Long Master(a) Poems
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Forgotten Heroes
“Forgotten Heroes.” Repeated Master Satan.
Yes. Soldiers. Warriors. Hmm. Forgotten lives.
“Forgotten lives.” Yes, these men are deleted.
“Deleted.” Yes. Nobody remembers them. Hmm.
Why do you say this? Because I saw their graves.
“What did you see?” A weedy cemetery. It was sad.
I found a grave. He was twenty-one. In the year 1943.
Passed away. “Passed far.” He was a fighter pilot.
And I saw a little memorial plaque on his tomb.
“Text?” Rosie Mary. His mom. She lived more.
Died after his son's death. Forty years difference.
Poor Mary. I felt very sorry for them. Oh, souls!
This is a very shocking story. Yes. It is that.
There is a Lidl. Ten minutes walk. I bought flowers.
“To them.” Yes. Oh, sad lives. Sad. Says, my heart.
“Says my heart too.” Oh, Master, a cemetery is history.
I found another dramatic fate. Oh, God, where is love?
More deeply. Yes. "Please keep it in mind. Later write."
Hmm.
“Good night.”
There is a stillness after the raging
storm, a quiet only disturbed by birds'
songs; so many joyful sounds now heard
the coos, caws, and chirping none lagging
Solid clouds still amassed, no zigzagging
from lightning flash, just gentle Hummingbirds'
songs heard and windchimes' music undergird
Is the Master a different scene staging ?
Yes, His plans will soon be in motion set.
This planet is facing changes unseen
before; the angels very soon will no
more hold the wind's destructive force_ and yet
Will He soon to earth come His own to glean?
His own He'll claim I know; then winds let go
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Contest: Miltonic Sonnet
Written: May 01, 2014
#You_need_not!
Sometimes you need not to shout to be heard
let the work of your hands make all the right noises,
sometimes you need not to master a bible to be a peace maker but to just have a good heart
You need not to own a gun to be muderer
but just to be at a wrong place at a wrong time,
with wrong emotions,
sometimes you need not eyes to see but your conscious to direct you,
you need not wealth to make all the differences but just your time and a listening ear
You need not a 2nd person to make you happy but just to acknowledge the person you are,
you need not to be tapped in the back to know that you are the best
but just be appreciative of your capabilities
You need not
#Poetic_Ink
Not a cruel master; a humble assistant;
To visit or not, cannot be done by his choice.
Always carries a portfolio under his arm,
A pre designed schedule saying when and where to attend.
He comes not, though invited; uninvited, stops not coming.
Sometimes comes like an unconventional rain.
He is the mark of beginning and ending of life.
But how unlucky he is!
Always listens to no other emotions except mourning.
Silently tolerates all curses showered.
His job is endless.
No single applause for him.
Perhaps, in Nature
The one and only who is
Blamed for his utmost promptness
Let's Mix It Up Poetry Contest
Verse poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Date: 18-10-2021.
Placed : 3rd
The puppet master, a master indeed
Control becomes his greatest need
When first with charm, he lures you in
And then he gives it all a spin
Now in his power you feel trapped
Your energy ever steadily sapped
You know not what to do our say
You are confused in every way
The master keeps you on your toes
He tugs and pulls that’s how it goes
Poor you, you never did foresee
That this would ever come to be
A quandary you’re in for sure
A plight that begs for a speedy cure
You hate the dance you’re forced do
You can’t belief that this is you
But like a moth who loved the flame
You knew not how to play the game.
Wendy Nipas
Solitude, blissful, happiness we can't buy
Attitude lacadescal, as we attempt to master a skill
An emotion , A gift
A scientist's potion without an hypothesis
Mother nature never takes from the poor my friend
But i cant seem to close the door to hell
Maybe because i lack the intelligence
It's all manufactured as sharp as a bevel edge
Consumers cry out for something new to pull off the self
Business men tamper with the known outcome we call tragedies
I wonder why?
But still we sell the truth and buy the lie
As the Ashakic records reflect
Atlantis once had it right
A power from a crystal that once lit a whole city at night
And that ancient wisdom is said to be buried under the Spinx
The Father of Terror
A King that still Reigns
So to speak he still applies his trade
Form:
Solitude
Solitude
Also a life
My life
Solitude
Existence
It’s my life
Solitude, Suffering
Lost life, Death
My life is death
Master: No. You aren’t the Death
Vilmos: Why do you say this, my dear Master,
my dear Satan?
Master: Because you can’t die.
Vilmos: Am I incapable of dying?
Master: Vilmos, I can’t die.
It’s not possible.
Vilmos: Why?
Master: Because you are mine.
You are mine.
Your life is mine.
Vilmos: Thank you my new life.
Master: I chose you.
Vilmos: Oh, my Master, a famous poet is watching me from the wall of my room.
Master: I’ll send him the barrel of Amontillado.
Vilmos: Master, come here, come here.
Master: Later. The wine bottle is empty.
Vilmos: Oh, Sorry Master! I’ll bring a new one.
Master: Go.
Vilmos: Master, I just came back. I just brought cider.
Master: That’s great! Let’s drink!
Vilmos: Cheers, Master!
Master: Vilmos, stop talking now. Finish this conversation.
Write a poem to your only love.
Vilmos: I do it now, oh, my Satan!
Master: Thank you, my student. Use your style.
Oh, my love, my only love, my forever love
Please, please forget my life
Forget my life. You have no that
I love you.
I love you.
I loved you.
I needed you.
I wanted you.
I don’t follow you
Don’t follow me
I love you
I loved you
I lost my life
I didn’t get your life
I didn’t get your life
I didn’t get your life
I loved your life
I loved your life
I needed your life
I needed our life
You killed our life
You killed us
You killed our children
You killed my
I love you, I love you
I kill you, I kill you
I need you, I need you
I want you, I want you
I have no life
You are missing
You are missing
Empty my life
Emma, I can’t forget you
Emma, I love you
I want your death
I am doing black magic
Master: Vilmos, stop now.
Vilmos: Why?
Master: Don’t talk about your magic.
Vilmos: I want her dead.
Master: Is that right?
Vilmos: I want her dead to save her life.
Master: You will get another woman.
Vilmos: Thank you.
Master: I will choose her for you.
Vilmos: Please. I am not a misogynist.
Master: I know. You are the same as me.
Vilmos: Yeah.
Oh, Master!
Oh, Vilmos!
I am the whisper, subtle and unseen,
A shadow stretching, where goodness has been.
I build my castles on shifting sand,
Demanding tribute from every hand,
A silent monument to what I crave,
A selfish master, a gilded grave.
I stand apart, though surrounded close,
Consumed by self, in the seeds I sow.
We are the bronze-shod feet that do not tire,
The hollow boast that sets the plain on fire;
We crave the field where every loss is gain,
And drink the bitter vintage of the rain.
We are the thirst that no peace can appease,
The roaring mouths that strip the olive trees,
And watch the cities dwindle to a name,
All for the mirrored glory of our flame.
But notice the sunbeam, a delicate gleam,
Piercing the darkness, a hopeful, soft stream.
For even the deepest of shadows can cease,
When the light of awareness brings solace and peace.
The garden can flourish, the ego can cease its reign,
And the self finds connection, again and again.