Long Meekest Poems
Long Meekest Poems. Below are the most popular long Meekest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Meekest poems by poem length and keyword.
the will of the pen knows no bounds
but limited to the will of the writers hand
like the tone of a melody without sound
waiting for the cue from the band
the face of a painting has no features
except those the artist wishes to convey
as the student of life has no teachers
except those one wishes to obey
the mind of the artist knows no justice
except the judgement delivered by the land
for the wrath of nature lusts in
the embrace of chaos' arms at hand
the scholar may quest for that which is forbidden
though the will of the body remains untamed
for the strength of the mind lay hidden
in a philosophers temple in a philosophers brain
the warriors will to fight for glory
strengthened through each land he drifts
yet the screams in his dreams and stories
tells him how much peace is a gift
as the pen of history continues to move
inviting prince time to take part in chance
the celestial bodies start to groove
on the universes stage in a cosmic dance
it is the meekest of men to quest for equality
as the soul of the universe aligns with the brute
yet in the eyes of the artist one is taught to see
when the warrior speaks peace, his lips numb mute
the will of chaos runs parallel to the universe
as does history to plasma in veins
for the gift of peace is mans biggest curse
in a world he quest to claim
The bastioned confidence of quarried pride
Conceived no ingress save by iron decree;
Yet vesper-dew, where noiseless graces bide,
Tutored the adamant to clemency,
Till lichened liturgies, by increments unseen,
Unthroned the obdurate from its sovereign mien.
The littoral catechised the granite's bone,
Not with assault, but sacramental wear;
Each undeciphered ripple, one by one,
Absolved the precipice of all its air,
As though the meekest ordinance of tide
Could loose what catapults had never tried.
Thereafter—vision trespassed into sense:
A child, ungarlanded by name or throne,
Inclined his silence with such innocence
That altitudes remembered they were sown;
The mountain, recollecting elder birth,
Relinquished all pre-eminence to earth.
Then every fortress, founded upon weight,
Began to expatriate its ancient claim;
The stars themselves postponed their sovereign state,
As though eternity had altered name;
And what no conflagration could dissever,
One feather of the Infinite undid for ever.
Marx and Spencer
Were I to tell you what I think of Spencer
(the middle-manager, without the “man”,
and vilest cockroach since the world began),
my poem would incense the meekest censor.
But when our hands in insurrection join,
we arm ourselves to take back what is ours,
red banners streaming from the highest towers,
my first clip’s going straight in Spencer’s groin.
Don’t tell me that we’re going to do it clean,
that revolution’s flawed unless it’s surgical.
Old Shakespeare knew (and why not get liturgical?)
let slip the dogs, you get mujahideen.
Drag Spencer out and bludgeon him to death.
Revenge, and not reform? I’ve seen Macbeth.
The Madonna looked less
than amused as she swayed
in time to the steps
of the six men who carried her
aloft down Hart Street
towards the river
and the waiting fleet.
This was no solemn affair
but a spectacle played out
to attract the favor
of a power moved by
pageantry and theatre.
No puritanical restraint
paraded here.
Crowds lined the way.
Half the number were Italians
who cheered and gave full throat
to their passions
and the pride in planting
a cutting of their culture
to root in the shores
of a new home.
This was the sixties.
Their infectious spill swamped
the normally staid order
of the working class precinct
and set something exciting loose.
The other half, local Anglo stock,
kept their distance and a firm grip
on exuberant display,
harboring approval within
the limits of a broad smile
and a self conscious clap.
Emotions were only let out
on Saturdays to support
the local football team
when even the meekest
could become rabid.
The Blessing of the Fleet
still plays out each year,
largely unchanged,
though kept afloat by increasingly
secular sentiments,
and sways its way through
a crowd now more a singular
chorus of noise and hard
to seperate. Fishing boats
festooned in flags blaze
triumphant under a bright
September sun.
Let me try to go by pioneering heroes' spirit
That motored their antique tides of phrase,
And treat rapt souls to a mild sublime ode,
Forged to rhyme with old sonneteers' pace.
Now where does a tottering novice start
As he pens such a crystalline work of art,
To honor champs in grave's dark repose,
And regale pupil protégés in equal dose?
