Long Locke Poems
Long Locke Poems. Below are the most popular long Locke by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Locke poems by poem length and keyword.
Roll back the clock to Josef Locke
(and not before or after),
in climes where shrines have names like Knock
without provoking laughter.
My father was an army man
(and yet me to beget),
all spit-and-polish, spick-and-span,
and quite the martinet.
Those soldier boys were short on poise
in those benighted days:
the Murphys, Martins and Molloys
were raised in rustic ways.
But Duty Sergeant Kevin Coy,
vesuviously vocal,
was out to drum-head or destroy
each vermin-ridden yokel.
His boots could pass for lacquered glass,
his gloves would shame a surgeon:
his dignitas at morning Mass
outshone the Blessed Virgin.
Imagine, then, when Cousin Ben
(all NCOs were family)
provided gen beyond all ken
(with palms perspiring clammily):
“They’re on a charge. I told them, Sarge.
I threatened savage slaughters.
Le nettoyage. A smell at large
in Ballykelly Quarters.”
They hunted high, they hunted low,
they bled the radiators,
more ebb and flow could offer no
Projection of Mercator’s.
Just how to quell that awful smell
preoccupied them greatly:
hard to dispel, suspicion fell
on Houlihan, then Hateley.
Catch as catch can, they caught their man
(not Higgins, or O`Hara):
who’s down the pan? None other than
your man from Connemara.
What Ryan knew was equal to
a peat-bog sown with barley:
he’d not a clue – “What? Put on new
bejeezers, regularly?”
His first long-johns remained the ones
adorning regions nether:
six months now gone, he still had on
the same ones, altogether.
“Wear other pairs? These stink – who cares?”
What’s harder to believe
is, unawares, his thighs’ black hairs
had grown quite through the weave!
“He’s now cashiered for being weird –
why then, we’ll depilate him.”
His locks were sheared, and then his beard,
and pubis, seriatim.
Thus Ryan, Sean, of Shirley born,
his gonads wholly hairless,
is there to warn, so sheerly shorn:
a lesson to the careless.
Whatever sins the Pope rescinds,
or parish priests connive at,
sloth never wins. Redress begins
with Shaving Ryan’s Privates.
Immanuel Kant, changed the spelling of his name from Emmanuel to "Immanuel" to accord with its Hebrew meaning: "God is with us." So, this quintessential Enlightenment thinker - and Thomas Jefferson a little after him - could not talk about God easily. Kant & Jefferson did not "know" God or prove Him in the ways we gain empirical knowledge through the senses. But Kant is no John Locke, locked into sensual data, unable to taste intuitions that beckon agape love, morality, dignity, desires to have children, longevity, and most essentially, for Kant, what remains the "holy in human rationality." By the way, imagine J. J. Rousseau ("Emile" author) called marriage "holy"! Do not quickly label enlightenment thinkers the way seminary or college tend to do!
So Kant did what is best and wisest with God. He said that Morality was crucial for religion, not vice versa, that God was helpful for morality, yet God could not be known empirically, so Kant chose to focus on reason and Human rationality as part of the image of God in human beings (Genesis 1-3, esp. 1:26-27). That is why his contributions to Moral Philosophy confounds so many - we cannot use anyone and anything as means to our ends; the highest and holiest thing we can do is build a corpus of universality in morality. Or more simply, do unto others as you would have done unto you: Do NOT elevate your desire or maxims unless you want it universally in all circumstances. I KANT see how Immanuel - who was eloquently grateful to his harness-maker dad and Pietist-leaning mom, is hated by Evangelicals at the Academy in general. Of course, there are exceptions (other than I? LOL!)
Previews were many for a series called "Lost"
The cast was extensive, oh what a cost!
