Long Homage Poems
Long Homage Poems. Below are the most popular long Homage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Homage poems by poem length and keyword.
If you have them for me
If they are in you to give
Then give them to me...
If I've been good
Or, at least you thought I was good
Give them...
I receive them humbly and wholeheartedly
Don't hold 'em
For if you do, I will miss their beauty
Their freshness will wane and soon they will wilt and fade away
So give them...
Freely_
I'd do the same for you
My flowers...
Give me my beautiful, tender, aromatic fluorescents
Give them to me
I'd do the same for you
Give them while my eyes can behold their beauty, while my mind can reflect, and my nose can engross them
I'd do the same for you
Give them to me...
While the drum still beats in my chest
Give them...
Before I take my final rest
I want to hold them and gently engulf them
So give them to me
I'd do the same for you
Just give them to me
And I promise, I'd do the same for you
Sure as the cherry blossoms flutter whispers
upon a winds breath gently dances lace
pink softens petal wrapped cotton silk
winds whisper when Christmas falls
unfolding a white blanket reversed undying
cold melts frozen ice cap exposed life
As the ferry man always calls tricks
chills piercing icicles crystal clear cut
cracks appear under a surface cross
mirrors of destiny from the salted ocean
we pay homage with our dewdrops sparkle
Recollecting time falling back
counting down past sins
kissing your feet in each step forward
Forever adds up to precious memories
searching the stars fallen burning fire explains all
where dust remains upon a magic wish blown freely
Always light of our Saviour comes
crowing heavens sky supernova
star of all stars prince of peace
enters a King's blessing
so comforting warm alone with you Lord
joyous angels of Grace forever holds
the highest of all notes chanting
brightly upon one treasured gift Temple
Ark of the covenant I believe in you
The delicate iris, long may it wave
through sun and rain, its blues to rave.
...rave on.
The steadfast rose, our eyes it pulls,
with reds so vivid, layers full.
...majestic always.
The varied and simple zinnia, sprites
with many friends. Many lights.
...countless colors.
The bellowing petunias in June.
Trumpeting its visual tune.
...sun lovers.
The sturdy pansie, defying its name.
Withstanding cold. Gaining fame.
...dying never.
And the violet snapdragon, arriving first.
Mid-March, attention its thirst
...sweet aroma.
Of all these little soldiers in her garden,
one outnumbered all.
Some stood short, some tall.
...she ruled.
She drew the butterflies, many friends
came calling, homage paid,
her nectar pungent, unafraid.
...blinding, bold.
O'er all the troops, she reigned.
Her yellows, truth foretold.
Brightest in the fold.
...the wondrous marigold.
More times than any other,
the favorite of my Mother.
More times the dinner's label.
Center of the table.
...the wondrous marigold.
Still to this day I see them,
and wish to go and free them,
from their tiny plastic cell.
...the wondrous marigold.
And still, I dream of that fair garden,
where love would surely smother
me with hugs from Mother.
...my wondrous, loving Mother.
...my loving marigold.
All that is not me has me down
I am beaten by all that should keep me
My nose in crackling wrinkle
Like dead toothpaste tube
I can’t see my knees
Eyes are deep in the sockets
The twist of neck kicks the heart hard
Hemoglobin is tough and cold like the
Mazera-Voi rail tracks abandoned by
The classy Jambo Kenya Deluxe
I need a life
A cozy labyrinth
Opening in to a boundless sea
My soul rebels land and its jungles
Noise avenues and beautiful malls
Have my heart full with video
I long for monotony
Of a cloudless heaven
Stretching with abandon
Without a single fold onto Riverside from
Kangemi, I need a flat face of the earth
So that I can see my torn toe nails
without tasking my shoulder blades
to injure flesh that is laden with sleep
I am down
Let me lie
with ashes at my feet
blue saliva cracks my lips
in a struggle to pay homage to tongue
the last man standing, in heydays
he proclaimed peace to mountains
with stones that changed shapes with seasons
the message of peace is better unheard than unheeded
now he lies here with me, just maybe, just maybe
in its rotations, the earth will become flat
I long to see the feet of preachers of peace
Their beautiful shoes make my sight hazy
Glossy shin has blinded the messenger
He knows not when it rains, waterproof wear
Cheats him of seasons
Will he ever know when to sow?
When all that is not him shoves a finger down his nose
The wind will let me know
Meanwhile I sleep till dawn is come
This is what created us. This light,
dappling the columned forests with petaled gold,
these nourishing and nourished streams, these bright
sun-laughing lakes, ruffling under an old
and infant wind, this intercourse of pine,
air, beam, mulch, bough, loam, moisture, say we fit
into the mothering niche of this design.
This does not belong to us: we belong to it.
If there can be a god, that god must be
what we are made to live for and within;
so in this pure cathedral we may see
our earth-determined being, and begin
to learn that we are water, light, and air:
our breath is homage, and our heartbeat prayer.
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Please note that I never have used and never will use AI to compose or revise any of my writings.
A random comment on poetry in general: All American poetry is a dialog between Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman.
Opulent water of ocean
Wonderful wide sea extension
deserving deep veneration.
Glistening in light bluish green
Luster in Aqua Marine.
Splendid soft foam seeming serene.
Turbulent waves thrashing on shore
throwing clams and snails in galore.
Unknown vast zone how to explore?
