Long Masse Poems
Long Masse Poems. Below are the most popular long Masse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Masse poems by poem length and keyword.
Note: "How can there have been such strife in a Morlde` filled with beautiful Music; &
how could there have been beautiful Music such in a Morlde` filled with strife?" -Soupy
Sales, 2012.
The 12 Panes Of Christmas:
_____________________________________________________________________________
___
- XMAS' RADOTER -
Yule be Xmas
afore ye know
the pag'an go
for patterned
stamped snowflakes
'bove the
Andy Williams' Shows
DVD Stufftaculate CD,
Away, In A Manger For The Happy Employees,
drivelings (no place like) home
for the Hollydayease
in
a Ford Barricade & SUG Thirsty,
Nay, the new GM Bailout.
Suffer
the little Children
new bornes, infants
what nary see
but a Semi-Claus
ere
semiclaws,
tithes for the celibre-cause craws.
Remembrances
to things past-past, of
natal assemblies
en callow chorale masse
gone
Proustikipped,
to mortitorium's
N'well
& stockings filled
with
the chimney's cold care
yet in hopes
das Geheimnis Viktoria
would
somehow brassiere...
rout despair
the Tree hovers
Cabbage Patch? Nay!,
but the oft'splayed
Perry Como - You Win!,
Get to poke Golgotha pins -
WakeUp, boorros!
Bing-Bing!
WakeUp!, Jokers
to the St. Jack Nihilis...
but ya wanna
bat 'n ball this 'round?
You a'ready donned Santa,
with a semi-
Dear G*d,
(Walsch also asked)
How're You doin' It, &
Your Son?...Tarnished
proof weighdown here, filled
with
vanilla, frozen grins &
Joyburdened smiles...
'neath
pattern-stamped snowflakes &
piney Glade heads
afore the marshed desert
Koyaanisqatsi
Like yearlings'
trotted-out
Saviormusic
whilst the other 333
like
666 -
doubled for toil 'n trouble -
employed
to savaging
One, many, or 'nother...
Christmas partidges'
riffeled feathers family?
pared, unprepaired,
Indeed, vouchsafed
an enemy sans name
on
a horse with no name, save
Internecine
AmeriKa.
For
A kiss 'neath
the mistlesilo
whilst acaroling
of the Bedlamites
(Acts, II: 2-6),
the Psalming 100?,
Screeching
like sleds in pit gravel to
the Silent Night
HeyMen!
There lies
an evergrander Light
at the Dawn, but
Hey!,
who's gonna
tear-away
from
Yawnni,
& the extra-Vaganza
of
Truth?
H.e.m.
12.13.MMviii.
(ST)
AND THE MOTHERS WEEP
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
A young lanky sod buster with no place to go
Thought things would be better in San Antonio
Joined some of his Texas patriots at the Alamo
To declare freedom from a tyrannical foe
He and his friends were all destined to die
All slain. Giving rise to a sacred battle cry
“Remember the Alamo”
The fathers swear, and the mothers weep
A bright young man with a future to share
Awoke one cold morning at Ypres, over there
Fixed bayonets, following orders to prepare
Innocent of the burdens they will bear
Existing the muddy trench, charging en masse
They all succumbed, victims of mustard gas
“It’s a long way to Tipperary”
The fathers curse, and the mothers weep
A recent collegian learned to aviate
Totally innocent of the awaiting fate
Sailed into the pacific on the USS Enterprise
Trap is set, catch the enemy by surprise
Torpedo squadron raced to the scene that day
No members of the squadron survived “Midway”
“Lets Remember Pearl Harbor”
The fathers wrathful, and the mothers weep
A day in June the world arose to a horrific hell
Invaders from the north crossed 38th parallel
The lightning attack caught the south asleep
The slaughter was constant, the invasion deep
Pusan, the stronghold that stopped the attack
The price paid for by 58,000 that never came back
“Not War, a Police Action”
The fathers enraged, and the mothers weep
Mothers weep (2)
Moist and dense jungles, once known as Indo-China
The tragic battlefield producing murderous drama
58,000 paid the price, more than half million deployed
Napalm burned villages, ancient temples destroyed
Saigon once called the Paris of the orient
The Hanoi Hilton’s prisoners now absent
“Hell no, I won’t go”
The fathers bitter, and the mothers weep
Erect a stele to all women in a public place
On it etch the painful notices they may face
It will be a warning for those yet unborn
The unending years, that they will mourn
The fathers filled with vengeful cries
Seek retribution with watery eyes
The mothers turn and toss unable to sleep
And the mothers weep, and the mothers weep
The enemy has young men they want to keep
And the mothers weep, and the mothers weep
Christmas is more than December
It is so much more than I can remember,
So why does the season begin in the summer
When it’s not the time to purchase the plunder?
