Long Lone wolf Poems
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In the bay of icy mists, the viking ghost ships arrive, sails set full ahead,
Crashing anchors rattle loose, plunging beneath the cold murky surf,
As the hailing horns of the dead, announce to their lord, Odin, that
Valor's courageous have arrived, and wish to enter, the great halls of
Valhalla.
Here the cold winds of the north dwell, it's chilling
Breezes flow freely, through the phantom warriors spirits.
But these rough men fear not death, nor it's harsh breath, for they
Are vikings of the northern kingdoms, and they have come for
Their last rewards treasure, to enter beyond the gates of Valhalla,
And are armed ready to fight, beside their God Odin,
In victorious battle.
In these waters of the ethereal unknown passage,
The cracking and heaving, of these heavily
Laden vessels made of vapors thin mists,
Send an eerie chill down the backs, of mortal men.
As mountain icebergs float upon the wind
Chilled oceans surface, the Valkyries approach,
Smiling beneath their shimmering chain-mail of
Brilliance honor.
On the evergreen shores, a timbered lined hall stands,
It's gates of golden pitch blaze, with fires white
Hot flames of those concurred, their souls scream
For penance mercy.
Two long swords, Chris-crossed are the gates steel dead bolts lock,
Above it's embers glow, a fierce eagle with red crimson eyes,
Grapples, it's sharpen claws, cutting deeply into the oaken shields,
On the thatched roof of the golden hall.
A lone wolf beneath therein, passes sniffing at the
Garments of the fallen men, if fears scent, the wolf so smells,
Cast out is this soul, and dammed it is forevermore.
Within the many souls do enter, a hardy welcoming at the feasting
Table mead and honey wine, is set before these hero's of honor.
But outside the ships remain tethered, awaiting for their masters safe
Return, unaware of Thor's approach, his mighty hammer set at the
Ready.
Striking with thunders raw force, the hammer of power,
Brakes against the sheer ice, as quick as the lightning's flash,
Freezing tidal waves clash upwards, swallowing whole all evidence,
That these ghost ships ever existed.
Oh Valhalla, I pledge thee my life, my fighting spirit, my blood and
Body given in the name of Odin, for thy honor sake, shall I live and die,
Behold the vow's pledge of these Nordic men, known as the Vikings.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Trixie Light Wing, the lovely, lithe,16-year-old light-worker faerie,
was the first one awake in the prairie on this fine Spring morn.
She effortlessly dusted the grasses, the dandelions, the daffodils,
and the pink hydrangeas with pixie dust called Big Pix.
She had come by the Pixie Dust legitimately, because it had
been presented to her as a gift, for being a sixteenth-born.
Named Trixie Light Wing by the Pixies, the light-worker faerie,
lived up to her name, because she was an expert of tricks.
The dragons were still asleep in their cave when she liberally
dusted their front knocker with the Big Pix.
She knew it would be easier to do it now and ask for forgiveness,
than ask permission and be told “no”.
The dragons were known for their inability to see
another side of the story or even flex their own a bit.
Trixie felt jubilant that she had gotten past their door
without waking even the sweet and cute
2-seasons-old baby dragon, Little Joe.
The Flitzwillies were the first magical creatures
to wake up as were the rest of the Light-Workers, Tee and Bee.
Tee was an avid admirer of Trixie; she wanted to be like Trixie,
she wanted to act like Trixie, Big Bad Tee.
Bee was not so much an admirer, a light-worker with
a lone wolf type attitude, one in this prairie we rarely see.
Bee would have liked to stay in the dark cave and play
Video games all day long, rather than be friends to the Mee.
The Mee is what we call our cooperative made up of faeries,
dragons, and flitzwillies. I am one of them too.
My name is Khan, pronounced CAN, and I can do a lot of things
other mythical creatures are not allowed to do.
Probably because I am the princess, and my Mommy,
the queen, helps to make all the rules for the Mee.
Daddy doesn’t dare cross her, or she will add another
rule for him, and he already has thirty-three.
I decided to pull out all the stops today,
and play a trick on Trixie before she
Could play a trick on me.
Disguised as a little baby unicorn, I watched her
feed me an apple, and began to
Talk about how pretty I would be.
When I shape shifted back to myself, we laughed and
Laughed at my trick at her expense.
Then she pointed out that we could ride on
A Tilt-a-Whirl for only a sixpence.
And so we did.
In the name of blood, for it is the source of life itself,
Plasma's crimson essence of liquid infusion, to the undead's
Pulsating heart.
