Long Honors Poems
Long Honors Poems. Below are the most popular long Honors by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Honors poems by poem length and keyword.
Memorial Day, U.S.A.
The morning sun o’er the parapet seen,
Whilst heard on the wall the bugle call;
"To The Colors" as 'Old Glory' is raised,
To half-staff this Memorial Day;
In remembrance of America’s fallen military personnel:
Known and unknown, buried with full honors.
More than just numbers, they sacrificed their lives
For American liberty and independence.
In battles fought and won, these brave men and women
Denied our enemies victory—on the home front,
In foreign lands, upon the oceans, and in the skies above
—And will not be forgotten by the American people.
***
Note:
Memorial Day is a national U.S.A. holiday observed on the last Monday in May, in honor of American military personnel who died in service for their country.
There is a little you inside all of us.
I shall call her Little Me
She resides way down deep
Often Hidden
Sometimes hiding
Whether Little Me ventures out
Depends on her feelings
If she trusts you
You might see a glimmer
Or a glimpse
If she feels honors
If she feels respected
If she feels revered or loved
She might stop hiding
The hidden Little Me
Might dare to show herself
But tread lightly
Do not feel hurt or sad
If Little Me cannot venture out
She might need to stay
Safe, feeling comfortable
Only when hidden
A harsh word,
An ugly glance
Might hold Little Me hostage
Forever and ever.
Hyper-vigilant, cautiously aware
of your every nuance and manner,
Little Me might never
Be fully able
To show herself to you.
Do not take her hiding personally.
Do not feel hurt or sad if she never shows herself.
She may have been hurt badly by those who
were supposed to cherish and protect her.
Show people your true self, show them as much
Reverence and love as you can.
There is nothing as humbling
or as satisfying as
Spying a glimmer
or a glance of
a usually hidden Little Me
who trusts you enough to
show herself. Tread with love.
"We are the Dead. Short days ago.
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.
Loved and were loved, and now we lie.
In Flanders fields. "
Quote By _ John McCrae (Flanders Fields)
on the eleventh month, on the eleventh day, at the eleventh hour
under a blue hazy sky in my city
we honored those who answered the call and died
for the peace and freedom that we enjoy today
we have a beautiful war monument and statue
and a tomb of the unknown soldier
that we treasure everyday not just on November eleventh
all the wars are engraved in stone
World War I, World War II, The Korean War, Afghanistan
and it honors the peacekeepers who lost their life's also
the sound of the bands, the parade of branches of the military
the 21-gun salute, and the jet fly over, and the choir singing
the pipers and trumpet, breaks the silence of those standing tall
and when it is over everyone removes their poppies
and places them on the tomb of the unknown soldier
like red tears cascading
____________________
November 11, 2022
Submitted to the contest, 2022 Poetry Marathon, Mile 25
sponsor, Mark Toney
With in cave of hurts and failures in my life
With steadfast love from my family,
none-like the bushes of Zabera
Adding the belief: "the God's love, a bounty"
I will mimic like that of a monolith
Thus having a family, my big dream!
Beginning from a hovel of trust and love
Flexible to transparent changes of society
Withstanding current pressures and treachery
Non-expectant of prestige and honors
Anticipatory only of one productive family
With all I am, I'll try to be admirable
Soon, my life will be a family focus
A supportive, savvy and caring wife
A loving and affectionate mother
God as our ultimate great center
Love forever, our endless robust expression
By
1:24 pm
02/25/2014
CONTEST: A MISSED POEM
SPONSOR: DR. RAM MEHTA
9TH PLACE- TO GOD BE THE GREATEST GLORY
-------------------------
Each element of who she is, is scattered on the grass,
with the scent of earth, the drop of rain,
where dew reflects a sky of blue.
Her senses are illuminated to harmonize within,
with a howling wolf, a roaring bear, the song of evening wind
She walks within a dreamlike world, which cannot be defined.
This puzzle we have come to know has no border, nor an end.
When life begins, a tiny seed, is strewn, tossed from the vine,
and picks up speed on feathered wing and touches the divine.
She is daughter of the autumn, and mother of the spring.
Her euphonious legend, an extraordinary thing.
It passes through the blossomed branch of all the sprouted trees.
She is young at heart, and old with drought,
she is strong, and bold, without a doubt, is stalwart through the night.
Standing proud against the darkness, and the sins of those who mar,
her spirit is unbroken, by the scars of bitter blight.
She honors creatures with respect, where unison is found,
with all things wild, whether large or small, ...for every life is gold.
Her songs are as a journey, and frolic in the breeze.
There is prowess and a valor in her lavished synchronies.
Her flute will share her story, in the sound of lonely larks,
of loss, rebirth, of drifting sands, and sweet hours after dark
For yesterday creates today, with a promise for tomorrow.
When songs are played, it can bring us hope, in the laughter of the birds.
Each whisper of a clearer sky, will gently cleanse the smoke,
and buffalo will graze again, the tall green grass will wave again.
The golden sun will rise again, to warm her every word
____________________________________________________________________
10/22/14 Inspired by Contest sponsored By Debbie Guzzi
Resubmitted for Skat's Contest "Premiere Number 7"
I write most and best,
with wind blowing
in me,
wine in the glass, but
no toxic and no
expectations...