I have no reason to be early for the season
When the man in the suit arrives in the rain
And the kids begin to moan, give mum and dad pain;
If Christmas comes but once a year,
How can I honestly be of good cheer
The whole year round, when all I see are falling tears,
When the time to care for all disappears;
I have no reason to stop and stare
When the kids and the elves are flying through air
And the only words I hear are, how much for a pair?
Why do we celebrate just once a year?
For Christmas should be a time with no fear
And the festivity should be every day with no tears,
When all the gifts in the world try to compare
That nothing really gets folk to care
When the suited man and his elves are riding high
The only gift comes from above, as angels fill the sky;
If Christmas came every day, it would be easy to love;
But while it only arrives in December
It should be easy for all to remember
That Christmas begins in the heart;
For the Christ was born, lived and grew, becoming part
Of the history of us, and living after his death
When the rebirth became a gift to the heart;
We can celebrate Christ’s birth at Christmas
With friends and family together en masse;
To push out the man in the suit and those elves
Will set hearts free and be great for the health!
So why not celebrate Christmas all year round
With love in our hearts, enough to surround
The world with the sense that Christ is found;
Christmas is more than December
It is so much more than I can remember,
So when the season begins in the heat of summer
Let’s share God’s love and declare the ember
Is fired up, and the light is born today
When the man in the suit arrives in the rain
We can send him away, and tell him again and again;
Christmas is the time to remember
That what we celebrate in December
Is the birth of the Christ, deep in the night
And the angels sing out the glad news;
Today and tomorrow, the birth of God’s morrow
Is good news for the whole year through
So celebrate this honest truth by wishing to all,
Christ’s Birthday greetings around the world.
At Rotterdam in Netherlands
I made plenty of window friends
I could reach out to them
whenever I missed my own
friends and near ones back home.
The window facing the South unfolded
the beautiful, enchanting river Masse.
Its simmering and quivering depths reflected
the multitudenal colours of historic city it nurses.
The bright sunny days with clear blue skies
Were often dotted with jets with gaseous, white, long tails
Criss crossing randomly in all directions
expressing the vastness of freedom and joy.
The golden setting sun
sprinkled the mature shades of
orange and red and yellow
in the reflective silver flows of the Masse,
slowly admitting its failure
to defreeze the lakes and snows around
and to warm up the cockles
of the easterlies which travel
far from Russia on a typical winter day,
before being engulfed by
dark and grey clouds at the horizon
like a surrendering fugitive.
The act of humbleness of the mighty sun
the only energy source of our universe
betrayed the celeberative mood of the city lights
which danced proudly on the flowing waters of Masse at night.
The frame of the window facing the North
helped me rendezvous with few more friends
the historic church there
stood in its monolithic glory
kissing the sky with its long Needle thin tower
its clock religiously reminding us
of the duties that we had to perform,
could not be missed by anyone.
Looking down at the street below
the empty red and yellow trams of RET
curled in sleepily into their shelter
at Strissenburgdwarsstrat
for a well deserved rest
after having served the varied commuters
of the city of Rotterdam.
