Long Martyr Poems
Long Martyr Poems. Below are the most popular long Martyr by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Martyr poems by poem length and keyword.
next to neptune
am i calling too soon
yesterday i was
across from the moon
today it seems
i'm as pressed
as your faded blue jeans
little baby
don't sing so blue
my blue baby
night will come for you
days we'll martyr after
what was once
meant to be
fighting layers
liars lay
where lilacs stray
my baby
don't sing so blue
soon we'll come for you
there are times
that life seems so brute
and there are times
it seems you are singing
with your prayers on mute
but little baby
don't you sing so blue
better nights will come for you
brighter lights will soon
be a soothing to you
are you
so far way
neptune
i'm right next to you
yesterday i sat
across from the moon
today i breathe
the air of your room
"so close and so far from anything
I guess i'm right at home"
Tongue twister line:
From the rustic rover to Samuel Sanders, they try to tickle the tongue with tricky tongue twisters.
1. A rustic rover round the ricks ran restlessly, and restive, he rushed to the nearby rural rill to reinvigorate himself. Then whoever he met, he ranted and raved with him or her with reckless arrogance. Revivified and rejuvenated, the vagrant straggler across the riverbank rumbled and rumbled , and trounced a regal recluse that triggered a fiery ruction. Then another rowdy ragamuffin slapped him hard and a furious rabble raised an unprecedented rumpus.
2. Samuel Sanders, a saucy salesman with sable brow, had an ancestral house in Sussex, but since he was a man of gypsy psyche, of late he strayed into Surrey and settled there for squarely six months, and then set out to straggle across the Sicilian seashore seeking psychological solace in the serene and suave sound of the seawaves.
3. You can't put a better bit of butter on your platter because a martyr did shatter the packet of your butter as it did welter in the gutter, but that waiter did cater you this later, muttering about an utter butter-hater from Gloucester with bitter hauteur.
19th November, 2016
You're a student of psychology
but apply the knowledge horribly.
That makes you a novice and I've noticed
you're easy and obvious to read.
You did not succeed at this subject you studied.
Time after time you called me a martyr,
but you never got the reaction you were after,
I carried on with a head full of laughter,
playing mind games undetected by the master.
You think you learn from books that tell you stuff,
but you're just to unaware for it to pay off enough.
Your ignorance makes a big difference,
you think you've more significance,
with higher knowledge than the rest,
and so much wiser they can't contest,
but your heads caught up in a mist,
and the result of this cloud, important things are missed,
like you being a narcissist.
While you're always busy searching out others,
you stand exposed without a cover,
and we can see you,
you're see through,
seeking issues,
you seep through
to an angle you use,
that makes you look abused,
and you become a victim,
and what precludes is attention and sympathy,
that you've induced from a pathological path you follow pathetically.
You can't confront your own flaws,
so you outsource and call others fools,
but these flaws are yours, you insult for no reason at all,
and it makes you look small, insecure and comical,
but to you in your head you're on the ball,
you can't be conned but you can con people.
Whilst intent on working out intentions you are unintentionally transparent,
so whilst you think you've mastered a skill the world can see you haven't.
You think you've mastered the psychology of the head,
but the fact is, it went passed and over your simple little head.
She brought me into this world with her love,
One of the precious gifts from up above,
From her womb ‘til I stand on my own feet,
She did everything for my benefit.
She was my first teacher and she was stern,
For her, in life I have so much to learn,
Sometimes, with her great love I’m also hurt,
She is not perfect, but she wants the best.
I salute her for being a martyr ,
Serving her family who is so dear,
She is my sunshine during stormy day,
My guidance and strength when I lost my way.
I’m so lucky that she is my mother
I am of what I am because of her.
May 14, 2013 5.30 pm
Note:
A dedication to my loving mom. That's really her. Ever since, she works so hard for the family as a dressmaker. She'd sacrificed a lot for us especially when we were young( my 2 brothers and I) because according to her and my dad, we were so sickly especially when we were still babies ;))).I love her so much and I'm so proud of her. HAPPY HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!
Second Place
Contest: Mother and precious poems
Judged: 5/16/13
Sponsor: My loving sis & greatest poet, PD
When life was given to me,
from the kindest mother
this ungrateful world ever knew,
I caught my first breath
as my tiny heart started to laugh;
that moment was ingrained in time,
instilled in that child's memory...
for countless years to pull me through,
reminding myself who got me on this safe shore!
To love myself so intensely...
is to honor her degnified memory,
others may have not been so lucky
to have had a mother who had
loved them so passionately;
I heeded her words, listened how she prayed...
even in suffering, she sought the presence of God,
the same God who has been testing a faith so bold!
My righteous mother was an image of holiness,
her pure heart despised ugliness...
a saint who will never be recognized,
and so unknown for her sacrifice!
She had the pity of Jesus's mother,
and the perseverance of a martyr;
had she be living in Nero's time,
she woud have died for Christ!
To love myself so intensely
is to be grateful to her immensely,
and consume that fervent love
in the same way she did; no stories,
or ballads will be writtten about her...
to somehow remember her,
but with my loving poem everyone will know,
and come to realize that mothers dont' have
to be heroines to go down in History!
(Marilyn Monroe speaks.)
River of No Return
A desert is a bitter place.
There's something cruel in endless space:
it strips away the human scale.
I fear these winds that scour and chase
the vortices, and sting my face.
Good looks are fine, but all too frail -
ask Monty. Once you've lost your place,
you feel as if you've lost the race,
you're not what you're supposed to be.
