Long Mastery Poems
Long Mastery Poems. Below are the most popular long Mastery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mastery poems by poem length and keyword.
you were larger than life
love maker
norm breaker
praise taker
soul shaker
what happened to you?
epic embodied were you
every word: a spell, a hue
made make believe come true
ancient lore, you made new
heart happenings you drew
what happened to you?
thoughts thundering line on line
a mix of ordinary slash divine
transforming tedious to sublime
redefining reason and rhyme
what happened to you?
did your creative flow go slow?
is there more to it than you show?
heart lost where quill cannot go
heaven birthed now caged below
what happened to you?
Break the silent soliliquy
share stream of thoughts with me
give the words written mastery
remember reigning history
Victory was your entity
what happened to you?
Write! let your soul grind
crush out that apathetic bind
leave your misdemeanor behind
mistakes aren't seen by the blind
love makes enemies kind
forget you're confined
find the poems hiding in your mind
what happened to you?
explore, soar, and then pour
that essence of your soul, more
better even than before
so much you have in store
poetry galore!
what happened to you?
Oh...WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?
your quill is now still
yet I'm here for refill
succumb to your skill
feed this ache, use the quill
let the genius spill
I need that thrill
what happened to you?
Listen,
Don't let what happened to you
be this silence, this adieu!
I really cannot reason why,
maybe because I’m thick,
if poetry is not in rhyme
my mind won’t make it click.
I start to read a poets work,
sublime when it’s in rhyme
but if it’s not, alas, I find
I struggle every time.
It isn’t there’s no beauty there
the subjects are divine,
such mastery of woven words
immersed in every line.
Occasionally it captures me
while on it’s theme I dine
and at these times I realise
not everything must rhyme.
I struggle on in my dismay
and read just what I can,
if only I could break my mould
I’d be a better man.
The poets who admire my work
and comment it is fine
must wonder why I don’t respond
unless ‘they’ write in rhyme.
I know I do occasionally
when lifted by their words
but I would like to all the time,
this mental block’s absurd.
So may I thank you everyone
who reads and takes the time
to comment on a selfish sod
who only writes in rhyme.
Ivor G Davies
MIDNIGHT’S BLUE DRESS
Midnight’s blue dress -
modem of her physique,
molded immodestly,
married to monumental
destiny of desires,
elongated as if clinging
to an Amazon warrior.
Blue dress props up
her spectacular breasts,
high and mighty, tinged
with reckless success.
Mortification of the madonna.
Fabrication fraught
with embellishments,
bells and whistles of gold
stitched like chains
into the hem she must wear
in eternity’s flamboyant furnace.
Ferociously blue, lips tremble
and pout, pretending to bleed.
The triple X dress sways
in ebb and flow of the mastery sea,
blowing holes in seasoned captains
who dread the siren’s revenge.
Presidents and dictators fall
at her knees, sliding their beggaries
over velvety weave, thoughtless
to her treachery - they make believe.
Midnight’s blue dress invitation
squashes them all, as
she looks on from the cliff
where eagles ogle their prey.
Ejaculators* best blindfolded as dusk calls.
12/28/2019
Blue Dress Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
*other than the obvious meaning - to utter suddenly and vehemently
I feel her wake, and I quake
Afraid...I'll make the same mistake
For goodness sake
My hands....
how they shake
I hear her low moan, and I groan
She'll rise from where she's been thrown
I'm not alone...never alone
I can't atone
for deeds she has sown
She is so real...her power...I feel
As I reel
she makes me kneel
No, mercy...she won't cut a deal
My breath of life...she'll steal
Sedated....
I try to keep her sedated
Her desires bated
Her wanton whims weighted
The prey she wants....crated
I need her to be....
dated
But...it is always the same fight in the night
Her insatiable delight
burns through her superwoman might
It’s not right...it's not right!!
I'm lost in this plight
And so....I give in
I let her win
She’s my weakness, my sin
She unbares my skin
Laughs above the din
My right and wrong in a spin
I smile...
I smile...HER sultry grin
Tonight, she would not be sedated
And her prey, she neatly bated
Her desire, swiftly sated
His heart, with her blood nails, grated
It was fated
Fated
So....complicated
She has the control
Of my body and soul…
Destruction, her goal
Buried...in this black hole
She keeps me....
Sedated
Eileen Manassian Ghali
This is a poem about a woman struggling to keep her inner longings at bay....It uses personification....the SHE....is a symbol of the sin that struggles in the woman for mastery. It is not a poem about a man and woman though when SIN has its way....men are the casualty.