Production gave, to the viewers, a plight,
When Oceanic 815 began its fated flight
Something went wrong, the plane began to fall
It crashed on an island, a mystery to us all
The passenger list was many, few survived
Eventually, we lost, some who were alive
Injuries were treated, thanks to Dr. Jack
He soon became the leader of the pack
There were families, sisters and brothers
We, soon learned that there were others
Attraction was immediate, when Dr. Jack saw,
Kate, who was running from the law
Conman, Sawyer set his sight on Kate too,
Poor Kate, she just didn't know what to do
With the heart of a killer, Sayid had skill
He could be a friend or just as easily kill
Hurley would prove to be a loyal friend
He came with a quickness to defend
Desmond spent years resetting the clock,
Until he ran away and left it to John Locke
People soon learned that it was a mistake,
To trust Ben Linus, because he was a fake
The Smoke Monster was The Man in Black
Then he became Locke, when he came back
Jacob is gone, yet he still hangs around
Claire was missing, now she's been found
When beloved characters met their demise
It kept the show interesting, I realize
Hero Jack is my favorite, yet I shed a tear,
For Charlie, Jin, and Sun, who were also dear
So many questions, will we ever find out,
Exactly what this Island, is really about
The series is ending, scripts are being tossed,
I'll have to watch repeats, or I will be lost!
Memory
I am my memory.
This piece of the world, this brief sprouting
Amongst many thinking radishes,
Exists only as resonances within
Lacy neurons; Flanders’ delicate patterns
Sustained by glial skeletons,
Beyond the spider’s web or silent
Snowflake in elegant complexity.
I am memory:
Identity, selfness, the compass of my person,
Shaped by the universe’s unknowingness
Of my reedlike form; yet I know I exist,
And know of my fate,
And of the fate of the universe,
Which is the power of my memory
And humankind’s collective memory.
I am:
And therefore recreated endlessly by my memories which,
Shallow-like, bow to my insecurities
Played out in my mind; ironically,
Feeding my own undermining,
Poignant recall of joy and bittersweet sorrow,
Given force by visceral emotion, shaping “I”
Anew, through endless rehearsal.
I:
Who is: only in relation to you, another,
My child, parent, brother, sister, a lover,
Bosom friend; like me, the sum
Of memories, which we share
And are thus part of each other,
All one, yet separate, connected
Through memory.
The memories of you fade,
Yet do not disappear, and
Give truth to my thoughts
On memory, and my identity;
Me, whom you pursued until
I caught you, and gave
Me memories happy and sad,
That shape me still..
with acknowledgements to
Blaise Pascal, William Shakespeare, Rene Descartes, Eric Kandel, John Locke, the Lace makers of Belgium....and Georgia
Homer, Aristotle, Hobbes, Locke, Goethe, and Crane;
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens, Tolstoy, Whitman, and Twain;
Whose imagination and toil helped to unfold
Stories, philosophies, and lessons to be told.
The inquisitive student absorbed in his books,
Contemplating and learning while everyone looks
At him with judgmental glances, as if to say,
“Strange seeing him indoors even on this fine day.”
But to him, the weather is of little concern
While he is satisfying his deep thirst to learn.
Taken in by tales of peasants, lovers, and knights,
And those waxing on people’s and government’s rights.
Just then, he feels a chilly draft, but no matter,
As he tugs at his worn jacket collar’s tatter.
Off in the distance, he hears children playing games,
But no match for his fables with fanciful names.
Lost in some fiction, he really can’t help himself,
He thirstily reads his way across his bookshelf.
Hungry – but his knowledge appetite can outlast,
He ignores stomach growls as the lunch hour has passed.
The reader pores on in utter fascination,
As if in a trance, but not caused by libation.
Searching, grasping, he is mentally enraptured,
With meanings bold to subtle all being captured.
In deep translation of the scenes, plots, and faces
Scribed in earlier times and in other places.
He can wait for frolic, frills and things of that kind.
For now, the scholar will sit and enrich his mind.
2/26/17
The Groom of the Stool
(Two meditations on an ancient post: see below)
I.
The Groom of the Stool needs some time
To commit his experience to rhyme.
This commodious peer
Detests diarrhoea
But thinks constipation sublime
II.
See where the philosophic King
Sits Rodinesque upon his “throne”.
The patient Groom stands wondering
And draws conclusions of his own.
As often at such times as these,
He thinks of Plato, Locke and Kant
And their epistemologies —
And of his own ingenious slant:
“His Majesty – though no-one’s fool,
A veritable Marc Aurel –
Rises still wiser from his stool.
From which it’s possible to tell
That wisdom comes not only a priori,
But also, sometimes, a posteriori.”
Note: These two tasteless pieces were prompted by a colleague’s discovery of the post of “Groom of the Stool”.
