Long Macbeth Poems
Long Macbeth Poems. Below are the most popular long Macbeth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Macbeth poems by poem length and keyword.
Various Heresies 12
God Had a Plan
by Michael R. Burch
God had a plan
though it was hardly “divine.”
He created a terror:
Frankenstein.
He blamed death on man:
was that part of the plan
so hard to define,
or did he just cut his losses?
Now sleepless he tosses
hearing the screams,
the wild anger and fear
of men in despair.
"Just disappear!,"
he cries to himself
on his fearful bed,
tearful, afraid
of those he misled.
Ah-men!
The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
Here I am, talking to myself again . . .
pissed off at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!
Still, I remember when . . .
planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity
worth a chuckle or two.
Philosophers, poets . . . how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;
Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;
Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;
Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through . . .
for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,
and they fill the world with their pale derision
of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,
reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all damned.
Keywords/Tags: Heresy, Heresies, God, religion, religious, christian, Jesus, divine plan, death, man, men, screams, anger, fear, despair, Divine Plan
My tummy speaks fluent Bowelanese
Every morning before my brekkie
Informing me in no uncertain terms
It needs more nourishment by heckie
It has quietly fasted all night long
Now wide awake looking for grub
Wonder what the consequences are
If I don't send some down from above
Tummy grumblings are quite universal
From the Aloha State to Timbuktu
Queens are known to have 'em at times
Followed by a Royal Fart or two
I guess that sounds a bit irreverent
But hey, Queens are people just like us
The only real difference is however
They can sit at the front of the bus
Now getting back to Bowelanese
A language even mentioned in Macbeth
Just lift one cheek and then the other
To release the body's excess
© Jack Ellison 2012
Before I became a worrier, a rebel, a Spartacus:
I remember listening to an orator on a city bus:
he criticized and enraged some arrogant characters;
he shouted harsh words to the deceiving charlatans,
exposing themselves as hallowed saints in a niche,
when they should have been thrown into a ditch!
Before I attempted to please others,
I realized how naive I was to offer praises:
I had one God to serve, not several gods
who took the appearance of pure divinity;
they had a shining halo over their heads...
ensuing much fear, accusing me of inequity!
Before I had a childish and overt personality,
I trusted anyone and laughed with anybody...
until their derision filled me up with anger;
I broke my connection, realizing it wasn't fair!
Before I diverged from the wrong and dangerous path,
I didn't recognize my naiveness, neither I felt bad vibes;
I helplessly fell into a deep ravine full of vicious vipers:
what spared me death was the laughter of Lady Macbeth!
Dandelions, babies crying
walking in the woods,
astronomy, philosophy
chickadees and childhood.
Speckled trout, (a technical knock-out)
strawberries red and sweet,
winter, spring, summer, fall
Butterfinger and little "Twinkie" treats.
Dragon flies, questions why
There’s anything at all,
Making mistakes baking cup cakes
Cumulous clouds and rainfall.
Dancing, prancing and romancing
singing by-gone songs,
Christmas giving, loving, living
here at home and gone.
Wishing wells, magic spells
rivers, lakes, seashores,
children growing never knowing
what's in store.
Big parades in sun and shade
wild animals in the park,
ice cold beer and someone near
when comets pass in the dark.
Climbing mountains, drinking fountains
Liars, tricksters, cheats,
Saving grace and holiness
And poetry that speaks.
Dishes, wishes
and a pocketful of dreams,
Timbuctoo, Kalamazoo
New York and New Orleans.
And boats that sail watching whales
reading, writing books,
never-ending always spending
money on good looks.
History, wizardry and mysteries
inside a grain of sand,
life and death like old Macbeth
we may never understand.
"Life must be a preparation for a transition to another dimension"
Terrence McKenna
We’re told it’s an event but it’s really a process
That it all flashes before us the moment we die
If that is true then I die daily
Track with me please as I egress
I’ve done the homework and the flashes lie
Despite their intentions, however gaily
And what of a moment or what is a day
Have they ever existed anyway
Man-made gizmos to help us reset
A thing we chose for which we regret
Or an unkind deed we’d hoped you’d excuse
Nay, manifest sperms from a younger man’s muse
I’ve ne’er been clobbered over the head
Nor slowly digested by a cancer bed.
Just too much time ingesting life’s ****
Avoiding the high road as the cadence said
When you my good man were born
You joined the army of the marching dead
Sacred and sordid private vignettes
Pass my sight as on display
for my review, soldiers from another day
Eyes dripping with future regrets
They’re too damn familial to let me see
My father’s carcass laid in-state in side of me
Serendipidies, Synchronicities, one way flights
Fortunes traded for stronger nights
Fair turned foul and foul trumped fair
Angels and devils dance side by side
Naked and primal to an ancient aire.
Passion and convention kibitz and collide
When there was no God upon my breath
When I hooked up with Lady Macbeth
Ceasing to be I still existed
Duly seduced by the good witch’s whispers
No epilogue in a comedy of manners
The plot became kitsch but so it persisted
Days will come when you’ll put it on paper
Sweating your numbers and so obsess
You soon start surfing on a yestertide
Their breath can reek of a lecherous vapor
And their flashes are but a vapor’s caress
Yet you, like me have survived
each day that you’ve died
YEW TREE LODGE - Story poem
When I was young we had a local witch, or so they said.
Meg Reid at Yew Tree Lodge. That’s the legend we were fed
The lodge was dark and forbidding, away from the street light’s glare.
