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.
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
What was created to expose
is now a fortress just to hide
A bastion of higher learning
within a haven safe for lies
Where discourse once was treasured
the ivy droops and sighs
With comfort their true measure,
the dilettantes still cry
Plato is disgusted,
John Locke is more than riled
As a millennia of learning
is mocked in false denial
Students weak and wounded
from those lessons never learned
Their tomorrow’s but a doomsday
their futures sure to burn
Those words were there to save them
both the hated and revered
All truth in dialectics
—now abandoned by their fear
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2016)
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ The Humanity in deadly sleep
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ Emanation, the Spectre and its ¦¦¦¦¦ Shadow.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the Past, Present and Future existing ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
Before me. O Divine Spirit, sustain me ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
That I may awake ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
Like iron scourges ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ reasonings like vast serpents
¦¦¦¦¦¦ around my limbs, bruising my ¦¦¦¦¦¦ articulations.
I turn my eyes to ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ Europe
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ behold the Loom of Locke, ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ as those in Eden, ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ in freedom ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ in harmony and peace.
(Blackout of )
I’m sitting on the edge of time
For just a disembodied pause,
While pointed hands o’er rounded chime
Obey the pendulum’s swayed cause.
Where kinetics’ course is lastly laid,
Comes forth the pointing to a door
That opens wide. Be not afraid,
I think, to thereupon explore.
And there I search the sea, in stay,
For those few drops that speak of me.
Below a crystal clouded day,
I look for cause and clarity.
But deep inside, my inner clock
Is calling forth its metered rhyme.
Inclined I am to learn like Locke,
I’m also tuned by trembling tine.
The edge of time is thinner than
The fairest maiden’s finest hair,
Yet broader is the settled plan
That puts us just exactly there.
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.
Prince: Being in a place of unrest is rather confounding to the nature of the location when others describe the environment. For our person of the scholar’s cloth there lies the stone of fire and the pillars of the traveler.
Krishna: Pillar one teaches the person how they should live. This becomes a journey of looking into different states (beliefs) and applying them as living principles.
Prince: The dropbox of common dogma for one is not needed for the other. The dogma is detrimental as it denies the words of the Son. The dogma states about networking but destruction is the key to understanding when they apply their beliefs. They have been the classical, and modern Moral Orel’s in society.
Krishna: Pillar two is about standing for knowledge and learning to see people from the Locke perspective with the understanding of Maslow, Adler, Freud, Erikson, Spinuzzi, Bacon, Copernicus, Galileo, Pratarelli, Weber, Mohammad, Yeshua.
Prince: The knowledge pillar is the most critical to finding the answers to everything that is a problem of conformity, social disruption and foolishness. Maslow spoke about the hierarchy of needs in humanity. Siddhartha Gutama knew about this and called it Nirvana. Adler believed in holism as an understanding of the people. Tony Cassidy would write about this in 1997 from an environmental perspective. Everyone else would use the mind and universe to answer questions about our place and actions in the grand tapestry.
Krishna: Pillar three is about the knowing of the Self and not relying on others for the interpretation of the Self. Hearing the words of others should only be heard and not a full rewrite of the person. Not everyone will like the speaker as they choose to live in their excrement.
Krishna: The stone of fire is the love, dedication that helps them endure everything. It is the embodiment of Odin’s eye, the blood of the divine, the tears of those that can never be quenched by only one person. The stone is the testament to those that have been part of the journey. It tells of those that have betrayed the scholar.
Prince: All of this was learned at a place called Easy Place, where everything was a central hub that nearly overtook its name to becoming the ‘Forgotten Valor of the Soul.’
Krishna: The other pillars are of a different time for the traveler and of other statuses.
What was created to expose,
now a fortress meant to hide
Bastions of higher learning,
masking havens safe for lies
Where discourse once was treasured,
the ivy droops and sighs
With comfort their true measure,
the dilettantes all cry
Plato is disgusted,
John Locke is more than riled
As a millennium of learning
is mocked in false denial
Students weak and wounded,
from those lessons never learned
Their tomorrow’s but a doomsday,
their futures sure to burn
Those words were there to save them,
both the hated and revered
All truth in dialectics
—left abandoned by their fear
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2016)
What a wonder! Nothing was written! Absolutely free!
Bee, sea, tree - I can create whatever I want to see.
Receptively blank as the almighty designed it well,
It can in each sketch His miraculous mysteries spell...!
Tabula rasa, John Locke calls it - no readymade concepts,
Like nectar in a flower, facts fill in all its contents;
The environment like my mother nurses my actions,
My caring and rearing enable all my attractions...!
I am like a natural child, devoid of compulsions,
My growing intelligence expulses all convulsions;
The Blank Slate - nature's hardware - analyzes all awareness,
My contemplations - software - set them rightly in fairness...!!!
06 February 2023