a new song; for he hath done marvellous things: his right hand, and his holy arm, hath gotten him the victory.
February 12, 2020
Edited on February 12, 2022
1st place, "A STRAND (1072)" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 2/13/2022.
I
Namibia is my most beloved country,
Like it is a marvellous Beulah land
With a mighty will, great glory
So, be glorified, my free Motherland.
From red sand deserts to the shining shores
And the sun gives me its setting,
Echoes of the seagulls melodied its choruses,
Masterpiece of Paradise is mesmerizing.
II
Wisdom of the people is ancestor-given
As whose blood waters our freedom is glorified,
Their heroism is unforgotten
And the blessing of diverse culture is bespoken.
What makes me so proud today?
Being a Namibian and free is what I cherish
My love for the Motherland is displayed everyday
May the dreams of my country flourish.