This was a highly-placed courtier in 16th Century England, whose prestigious task it was – I regret to say, gentle reader – to wipe the Royal Bottom, at least according to some sources:
* https://www.tudorsociety.com/groom-stool-sarah-bryson/;
* http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/king-toilet-attendant-england?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=atlas-page
We fell – as one would – to speculating about the philosophical and poetic potential of this post....
I.
What a darkness it is,
that as the planets rotate miracles
with cosmic power bestowed,
The Fall of Lightbringer
deadens the bleeding branches in Spring
as a requiem masked by your skin
paints onto the sun in a cloudless sky
The Stranger.
II.
What a darkness it is
when laughter lark detonates atom bombs in your heart
and you join me in my scarlet fever,
gazing thoughtlessly at a rainbow stream
of cars holding minds that also fear tomorrow
and are synced with Soundtracks for the Blind
underneath the sun in a cloudless sky
in April.
III.
What a darkness it is,
melting chocolate promises on concrete;
the promises of Locke Cole I cannot keep
streaming from a destitute human Roc
crippled beyond silencing waves in starless space,
smashing the guitar, he cannot fake it anymore
from a bleached sun in a cloudless sky
on Cape May.
IV.
What a darkness it is
to manually delete from your cyberspace
the immortal morning dew of a once eternal friendship,
for we all know that those imprinted souls linger
in our own, impossibly carved into reaches metaphysical,
especially when your favorites coalesce, reminders constantly
following like the sun in a cloudless sky
to nowhere
Time has created writers of century
Praised aloud for writings honorary
Prized globally with invaluable glory
Turning lines to deep thinking story
Magic of dots lead revolution purely
Unleashing world’s important history
Coining perfect pieces called literary
Lines curving to meaning revolutionary
Endowment to write thoughts freely
Though some being looked at angrily
Still the words shining more brightly
Eternal gift of Locke, Voltaire, Rousseau …
Pen is a mightier weapon said truly
Those who deny know not its beauty
Played ne with unequalled lines simply
Unwitnessed so far the unveiled mystery
Languages varied , spoken distinctly
Yet idée exchanged among commonly
Lines need a glance of heart’s purely
Then ideas turn to innovation surely
O Line! Has a start, ends with finally
Nevertheless continues even blankly
So many meanings in dictionary
Form conversations even nonverbally
Parts, Play, prose or poetry
Adds life to non breathing – silently
Writers gifted to use its versatility
Line turned a treasure noted timely
Four letter carries connotation widely
Unseen still there …simply…plainly…explicitly
Poor ol’ Pyrrho, he’s the hero
Of my somber poetry:
Couldn’t figure how to pick your
Core beliefs with certainty.
Bold Descartes, he got the party
Started with his Cogito.
Up popped Pyrrho (what a zero!),
Said to think is not to know.
Next, John Locke, he tried his luck; he
Claimed true knowledge must appear
By consensus of the senses,
But just how, he wasn’t clear.
David Hume, an ornery human,
Stripped Sir Science of support.
Just one reason he could seize on:
Custom is our sheer resort.
Kant, the strange one, said, now hang on;
For what’s really real don’t fuss:
Be content to just consent to
What our minds make real to us.
Lastly, Hegel scored a bagel
With his dialectic ways:
Synthesizing’s just surmising
When you have no solid base.
Oh, bewail their learned failure
To make absolutely sure
Of the theories man can fear he’s
Welcomed with a false allure!
As for poor ol’ Pyrrho’s moral,
Which I think we should applaud:
Don’t be blurtin’ that you’re certain—
You are just a man, not God.
Bald Eagle
I am rowing my boat along the long and endless Crimson Locke
Up high, so very high I see near the top of a crevice of rocks
My loyal companion my good friend Joe does see a long beagle
Which we both then see and view is a nest of an eagle.
The eagle does turn and thrust its beak into its nest
Watching its young while they are all at nesting and rest
The eagle is a proud mom and spreads its proud wings
She’s protecting the young of how her love as she sings.
She’s gracious of beauty of all heavenly birds
God is out watching and talking of heavenly words.
The bald eagle soars up through the warm and inviting sky
To hunt for nourishment to feed her budding young
So they can all survive and not have to be wasted and die.
God is protecting all living and beautiful things as she soars and sings
He gave the bald eagle majestic wide wing span of beautiful wings.
11/09/2015