Not too far in the distance
beyond the red brick and brown brick roofs
and amongst bare trees
I could also spot a wind mill,
its huge wings rotating leisurely
ever challenging the winds to come faster.
From either of the windows
I could let my imagination fly
and accompany the lovely
seabirds to limitless ends
the greyish white winged beauties
were enticed closer to me
when I opened the window panes
with crumbs of bread for them,
thrilling me with their aerobics.
When I came back home from there,
and met my native friends again
I started to miss all these new friends of Rotterdam.
RET: Rotterdam Electric Tram (Rotterdamse Elektrische Tram)
I once met a waiter in Berlin.
A tall man with blonde hair,
a long scar above his eye,
I knew his name only to be Jurgen.
Following coffee one fine day I asked this man,
“Do you know where I can go to find a splash of life?”
He replied with a smile,
“I'm sorry I'm not the best for that, perhaps you should speak to my wife.”
And with that he called over a very pretty lady,
as he summoned her he told me that her name was Sadie.
I looked at her and said,
“Oh my gosh miss but you are quite amazing...
please excuse me for my amount of gazing.”
She told me not to worry,
it was neither here nor there.
But that I should find my way to the edge of town,
practically to the brink of nowhere.
I looked at her confused and I said,
“What miss should I travel so far to see?”
She looked at Jurgen, then back my way, and simply said,
“I guess you'll just have to trust me.”
So I paid for my coffee,
then I started out.
Not knowing where I was going,
my head full of doubt.
I walked past the stores,
and the city shops.
I reached the country farms,
their lands brimming with crops.
I walked so far in fact my legs began to falter,
I cursed Sadie and her cryptic words
as I traveled halfway to Gibraltar.
Then just as the sun was about to tuck itself behind the horizon for this night,
I saw what I believed to be the most awe-inspiring sight.
Maybe it was the glister of her blue eyes against the stony mountains behind her en masse,
or perhaps it was the shade of her beautiful auburn hair atop the chartreuse grass.
Whatever it was I was smitten from the start.
I knew it to be true,
I knew it deep within my heart.
She smiled at me with all her warmth and said,
“Well hi there handsome, what brings you way out here?”
I said,
“You know, at first I wasn't sure, but now it's very clear.”
It's been twenty years since I married her,
that little splash of mine.
We moved to the city and I became a waiter,
not always,
but just from time to time.
Now on days when patrons ask me
just where should they begin.
I smile and say,
“It starts by speaking to my wife,
instead of drinking coffee in the cafes of Berlin.”
January 7, 2016
Perceptions of the world around us,
are shaped by what we’ve lost or found in the
dusts of membrance, trusts of memberment
busts of everEssentialEssences
bodies of discernment
In every person, there’s a story
A deep, complex and vivid glory
Some see beauty, some see pain
The same landscape, yet not the same pane
We view the world through coloured glass
And some may see a rose,
others thorns en masse
of briared walls
of no escape, of the impasse,
razored maws agape
Perceptions can be joyful or bleak
A kaleidoscope, that’s ever unique
We love, we hate, we laugh, we cry
Our emotions, reflections that lie beneath,
ripples of watery eye, the deep rings
of being a being
Yet, if we could just take a step back
And see with the eyes of a love we lack
Our perceptions might just change
And the world could be transformed
in brilliant range,
back to a pleasing view the eye feasts to see
In the end, it’s all we’ve got
Our feelings, perceptions, and our own plot
of coordinate directions aloft
So, let us cherish and embrace
The beauty and the love,
with no trace of hate and have it all,
instead of the have nots
For when we see beyond ourselves
And feel the pain of someone else
Our perceptions broaden wide and far
And love can heal the deepest scars
So let us walk with open hearts
And see the beauty in all parts
For in this world of joy and strife
We all deserve to live a life-
Where love and kindness reign supreme
And hopes and dreams can always gleam
Let's shift our perceptions, just a bit
And make this world a brighter, better fit,
for a better place for dreams
self proclaimed er calculating polymath
no win tent to kindle,
or spark hay8 full ire rate wrath
juiced whiling away
the early evening hour hath
horror hived this february
twenty second, nah scared to take a bath.