My needs are fundamentally
greater
than any man can provide
whatever mankind
lost in the garden
left a hollow place inside
there is only one thing
that can fill it
but of that knowledge Satan lied
that our lack of love
and kindness
and of truth within has died
one man gained
the mastery
he has been appointed as our guide
in him lays the understanding
and where Gods wisdom
does reside
If you but will submit to him
he will all things you need provide
and all those who
are loving truth
will be taking up his side
do not be using self deciet
from him your thoughts
you cannot hide
everything you will ever need
to live forever
he has supplied
for mankind has philosophy tested
and every government has tried
broken every existing moral law
and his ingenuity has become his pride
but God gave us
his loyal Son
who over mankind will preside
those who have overcome
the ways of death
and upon his instruction have relied
to his embrace and to his house
he will take up as his Bride
Apocalypse chapters 2-3
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Rumoured to conduce a mine shaft abandoned
Reserve behind rural residential too steep to traverse
Sacred scope gazes at Gold Coast Grand Canyon
Struggle's reward - rugged mountain slope reimburse
Pull surges me along across rubble, rollerskate
Pursuit is overcome as corpse, nestle needs in casket
Ravine ripples rise in ellipse repeat reciprocate
Feathery ferns fed by felled black stump escarpment
Each easy attempt equates to triumph
Cognitive storage organise strong carpentry
Problems tandem with answers turn up
Every earnest try results in Taj Mahal mastery
Sovereign track conquest, ocean span colossal
Steeple reaches quiet, my climbing mind inseminates
Forest folds me into sheltered shaft, stone fossil
Grey gum coliseum deposits amber sap permanence
Sixth of May
Sacred Place
Once is never quite enough,
Once again feels more like trust.
Once more, close to sure—
Eat, has eaten, ate, will eat—
Breath itself repeats,
A ritual done compulsively,
Yet never fully satisfied.
Like tasting twice, the second time charms,
Knowledge grows through shifting views,
Education’s pulse is repetition’s arms.
Sometimes, a new truth breaks through,
But the next generation—
History rewritten, old made new.
To learn just once is perilous, my friend,
To keep vital truths alive,
Stay curious, hungry—for what you think you know,
It’s not fresh facts, but the rhythm that thrives.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse—
Not enough, I seek a retake,
To still the mind’s restless whispering.
At its core, the brain’s a tireless gossip,
Finding joy in repetition’s simple act,
Without it, a vacuum swells with doubt,
So we repeat—to anchor, to trust, to act.
Your choice my committee said. But not human, Bo added.
Bo is the head, and the most eager spiritual guide to get me to level yes.
Bo can get re-assigned when I hit mastery.
When he first undertook project me he said we have all the time in the world. Ha!
If you think heaven is complicated, wait until you have to choose your re-assignment.
Re-entry? No problem. Family choosing, another story.
Why not human? I asked Bo.
You have mastered the human level, he reminded me.
The others threw back their heads and laughed.
They did not think so, but Bo is incredibly persuasive, and he persuaded them that I had.
They knew they had been half-duped, but they liked Bo and me, and they wanted to move on.
There are only six levels to master after human, Bo reminded me. But you get to decide
Your own order. You have fifteen minutes to decide.
Apparently the committee had another recruit arriving soon.
I choose dog, I told them.
Dog sometimes does not last past puppy, Angel Six reminded me.
Angel Seven gave him a squelching look which is rare in heaven.
My only other choices were bunny, cat, deer, eagle, and dolphin.
Bunnies are often coyote food; I am haughty enough already, so cat was out.
I despise the idea of spreading lime disease, so not deer.
Flying appeals to me, but I do not feel mature enough to handle a beak yet.
Crumb! I meant to say dolphin. I turned to see if I could change it, but they had dissipated.
With any luck this reincarnation will not last half as long as the last one where I lived to be ninety-two.
Inheriting awful army from his father,
Alexander became his life-script’s author;
Schooled by best of philosophers in history,
Gaining in all arts sky-high mastery;
At the slaughter of his father by an enemy,
In a wedding of the very royal family;
Murdering many to capture his power,
Fighting wars with half-mother and sister;
Suppressing many a mighty revolt,
To tribes, states and kingdoms putting a bolt;
Confronted by Persians and nearly got killed,
Won laurels, fighting and much blood spilled;
Encountering Darius for his kingdom great,
Getting him, amidst all odds; deciding his fate;
Disillusioned by a simple sage of India,
On his expedition toward annexation mania;
Fighting against Porus, king of Pauravas,
Turning back at the insistence of army, anxious;
Establishing an empire by great breakthrough,
Yet, leaving it at a youthful age of mere thirty two;
Who could imagine of the collapse of his kingdom,
At his death, as though a natural martyrdom…?
Entire life spent in capturing them inch by inch,
How one might guess every inch has its flinch?
Yet to me, his life was not a bundle of victory or loses,
Isn’t success and failure part of Pandora boxes?
He ate; he drank; like true king he fought battles,
He ran his life through plains and hills and stumbles;
He craved for land; this he considerably captured,
Though, ultimately, six feet was all that he needed…!
06 December 2021
I believe prayer is a messenger
and Heaven hearkens to take note –
for we are born with a Cardinal Yoke:
the Garden's Fruits revisited
throughout our ripening ages – God's Grace
confounded by the Devil's enticing
cloak....
I know that science rejects such mystery
as do atheists with whom I have spoke
their finely ground lenses
seeing no reflective evidence
of those jewels
called Spiritual Mastery
while embracing the
many mental gymnastics
of an equally obscure
but fashionable
Modern Woke –
penning their Earth Religions
inhaling copious clouds
of seemingly far less mystical
while to me
nonetheless
SMOKE....