I envy his consumption rate.
The one man in this battle-born state
in grimmer shape than even me.
Yes, Huston's the paternal kind,
but something's left him colourblind:
director's name on empty chair.
He's hollow, going through the motions,
painted ship on painted ocean:
you touch him, but he isn't there.
I married Miller on a whim.
If I could land a man like him,
I figured, I must be someone.
A man above me, older, smarter:
I didn't want a Jewish martyr.
Why lock the safe? The money's gone.
I come without a guarantee.
Men fool themselves - they don't need me.
I nixed on Arthur, fixed on Clark.
I've reached some kind of plateau now.
I'm sure of everything ... but how
to find my way back in the dark.
A Martyr
No heading to a quiet peaceful one world,
Civilisations in name of development,
Producing the deadliest,
aiming towards end of human race....
You kill me, I kill you,
I defeat and conquer,
Souls tranquil rest in grace,
While no living ponder....
When patriotism asks for a price,
the price is a valuable human life ...
Father's elderly shoulders bear his weight,
A mother's affection melts into her eyes,
When brother's heart simmers on low flame,
And inconsolable sister silently cries,
His loving wife longing to meet,
sits on his coffin, draped in white,
Little arms that embraced around his neck,
hold fire to lit the father's pyre,
Warmth of brimming human emotions,
dumped in cold blooded patriotic ice...
A martyr
By own species...
Patriotism,
A dedication or
a frenzied outburst ?
Boundaries and freedom
Be mere words...
Man against man
Be not ultimate weapon...
A land that no one owns,
is that for what we fight?
Defence or brutal sentiment of war,
is there no looking beyond this sight?
Written Sept 21st, 2016
By Dr. Upma A. Sharma
Moved by Inhumane killing of brave Uri Indian soldiers across Kashmir loc
bare up to listen if you dare
to words of poets spoken so rare
within these words chosen with care
timeless messages encoded there
our hearts to the depths of love untold
with in words secrets attempt to unfold
fragility of hearts made of glass
often broken by unnoticed pass
our pride in country, family and God
rarely is seen the road we trod
giving life , health and limbs for strangers
all the time knowing the dangers
words that rang out within our hearts
words from poets and prayers impart
what once was living; resurected by art
the plain, the shy, the cowardly depart
leaving the brave, the hero's, the ledgends of heart
to fight, to wittness the cruelty of Satans art
and of life there are many themes
each and every one pretaining to thee
for there is nothing new under the sun
for every battle there is a victory won
to be a hero or a martyr
some they know not
but for the principle
the reason they fought
it mattered not the reward they got
but what was right, was right and life mattered not
weather battlefield or police shootout
they fought
over a little piece of land
their parents bought
poets know justice is from the heart
and pens telling the story is our part
when justice is justice
and laws are unjust
the feelings poets commandeer
and rush
Dr. Martin's dream is a dream for many generations
Past, present and future… Life is about hope, compassion
Love, freedom and justice. It's not asking for too much
Because human lives are precious and priceless. As such
We were all created in the same manners. No one got
More, no one deserved less. There are three levels in the lot
Birth, live and death. We all must go through the same process
Health is paramount and wealth is secondary or temporary
We all will leave earth one day, soon. Hoping we're all blessed
To remain on earth for a long time. A dream is a reality
That will or will not come depending on the dedication
On the focus and on the resiliency of the participants
We all dream for a better future for our families, friends
Even for perceived enemies. Hope is in the air, like flying ants
Wishing to land on a fertile sugar cane field. Dr. King, our Hero
Is a man with many names: Dr. Martin, Dr. King, a great fighter
An activist, a superman, a martyr, etc. He was the older brother
That we dream of being with us in time of trouble, at a low
Point of our lives. Dr. King was an amazing inspiration to a world
Filled with backstabbers, hypocrites, racists, maniacs and criminals
Dr. King's dream is well and alive for many generations. Animals
Will never rule the universe. Human beings cannot be obviously curled
By a bunch of so-called right wing individuals. Common sense will
Always prevail. Love will always win. The racists and the haters ‘will
Shall fail. Positive attitudes will always win. Brother Martin's dream
Will live forever. All men and women were created to enjoy the ice cream
Equally, to be free to fight against unfairness, selfishness, racism, bigotry
And injustice. Dr. King's dream and inspiration will live forever, for eternity.
P.S. I write what I want to write about and say what I want to say. I am a free and fair man.
Copyright © January 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
Would you crusade to remote regions
in search of that timeless tomb, the one made of seasalt & sandstone,
to towns tempered by the terror of war, windswept with worry,
Do prayer calls of the Jihadist singe the comfort breathing in your books of traditions,
could the Koran summon an instinct of journey in the feet of your hopes,
perhaps the Bardo Thadol a simmering shout from the monastery of one's monsters
suppressed in cells of selfless sorrow, daring repressed in reminiscence of rectitude,
in the Old Testament do you find aged allergies or fertile figments of prophets' pennies,
saviors in the center of gravity cinching the flinching surfacing in proverbs proofing
along the borders of the desserts chilling in the kitchen of your cares,
Maybe in front of the Wailing Wall you'd find dust entreating you to become a martyr
for the charm of morning, on your knees amid the Caaba perhaps sand jinies will jest,
in the midst of the tree grip of Angkor Watt the tongue of first life might muse of miracles
sewn into the sackcloth of parents' aspirations, conceptions wrought from the wanted,
take it to the sky, take it to the soil, take it to the core, let saints keep score,
take it 'till there is no more -
J.A.B. %