The Process (is a Process All Its Own)
eye up ply applies
to brain storming with zest to whit
barn storming across das plains of google
to pitchfork embers tuff flickr tinder lee
with smart poetic dip pose zit
tool loom hen ate interior darkness
where lurks the monstrous akin to Perdido
otherwise known as perdition,
especially Native American
linkedin as The Buffalo Hunter
pseudonym adopted by Ballard and Sandrine,
The Green Woman, whose Side predicted to win
Pork Pie Hat predicated on FengShui yang and yin
force fields property aligned creates A Special Place
predominantly filled with A Dark Matter
only known (bee you wick), i.e.,The Skylark
and of course Poe's Children, totaling 5 Stories
helpful to down with a chaser
viz - The Little Blue Book Of Rose Stories
Ideally red (red) in The Night Room,
where an unsuspected parvenu
absconded with Lost Boy, Lost Girl
housing Magic Terror, but interestingly
one must ask - Isn't It Romantic?
Via the perspective Looking Back
feigning to be combination of Mr. X, and/or
and Mrs. God innocent looking people
yet, the progenitors of The Hellfire Club
burnt offerings indistinguishable from Blue Rose
fragrance or melancholy Ghosts
resembling trumpeting Floating Dragon
invoking grabbing by The Throat sensation
Where spirits flit to and fro
throughout neighborhood Houses Without Doors
and games without frontiers
this...a millennial Mystery
unlike the generic Ghost Story,
the main anti protagonist and/or
pro antagonist, nonetheless named Koko
who calls The Juniper Tree home
especially eerie Under Venus
provoking Wild Animals
to run berserk at lightspeed
en masse Black Sabbath
bestirs cries and whispers
proto, pseudo psychedelic
quint essence ova thermocouple
holo graphic images hypnotizing vista as Shadowland
explicit formula generating happy interacial Marriages
nah...ha - ah, the joe cuz on ewe
especially, If You Could See Me Now!
A madman pushed me off the track, lucky not much harm
I sat in the Hospital waiting room with just a broken arm.
They handed me a form to fill, 20 genders, 10 types of race -
I tore the sheet with my good arm and walked out of that place.
I walked past a park, a man dropped a syringe, gave me a stare
I walked past a crazy woman preaching to the air.
I walked past teens speaking to their phones but not each other.
Saw expressions I couldn’t read - an enemy or a brother?
I remembered the in-crowd whose moral sight was blind
I wanted to leave their dubious fads behind
I walked past the demonstrators, their justice leads to blood:
We may need a Noah's ark from the oncoming flood.
I walked along the Palisades, the river on my right.
I perked up because the old roads, the boat basins came in sight.
I jogged on the Long Path, crossing Bergen County, then Rockland too.
Turned inland and ended up in a children's petting zoo.
There were the black hats - Jews of a Hasidic sect.
I spoke with one woman; she looked at me with undeserved respect.
It was a change from the jaded people I often met
Wondered what the secret was, is a religious way correct?
Those Jews might not surf the internet, they might not watch TV.
And when they move en masse into a town they spark animosity.
But what struck me there was something clean and true.
As she pointed out the exotics in that petting zoo.
Since then I've been to Lancaster, where the Amish live an older way
That lifestyle has its drawbacks too, there are always shades of gray.
I've visited Salt Lake, where Mormons spurn drugs for recreation
A visitor described them as the handsomest in the nation.
I like my way of life, but other ways make me think
Do we really need social media, or drugs, an evening drink?
Would we be better people, if some things we didn't know?
Should we stand against the current, or go with culture's flow?
Do we really need the likes, the scroll that never ends?
Can we stop and read a while, or try to make real friends?
Can we set anchor in a place where lies don’t get through?