Intravenously feeding cravings passion, through the carotid
Artery at the throat of humanity, thou'st not love, suffer
The pleasure indulge the pain, the out come shall be the same,
To be embraced by the black ebony arch angel of death,
Release thy darker side, let the instinctual behavior of the beast,
Know freedoms unshackling at last.
Become one of his sacred disciples, a creature of his dark dimension,
A kindred being, unto the legion of the night.
In the moon's elliptical light, shadows thus move from
Left to right, shifting as transparent figures, phantoms of
Illusions, taking winged flight, soaring on the currents
Of air mingling with their ancestral brethren, the vampire bat.
Run does not the lone wolf, along the side path next to man,
As we do so walk amongst them, yet never attempting to belong.
Oh are we not the a shunned, the accursed, by a God known
For his forgiveness, to love all living things under
Heaven, but for us this mightiest of lords, turns
His gaze away, not acknowledging our existence.
Our we not his lost sheep, missing from his flock, why
Does not this Sheppard seek this black lamb’s wool,
Is it too coarse for weaving's wheel, as it spins thus
And is it not said that he created all life within his image.
Nay I pray this vamperic prayer, why has he abandon
Us, the darker of his creations.
Behold the unascended, begging to enter beyond the gates
Of light, children of the lost are we, seeking a father blind
To his responsibility.
Harvesting, by the basic instincts given unto us,
Taking only what we need to survive, for this he has turned
Against us, and thus taking the light of day with him.
So my father of damnation's hell, has offered salvation's
Darker domain as a sheltering harbor of comfort, I will not
Abstain his patronage.
For I am the ashunned, living by the moonlight's haunting glow,
Yet yearning to see one last horizons sunset, but the Holy Father,
Hears not my humble vamperic prayer.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Each of us has a unique set of memories when we think of someone. Each of us has our
own "piece" of him that we take through life. These few are just some of the memories I
keep as treasures of my brother, Ron. It was his death from ALS that prompted me to write.
I remember him as the son of a father, who worked hard to raise his children with the values
of love, respect, conscience, and devotion.
I remember him as the father, who worked hard to provide his own children an education in
the values of life.
I remember him as a boy, who loved to play with trains, erector sets, and bicycles.
I remember him as a man, who loved to work with his hands in repairing motors or could fix
the leakiest of faucets.
I remember him as an adolescent, who never had a problem in finding friends.
I remember him as a man, who like a lone wolf, many times trod his course alone.
I remember his love of driving around on Lower Wacker Drive, singing Irish folk songs.
I remember him as a man, who was sometimes frustrated by his inability to repair his
favorite car.
I remember him as a friend, who helped me to learn how to play games as a child.
I remember him as a brother, who continued to play the game of life with wit and humor
even in dark times.
I remember him as a man, who was never too busy to help someone else, whether they be
family, friend, or neighbor.
I remember him as a man, who asked no help for himself in his most desperate challenge.
I remember him as a man of dry humor, misplaced witicisms, and constant exchanges of
laughter.
I remember him as a brother, who's only claim to fame was caught on film at a First
Communion party, and who's face always turned red when someone reminded him of it.
I remember him as a man, who courageously faced a battle he knew he could not win.
I remember him as a man, who loved God, and may only have found out how deeply when
he neared the end of his journey to be with Him.
I remember him with love, respect, and gratitude...for letting me remember.
Dan Cwiak
The policy of hate and date,
You may not like but it’s the truth,
The bitter truth mate!
Was it a lone wolf terror or was it a coordinated fight?
Who cares since it targeted souls
Despised by night.
But you are no God to legislate and
Decide on fate
An act that made an end,
To the destiny of a foe and a friend...
With no reason,
In a season of hate and revenge?
In Orlando like in Kabul,
A score of lives fell like flies,
With no respect to the being and soul,
Not to dare to compare the two,
You lunatic! You fool!
In Orlando like in Kabul, human tokens
From all sort of life dropped and stopped
Thinking, stopped moving and stopped breathing,
For some sick and dick, this was cool????
For others, this was a life crime!
But the difference, is that in Orlando unlike in Kabul,
Media and support were promptly presented and shoulders were
Provided to lean and cry upon,
But in Kabul you are on your own but not alone,
Blood called blood and this is a twin evil
To face and confront,
I know that all of us are divided and different,
I know for sure that our shaky unity in diversity is now compromised,
But human life is worth than principles of freedom and democracy if any
For sure God created Adam and eve,
Nay Adam and Steve,
But who cares now in this mega mall of globalised world
And as the oriental dictum goes, each sheep is hanged by its leg
And on its own,
And now you have all your time to grief cry and moan,
With your clan and tribe and even on your own,
Your acts reflect your thought,
Or maybe your act translates you hate,
Reflects you vision, your own vision,
That is your mission,
Terror calls terror and an eye for an eye is still on,
Reflecting an old Judaeo-Christian, then a Muslim law,
To celebrate hate at dawn
It’s your shared [Onus!]
