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.
I know you are a champion
You have conquered fields and won crowns
You have been carried up by crowds
Walked on deserts,
Touched your tongue on burning coal
And eaten hot pepper, bare
Been happy and you’ve frowned
Been lost and found
You have flown above clear skies
Had clouds singing, calling you out
You have swum, you have drowned
I have no single doubt
That you have dined with men so profound
You have touched greatness with your bare hands
Sung songs only angels could sing
I know the paths you have walked
That your back has wings
You have eaten with kings
Rubbed shoulders with mighty human beings
Your words…your words are living things
You swallowed wisdom alive
And you, you have thrived
That God knows your name
Only one thing you haven’t done in your entire life
To die
But do not be fooled
You can still be taught
Lied to, even killed
There are paths you are yet to step with your feet
Foods you are yet to eat
A God you are yet to meet
Places you are yet to sit
Dark corners in your heart, yet to be lit
And a past you can never delete
There are trees you are yet to see
Love you are yet to feel
A being you are yet to be
A heaven… you are yet to enter
You can still be told
So while you can, listen
Be gentle, be bold
There’s a lot of life cooking in your kitchen
To this world do not be sold
And fathom
A soft heart never grows old, only big
And the only way to be big
Is by being small
Be the meekest bird in your flock
But most of all
Just be a child…
©Ayiro
The Complaints Of Ducks
the city
filled in
the small
pond
in the middle
of my tiny
poem.
all the ducks
came to
my door
and complained
i am
simple
i agree
in the meekest
of language.
that they
have been
unhomed.
it is
my duty
they tell
me as a poet
to open
the door
of my
small poem
and let
them swim
in my bathtub.
i agree
it is tough
to be unhomed
there should
be plenty of room
in my weensy poem
for such
a small flock
of fluffy ducks.
the periods
are silent
because
they must know
something.
the ducks
fill up my
bathtub
as they quack
double sestina
to the pond
that has been
filled by those
unfeeling humans!
it is
hard to work
in such cacophony
such repetitive
quacking repetition
words
like floating wood
float to the surface
of my eye-ear
in spades.
often i type
my meager haikus
on my typewriter
with missing
chrome keys:
typewriter chrome keys flutter cure
clear water within pond flows pure
ducks like ink letters rise into line.
no
says my
inward-sparrow:
“that is an englyn milwr
not a haiku”
bless
you sparrow
i tried again:
typewriter keys clatter
rises like letters in moonlight
ducks swim on round poem.
Then the tiny bell
vibes
as my typewriter
comes to the margins
and quacking subsides.
The ducks come
to my study
and complain
that my typing
is quite distracting
to their
swimming.
The periods
can only chuckle
like crickets.
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!
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 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.
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
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?
Forever Lost Within Her Evil Dreams
Life raced on merrily away, as it should:
Heartache, grief and rejected love ran
Forever striking all the dreamers it could,
shaken and shocked lay the sad heart of man.
This world, rages and breaks the weakest:
Looking for souls to cut and break
Found first are the soft and the meekest,
nightmares burning all at the stake.
Dark nights, she enters to dare tempt:
A vixen built to heart so swell
Hidden quite well her hate and contempt,
And sins she brings straight from Hell.
She, darkness coming as a heated flame:
With lies splashing in her streams
When embraced one forgets even their name,
Forever lost within her evil dreams!
Life raced on merrily away, as it should:
Heartache, grief and rejected love ran
Forever striking all the dreamers it could,
shaken and shocked lay the sad heart of man.
R.J. Lindley
Nov. 22nd 1991
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
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.