Can we cure our sick republic, retain what’s proven true?
On the anvil that’s the dorp
The noon-day sun beats down.
So between twelve and two
Life in the place is suspended.
Doors to the stores are ‘toe’
And in their dusty windows cheap
Mannequins sleep with open eyes.
The air is still and heavy.
So in the sparse foliage
Of small pepper trees
Feathered creatures perch,
With beaks agape,
And wings spread wide,
Trying to beat the heat.
At the door to the bar
Of the ‘Royal’ Hotel,
In a sliver of shade,
A mastiff lies panting.
Inside the trade is slow.
Manne on barstools
Nurse brandy-and-coke.
House windows are closed.
In the darkened interiors,
Hidden from sight by
Slatted wooden shutters,
People flop on chairs,
Avoid all movement, in
Attempts to beat the heat.
At two a slight sputter of life.
It is ‘government’ employees
Returning to work.
The magistrate and two clerks
Dawdle back to the court.
The post-master and staff
Re-enter the GPO.
It’s still quiet at the ‘Royal’ Hotel.
With no shoppers the doors
Of the stores remain closed.
Under the shade of pepper trees,
Outside the shuttered Co-op,
And alongside the ‘Prokureur’s,
A bakkie and tractor are parked.
The ‘garage’ is deserted
Save for its two Caltex pumps.
From all sun-baked surfaces.
Hot, dry, and dusty air rises.
So every now and then
The wind-pump in my yard
Creaks as it turns a little.
In school classrooms
Pupils slump on desks.
Teachers no longer teach;
“Lees jul voorgeskrewe boek.”
Two-thirty! At last!
The school-day’s over
And also the worst of the heat.
Now en masse
Pupils scurry out,
Head for home, then
After something to eat
It’s back for athletics
On a grass-free track, or
Tennis on concrete courts.
Eventually the glowering sun
Sends streaks of colour
Across the western sky
As it slowly dips out of sight.
Then when twilight is over
The moon is bright and bathes
The town in silvery hues.
By nine o’clock
It’s cool and still
Save for the flutter of moths
Around the outside lights.
And I lie on a bed
Outside on the stoep
With my dog at my feet.
At high noontime, the tires are burning in the streets
The sound of barking dogs is everywhere; the cats of hell smell
Like never showered rats who are locked up in death row cells
Where the air does not go through sealed windows
No, my friends, I'm not dreaming; it’s a nightmare. The sun
Is warming the pavement and the worms are coming out
En masse. The ravines are crowded with small children
That I could never imagined or seen with clear and open eyes
From such a bizarre, awkward, frantic and satanic scene
They’re talking about revolution, that sounds spooky and crazy
Because we must talk about kindness, evolution, education
Before contemplating such a magical or drastic motion
Everything is aflame. The palace is on fire and the buildings
Are red, inflamed. Oh! Yes, it is a total and capital fiasco
All of this is to show the wickedness of the vile jackals
The wild beasts which enjoy killing daughters and sons
At noon, in daylight, the malefactors have no shame to hate
Loot and burn everything they could neither imagined, nor created
And built. These werewolves come from nowhere, from the wars
Of hell, we wonder. We only know that we can't afford to live where
Vile and wild animals can easily seize the streets manu militari
For any new extenuating excuses, pretexts or fabricated reasons
Where are the technocrats and the intellectuals of the past?
A thin and weak voice coming from nowhere replied cowardly:
They are all hidden or incarcerated in coffers infested with lice
This explains why the werewolves are waltzing in the dusty streets
In mid-afternoon where high priests and high pastors walk on bridges
In ruins and normal toddlers no longer go to church. How awful, the pigs
Are well dressed, during the rainstorm, where the contaminated air
Escapes and embalms the disconcertedly distressed firmament
What misery for a group of goons who are equally surly and jubilant!
Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
This is a translation of the poem 'La Valse Des Loups-Garous'
by Hébert Logerie