Your shared fault,
And now you are harvesting together,
It’s now you shared a bonus,
Some of you still on the divine ship
Some of you still worshiping in deep,
You name Torah, Psalms, Bible and the Quran,
But some of you are still faithful to the [Cronus!]
Life forfeited, Law transgressed
Clear morn in which to go hunting today
Indian prepared , went with no long delay
Family of four was hungry with no food
he setting forth in a very anxious mood
Deep into the thickened woods he raced
seeking tracks before the wind erased
Venison was what he desperately sought
his traps were empty with nothing caught!
He was on his favorite hunting trail
thoughts of how he simply must not fail
A deer he across the way did soon spot
carefully he drew his arrow for a shot
Silently and quickly he took his aim
food, precious meat, this wild game
Raised bow with a very quick release
a clear miss, to his awestruck disbelief!
So angry about missing his only shot
no meat today in the empty family pot
Around the next bend he soon did meet
a wolf's rocky den at his weary feet
Peering into that den he clearly saw
a brown movement, a quick swiping paw
Next seeing two pups were quite dead
the last one big and clearly well fed!
The hunter mad in deep and saddened rage
the Great Spirit he offended and enraged
As he took hatchet to kill one lone wolf pup
he emptied mercy from his own sweet cup
Returning wolf pack came before he got away
circled the hunter in every escape pathway
Jaws wide with sharp teeth and wicked stares
the wolfs charged rapidly forward in pairs!
Swiftly biting as the hunter tried in vain
to knock each biting wolf off again and again
The wolf pack had its victim on the ground
right there his mangled body was later found
Indian hunter had transgressed Nature's law
killing a helpless wolf pup sealed his great fall
Mercy and hope had been righteously withdrawn
life forfeited , he never faced another dawn!
Robert Lindley , 06/26/1983
Found this in my second small journal , hidden
under a box of short stories I wrote back then.
Seems on the last few pages I wrote three poems.
This one was finished, the other two look to be
very close to being finished ...
I guess I could list this as a narrative or a rhyme.
Chose not to edit it any way because I signed it
and thus deemed it finished back then..
The loneliness is unbearable
The misunderstanding is crippling
All the years of active rejection
Slowly engulfing the being
How I thought them to be the worst
But it’s the passive rejection
That’s what’s really killing me
The quiet shunning of who I am
The subtle hints that I’m not invited
It’s quite evil really
Unaware of why,
My bitterness grows
Thus if I ask, they’ll point to a monster
The monster they themselves created
Once a wide-eyed optimist
Transformed by the continuous rejection
See, it initiates the group’s strength
Knowing they shared in the killing
Leaving the remains to the birds
Starved the soul is
Craving something
Anything, a heart can latch on to
But nothing is there
Everyone leaves
Deep thoughts, an empty stare
Drown myself in music and writing
And so it does heal
The slow, gentle numbing of the emotions
Of the deep pain I feel
Living through the art form
The only life I have
An outcast, the lone wolf
My loud howl from the top of the mountain
It’s impact felt only from within
Inclusion, I often question if that’s all I desire
Inclusion simply for the sake of inclusion
It’s not, but how pleasant it would be to finally feel it
Perhaps just until the right ones come along
My feelings are a dark empty abyss
I feel everything, and yet nothing
Impossible to express, as even I am unaware
I’m getting lost in my head again
Overthinking and zoning
Suppose it is explainable
As I haven’t gotten much sleep
Symptoms Of A Paralyzing Depression
Course through my veins
And I am aware of them
And I am scared of them
Yet what can I do, surely can’t tell anyone
How would I live with myself
So I’ll keep it to my own
Knowing my burdening of them, their cold pity
It would prove them right
All along, they knew I was a loser
This self-fulfilling prophecy always occurs
Labeled as a rebel, an outcast
A loser, a pariah
I want my feelings to be known, want them understood
Want them gently caressed
But it seems that will never happen
I am socially depressed
Form:
prosaic prologues bewitch
feeble minded scribe doth undertakes
tend toward lugubriousness ring tone
for goodness sake
echoing across,
a figurative lake woebegone, where quake
shutters latched storm windows,
clapped closed winter season didst make
physical environment lachrymose
analogous to imp pond durable dark lake
where sits inside secluded hut,
this fledgling author named Jake
a former cub (scout) at a loss
to string together an aria
tomb other nature and NOT FAKE,
sepulchral paeon to divine Gaea, Mother Earth
especially incorporating
mutisyllabic (sesquipedalian) words,
which exertion
on par with giving birth