Surrounded by gnarled old yew trees, weirdly shaped and bare.
They’d been there for two hundred years, tree experts all agreed.
And, if you believed the stories, they’d been planted by Meg Reid.
She dressed in black from head-to-toe, the way that witches do,
And, just to complete the picture, her cat was jet black too
They said she had a cauldron, like the witches in Macbeth.
And, if you took a sip from it, you’d suffer a painful death.
Children were warned to keep away. Their parents would explain
That if they ventured in there, they’d never be seen again.
She’d boil them in her cauldron, then cut off all the fat,
Chop them into pieces and feed them to her cat
But I didn’t take any notice, in spite of the stories I’d heard.
Whatever the other children said, I didn’t believe a word
I went to see her twice a week, welcomed with open arms.
I didn’t end up in her cauldron or come to any harm
She didn’t have a magic wand or wear a pointed hat.
She didn’t cackle when she laughed or anything like that.
She didn’t ride a broomstick. That was not the way to define her.
If she had to get from A to B, she drove a Morris Minor
Her ‘cauldron’ was a stew pot, not containing witch’s brew
But full of her delicious Beef and dumpling stew.
We played Ludo and Monopoly, and card games by the score.
If I won she gave me ice cream; if I lost she gave me more.
I asked her why she wore black and never something gay.
She said she’d thrown her gay clothes out when her loved one passed away.
No, Meg Reid was not a witch; just grieving for her man.
Oh, and I forgot to say that Meg Reid was my Nan
With present great, O’ gracious hate
O’ hand in heart, neither tripp’d nor fear’d
Doth thine conquer, by thine of corrup’d lips
O’ Sicker thy pour’d thine sicken canst
Thy chanc’d on seated heart
Hath thy slate nigh single sinner hips
Wither’n hither if b’yond, where’n nought
With’n ernst wouldst prove best
O’er hung upon the dislocate
O’er hung ‘mongst the rest
O’ implor’d thine harvest
With thine of wicked hand
Thus thou shalt do, howst thou shalt plunge’n.
Murth’ing sex hold at thou’st darkling sight
Dost seem plung’d thou’n thy thick night
Night form foretold milk’d thine breast
Thou shalt b’sworn, bitter’n crest.
In swinish sleep, O’ grace of gurnish hell
Trammel’n surcease, deceit upon brow
Unknowest known, tak’n eye upon foe
How’st for, thou played’st most foully for
Give solely sovereign sway, sworn o'er swell’n,
Poison’d chalice, O’ in wanton fullness
Fall’n O’ fallace upon th’other
In punitive hail, O’ fall,O’ fail
How’st dare’st do’n all, O’
Doth crown’d th’thorn t’prick th’law
Thus thou shalt do’n, Thus thou’st forlorn,
Esteem’st th’privy procreant cradle
F’rapt fools of foolish valour
Succumb f’certain tongue’d desire, thou
Shalt reign ‘pon th’heavenly galore
For th’Christened babe
Wept ‘pon the cherubim whore:
“Great Glamis! Thou art shalt be, slain th’head ‘pon the Heaven’s decree!”
Hast form’d a kiss’n heaven,
Doth thou callst th’pure
Why hath th’crown crowd me by livid, in my stir
Ever hath thee crown’d withal
Hath borne a light,
So to withdrawal.
Nightmares, as though, scorpions, sting.
Rough truths, within, like owls, spread wing.
What a night! O, what a grim night!
Terror, unknown, rules like a king.
Sleep lies wounded like a torn kite.
Phantoms and vampires show their might.
What a pain! O, what a sharp pain!
Why have graces gone out-of-sight...?
Do sins of day, at night, life-gain?
Have some chemicals filled my brain?
What a death! O, what deathless death!
Why am I, like a culprit slain?
Souls lead me to streams of Lethe.
Each step, I seem losing my breath.
What a woe! O, what a mad woe!
Like very drama of Macbeth...!
Slowly, yet, morning sun-rays glow.
Kissing the blooms the breeze does blow.
What an ease! O, what a still ease!
Calmness, her charming face, does show.
05 June 2022
Rubaiyat Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
(A lone voice whispers)
In the wind,
In a gale, or at sea,
Evoked by angels at daylight,
Awoken by devils at midnight.
And just broken
In between.
I once wandered like Dante,
Experiencing heaven and hell
Simultaneously,
Like a shadow being,
A Djinn.
Unfolded like a rare, old-world map,
Cold and lost as life's winds destroyed all my sanctuaries.
I once used as cover while my broken heart recovered.
But today,
On December the fifth,
The third day after you left,
I feel resurrected and reincarnated like Mephibosheth.
For, like in all relationships, holding Death's cold hands while you once wandered isn’t real death:
Only a tragic play.
Yet one can feel burnt at the stake,
Like the family and servants in a play
Written by someone known as Shakespeare,
Called Macbeth.
(C) Copyright John Duffy
~ To the melody of
Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow ~
When you’re ready to blow your stack
and your friend you’re about to attack
Just do this to get back on track
Let it go… Let it go… Let it go…
When you feel you’re losing your cool
and about to do something cruel
You don’t want to look like a fool
So, Let it go… Let it go… Let it go…
You can always count to a hundred
And if that doesn’t work for you
Take a deep breath, you're no Macbeth
Let the sunshine break through…
Don’t throw that chair through the window
Better put it down real slow
What good will a broken window do you, SO ~
Let it go… Let it go… Let it go…