Let me like Andrew Marvel swiftly pen
Authentic tropes to the best of my ken;
And as Shakespeare debug tart myths,
That wit eschews meekest wordsmiths.
And deal Wordsworth such fitting due
As meets his laudable classical styles;
And for Sidney weave echoing rhapsodies
That tell masked sagas via metered guiles.
I'll like Robert Frost's swiftly twined twists,
Blame melancholia for path-splitting mists.
There was a glorious star, shining,
Bright in the heavens, piercing.
It lit up the night sky, like lightning,
Showing upon a village sight, conceiving.
All was calm, even the bustle from that great day,
For travelers who sought out their homeland pilgrimage,
Were worn out from their travels, of so far away.
Even a couple of Nazareth, looking for a place to stay.
Not far, and up on a hill where the sheep graze,
Was found a curiosity by these shepherds, with heads raised.
What a sight they did see in these midnight skies.
What did this mean, this holy light to their eyes?
Then came another light from above,
Growing brighter, filling all with peace and holy love.
At which occurrence commenced angelic singing,
Bringing the shepherds joy, as they began kneeling.
Over in this village, though not known to those around,
Was the source of this miracle, who made not a sound.
The birth of The King, the Savior of worlds renown,
Unto us in a lowly manger, the meekest circumstances around.
The lost would be found, and the beggar, not turned down.
Many of the pure worship him, as the One True King.
He brings exaltation to all who follow Him, earnestly.
His is the only way, He saves, and brings peace.
He is our exemplar, glorious, and most excellent reward!
Come let us adore Him, Christ the Lord!
He brings us eternal life by His side!
Alleluia, for coming down, on our saving night!
Does your brain ask why
See if you think about it
Last night I smiled cause I could hear her snore
So what happened between then and well now
Are you in pain
Nope
We’re you stressing last night
That’s me asking me
Well nothing unusually
Maybe we dreamed something sad
Who said that
From the meekest of shadows one of my shallows steps forward
Sorry I gave the voices
Some malformed shapes
Anywhys
Like Sherlock solving Artie Morty and his devilish plans
What sadness did you dream of
Which time your heart was broke
No it wasn’t that type of sad
More like a loss sad of something never more
Telling tales of heart
I call it old sad
something soothing about this sad
Like a chill in feverish Knight
One of Arthur’s less well known nights
A familiar sad
It doesn’t blue the days of rest
A warm sad
Just in its gloom
I think I will leave it at that
Man’s intrinsic apathy's negligence-justified frown
Is the actual defining substance of a mortal clown;
Who with hollowed prejudgments fellow men slays,
And likens to hallowed duty his thoughtless decays.
He is evil's meekest martyr by doom's onus bound,
The cold-blooded outlaw donning dark's lucid veils;
His the bounden call to trim unwary lives that thrive,
His a sworn charge to hit to halt sea's merriest sails.
They're hell's happiest saints of true devoted cadre,
Obstinate desperados who without real reason hate;
Theirs rare glories for wanton vitriol by meanest fate
Met on innocent casualties of villainy's vicious adder.
What grand gratification fills world's cruelest hearts
That sting undeserving souls in most delicate parts?
Why do allegedly feeling minds grow numbest to cry,
Whilst their pleading victims in iron malevolence die?
How can life’s most cognitive kind find sweet preys,
In other creatures alike in mien and all visible ways?
When all the great songs
have already been sung
and every last bell
has finally rung
I pray it is then
when our hope from above
shall descend to the Earth
like the gentlest dove
When every last page
has been written in pen
by the wisest of sages
and the meekest of men
And they close up the books
with the very last line
Perhaps we will give
our Creator some time
When there is no turning
to the left or the right
And we must look up
lest we lose the fight
May the swords we are holding
be removed from our hands
Let the bloodshed be done with
and the armies disband
When men are just men
and not colors or flags
with no more distinction
from riches to rags
May we then come together
as brothers in blood
as we pull one another up
out of the mud
With never a battle
to be lost or won
Nothing more to be proven
under the sun
Let the light of God's love
all our hearts overtake
and our differences fade
for humanity's sake
When all chatter and clatter
distractions are still
by dint of the Almighty's
sovereign will
And all the grand deeds
of industry cease
Perhaps then this world
shall finally know peace
© Mike Wise
1-19-23