(or so I guess),
a particularly heavily pregnant laden dearth
of help mates, doubling demonstrably
deadly duty devoid of mirth
totally tubular taxing toll,
an essentially unbearable
effort with bulging girth
whereat digestion consumes
latent mental ambition,
especially toasty warm near the hearth
which hitherto unknown to any reader
twas Xmas fabrication and fiction
no crime committed, nor animals harmed
in the making of diction
aery necessary entrapping unsuspecting intellect
to comprehend somber benediction
unless perchance one lone wolf
bait Oven English Major
with Westernization
topped off with a European
debunaire suave acculturation
even luckier if hypothetical personage
dips daintily into forays epicurean,
though careful,
and alert since church fathers
would frown on parsonage
whose natural born ardor,
a spiritual abduction
stealing austerity, complacency, and objection
toward forced irrational schemas
averse to abnegation
unfair imposition
to foist upon pruriant predilection
also impossible
to sequester arbitrary animal urges,
punishing call of the wild,
sowing seeds a beastial accusation
considered averse,
then imposition contrition!
Lone Wolf” Written by John Moses Freeman
A lone wolf far from the pack of his concern, entertains by flute in hopes of an appearance from Great White Father. Many moon have passed and no sacred white buffalo have been seen or heard of by himself or any of the other members of the tribe. It is always a bad omen to go for so many moons without a sacred appearance of a single white buffalo. Separating himself from the rest of the tribe eliminates the possibility of any bad medicine of unsacred mistakes that might have possibly been made by any of the other braves. Fasting for days Lone Wolf rescinds the weaker part of his soul, giving over to the spirit world. That he might be worthy of the divine appearing presence of the Great White Father. Should the Great White Father decided to divinely grant this mortal His holy appearance from inside the spirit world. Lone Wolf's proof of worthiness is his abstaining from food until his unworthy fleshly senses have rescinded; into the lower depths of darkness of the soul and obliged Lone Wolf’s sacred sense, giving over to the authority of the spirit of his stronger essence.
The nature of the trees of the woods, the air, the water, the sun of day and the moon of night are the image of the lesser senses that must be respected, for they are given to the lesser man’s needs in the lesser world as shelter and food. But today Lone Wolf plays his flute for the purpose of entertaining a presence of the Great White Father of mother earth. He will fast and play until his inner essence becomes one with the essence of creation! By this divinely granted appearance he will receive spiritual council and rectify his tribe with good medicine and receive new direction correcting the bad omen. The white buffalo will appear in the herd again!
For and in Honor of Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet
And Contest: Tell HIS Story
I dwell in desolation, damned in a fathomless abyss.
What sin have I committed to live a life such as this?
Without a window I cannot gaze upon stars above.
What hope is there for me to ever find the one I love?
Shall I never again feel the tenderness of his kiss?
Fear is an onerous anchor, dragging me further down.
I am filled with anguish knowing that I shall drown.
I scream aloud, but no wanderers respond to my voice.
For just a tiny glint of sunlight, I would gladly rejoice!
Am I to die here shrouded in this filthy tattered gown?
If loneliness is an ailment, I languish on my deathbed,
clamoring with hope to be heard by someone overhead.
Again, I shout, "What have I done to merit such an end?"
Silence, my answer from these depths I shall not ascend.
My life now tethered to the clemency of a fraying thread.
The pale silhouette of death hovers near me in the deep.
Its frigid fingers chill the marrow in my bones as I weep,
daring the courage to ask; Does my torturer live within?
Is it destiny or fate who strokes the strings of her violin
as a requiem for me in the shadows of this prison keep?
Doubt pervades my brooding senses in this muted space.
I know not why I've been confined in calamitous disgrace.
What price am I to pay, and how many nightmares more
before I am released and depart through freedom's door?
Am I never again to feel the passion of my lover's embrace?
An animal I shall become, a lone wolf howling in the night,
baying at a moon I cannot see, nor the glimmers of starlight.
If I shall not glean sunrise and feel its warmth tomorrow,
then a kneeler I shall be, begging an angel if I may borrow
her wings to liberate me from this dismal dungeon's plight.
October 28, 2022 ~ 2022 Marathon Mile 18 Contest
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December 6, 2021
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