Simple and complex,
so comes walks up
writing...
Without honors and flatteries,
chasing a target
distant...
My poor poetry
it is without fuss and without
subterfuges... climb up
slopes and ramps, and
sometimes it thrills the blind
and deaf...
Poetry that hits hard
cheers me up and warms me up when
I feel half dead...
So hot it is, until the
the cold warms.... and if
no audience appears
it is not scared and there is no
cease...
While writing,
cars on the street honk,
mosquitoes suck
my blood and phrases... and
in the silence of the room
hundreds of ghosts
applaud...
Scrambling through the bramble bushes of life
I wonder what is my mission?
Who has the answer? Is it in the cosmos? I look up and smile.
The stars wink at me, holding their own secrets.
My soul is on mute tonight. The silence is wonderful.
A little breeze lifts the edge of my hair. Life is good.
My ideas and ideals are sound.
The only thing I need to do is enjoy this summer’s eve.
Whoo Whoo Whoo A hoot owl honors me with his notes.
In these woods there is no way to figure out his direction.
Coyotes have caught something. They begin yipping excitedly.
I imagine a bunny is being surrounded. Poor bunny.
A whiff of lilac teases my heart. I am so glad I planted that bush.
There is enough star light to take a bit of a walk. I stay on my own land.
The clearing part, not the trees which hide the predators.
The dog runs off, toward the sound of the yips, brave as always.
I really have to say
Having entered several contest
And, being pelted with N/A's
What's the purpose of the game
If you're not allowed to play
I appreciate the prod
To help me write about some theme
But the results, which should uplift
Are more cruel than it would seem
I can't condemn the contest,
or the Judges of the same
Perhaps lack of compassion
Truly is the blame
Having sponsored contests
And judging poets who,
While writing with their hearts
Share their best with me and you
Perhaps we could explain
What makes us choose
Why we pick a winner
And those we leave to lose
Then perhaps these little contest's
Would be meaningful and fun
Giving useful criticism
And helping everyone
I wrote this because, having been on both sides,
Contestant and Judge, I realize the difficulty of both.
I'm not sure why some member write poems off topic,
I know I twist the topic and stretch the rules, but I expect
an N/A, I'm just having fun---It never upsets me---and It doesn't
bother me, that it seems like the same small group of people
receive most of the honors and appear at the top of every list.
I don't know maybe they're just that good, or perhaps just well liked
But that's not why I'm here. I'm here to write,
and the comments I receive are my only true reward.
In closing
Here is my dilemma, with my recent contest, I happen to like all 37 entries, If I grade them, First, Second ,Third, and leave out the rest, that would be an injustice. If I ranked everyone from 1 thru 37, Anyone under third place would probably still feel like a loser and If I rate everyone as First place, no one will feel like a winner, Oh well it would seem, I can't win at this either and it's the Judge in this case, which is truly N/A
Form:
You are my woman
I want to love you like you never been loved before
With depth that reaches beyond the shallow shore
Into the vast ocean where hearts truly soar
I'll cherish your strength, your fire, your grace
Not as possession but as gift beyond measure
In your complexities I find endless treasure
A universe to explore at our own pace
When storms rage and doubts cloud your mind
I'll stand beside you, steady as the tide
Not to conquer or to override
But to weather each moment, side by side
Let me show you love that gives you wings
Not chains disguised as golden rings
A love that honors who you truly are
Both when you're near and when you're far
You are my woman, fierce and free
I don't seek to tame what shouldn't be contained
But to nurture the garden where our love has remained
Growing stronger with each passing day????????????????
When we learned our elderly, kind granddad had died,
all paternal cousins traveled, gathered and cried.
Later, the ‘reception drive’ offered varied rides;
in Rachel’s auto, they shared a liquor-filled flask
and in Rob’s ancient van, a joint or two was passed.
If any cousin did not seek a high that day,
Terry drove sober now that she was freely gay.
At the reception, we all loved, giggled and shared.
Funny, that the sober car was the last one there!
In time, we caught up using our familiar flair.
Rob, Rachel and Rita’s Father had been paroled.
Rob still refused to pay taxes or live controlled.
Rachel lost her job when her flask fell out and rolled.
Rita found Jesus after holding marigolds
and walking naked down a long suburban road.
Mark was racing fast cars, playing music in bars
and had built a planetarium to view stars.
His maternal grandmother supplied the dollars
so why not avoid wearing a working collar?
Terry shared the same dollars-aplenty, flow-jar.
She had just graduated college with honors,
moved in with Sue (who then quit work as a mauler),
and now barely leaves their home built near water.
I shared my struggle to work a forty-hour week,
make sure my special needs child never feels defeat
and bear my third spouse, who keeps a petulant heat.
When a toast or a toke to Granddad was complete,
Mark grabbed his guitar and set a steady, good beat.
Each cuz, in turn, sang their made up line which was neat:
“We’re from the family tree of true dysfunction.
What others call stupid, we see as brave gumption.
We do not take kindly to outside instruction
stalling our families’ chaotic production.
If we pass loud gas, we won’t care if others laugh.
Now, just like real life, our song has gone off track.”