Holding immense treasure careless.
Carrying crazy creatures countless.
Amazing striking marvels boundless
On seabed stay mountains ridges
Any time volcano outrages
Burst of tsunami avenges.
Innocent icebergs nice to see
hiding nine times length under sea
For vessels stand silent scary.
Grandiose stunning stupendous
Zestful dynamic gorgeous
Exquisite vibrant glorious.
Ingenious inspiration
My tribute to sublime ocean
My homage and acclamation.
Three Cheers To Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday,”
the other three hundred
and sixty five or six,
when leap year occurs,
especially Jewish mothers smother
also manifest courtesy
eldest sister or brother.
Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter
paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's embolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the vulgar appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
bull all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.
Push-ups
A lyric/acrostic ~> an acrolic
The rules to this acrolic is to rhyme the same way in verses 1 and 2, then the bridge does its own rhyming scheme. V.1 and pre-chorus is considered an acrostic and v.2 and pre-chorus is also considered an acrostic. The rest of the poem (the bridge) is the first syllable of the word in acrostic form.
V.1: P- Plenty of sunshine, come what May
U- Understand that I’m tired of liberal-conservative politics
S- Shame on me for saying it today
H- Hanging out with the buddies without taking any selfie pics
Pre-chorus: U- Underestimated by scars and shown to be happy
P- Pretty much, I’m appalled by the stars and so free
S- So free, clean and sober from my addiction of painstaking infliction
Chorus: P- Pleasure-embarked
U- Under
S- So much
H- Hushed pressure
U- Understand my ups and downs
P- Please
S- Show me the way
V.2: P- Pain and shame, I can wish it away
U- Unless I pray it wouldn’t affect me — six times six
S- Shameless and sheltered today
H- Not feeling a seven times seven, but I need a fix
Pre-chorus: U- Underestimated by scars and shown to be happy
P- Pretty much, I’m appalled by the stars and so free
S- So free, clean and sober from my addiction of painstaking infliction
Chorus: P- Pleasure-whelmed
U- Under
S- So much
H- Hushed pressure
U- Understand my ups and downs
P- Please
S- Show me the way
B: P- Plenty of room to push yourself forward, feeling mellow
U- Usage of peace would be necessary
S- Shine on and on like a tranquillity bird, shimmering yellow
H- Honoring myself, paying homage freely
Mujer, mujer que amé inusualmente
Hacen varias primaveras
Cuando el clima era bueno e inhóspito
Cuando el viento silbaba rápido, bajo y lento
¡Oh! Mujer, eras joven, fuerte y chispeante
Cariño, ahora has fallecido
Estás acostado y durmiendo en coma boca arriba
Tranquila e inmóvil como el agua
Del estanque paralizado, mirando al cielo
Ojos cerrados herméticamente y convenientemente
Donde todo parece sobrenatural y artificial
Me pregunto y reflexiono dónde estoy buceando
Si es una ilusión, una pesadilla o un sueño
No me siento bien: estoy desequilibrado y demente
Estoy desapareciendo en las sombras
Donde todo es oscuro y lúgubre
Como mi sangre. Siento que mi todo
Se ha ido y es arrastrado por la tristeza
Me estoy ahogando en un lago mercurial de embriaguez
¡Dios mío! Sí, estoy sufriendo de verdad
Perdí a la sirena más hermosa.
Mujer, mujer, eras preciosa
La voluptuosa que tanto amé
¿Te acuerdas? Desperdicié mucho tiempo
Reverenciarte. Me encontré en la pendiente resbaladiza
Yo también moriré como tu
Mujer, mujer, pesada y espantosa es la cruz
Donde estoy expuesto hoy
El frio me congela y el sol me hornea
Estoy triste y devastado como flores marchitas
Y tú, apopléjica, silenciosa y consagrada
Yo también estoy sufriendo, llorando y muriendo
Ya no quiero quedarme aquí
Mi corazón está cansado, afligido y asediado
Estoy llorando y sufriendo. Mi fuerza me ha dejado
Me estoy ahogando de dolor en el lago de la borrachera
Yo también estoy muriendo. Ya no quiero vivir.
Mujer, mujer que tanto amé
Ya no estamos en primavera
Pero casi en la infancia del otoño
Las campanas están sonando y los niños están tocando
No hay arcoíris en el cielo
Estoy solo, llorando y muy arrepentido
En el laberinto del cemitério
¡Que la tierra te sea infinitamente luz!
PD Traducción de ‘Ode To Yseult’ de Hébert Logerie Sr.
Copyright © septiembre 2021, Hébert Logerie, Todos los derechos reservados.
Hébert Logerie es autor de varios poemarios.
self portraits
color me in dandelion yellow
thumbing my nose at beauty’s pawns
intruder in the gardens of the mellow
mimicking the beauty of my dawns.
paint me in thick oils, richness deep
colors of wild howls, barks, and hoots
surrounded by the company I keep
anchored in the depth of wilding roots.
photograph me, center, tall and proud
rubbing petals with the hybrid mimes
silenced by the fear of being loud
paying homage to the price of beauty’s crimes.
draw me in the scrapbook of your mind
small fingers reaching out to feel
a gift to which the world grew slowly blind
the life that makes the dandelion real.
8/6/2016
submitted to – Each one of us has His or Her won Flower of Attraction – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Rick Parise