Long Merchant Poems
Long Merchant Poems. Below are the most popular long Merchant by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Merchant poems by poem length and keyword.
To myself to I, to God I asked
what nature of sample shall I give,
the tribute must be something, already possessed
and not a thing to be acquired or easily accessed,
what type of treasure, what placid pleasure,
what measure of scintillating success should be expressed,
many feelings, dealings, winnings and blessings I have
like the menificent merchant of an ageless & melancholy market,
however I am disinterested in the buying & selling of impressive items,
something of my core should be present, priceless, respirative,
multitudes give Deity thick thanks in pompous prayers
or grim graveling of worship,
others offer animal immolation or coin from shallow pocket,
as does everyone I experience the panic of pain,
that terrible teacher of no remorse whose curriculum
makes carion of cowards,
but as a student of Life and thus a pupil of pain
I realised that my mind can be a calm cistern,
my heart a coffer of adversity's copious rewards,
the determination is made,
my proudest possession, enlightenment derived from pain,
enchanting and admonishing like the howls of hungry beasts,
a gift of character, a jewel of dreams manifest,
God accepted and said,
" Someone, somewhere, somehow is suffering to better feats" -
J.A.B.
The psychology of the sun is strange...
The violinist's taupe
strapped sandals, color of beach
sand, burning, slap tiles
with embedded grime, like
the charred plaster walls of a Syrerian
merchant. Anytime...a fear:
bombs dropped, scarring
an isolated biped life.
Morning edges spill
light the tint of egg-
whites commixed with the yolk, brewing
the dream that souses
the intangable
permeation of the air;
imbued rose colors
of birth; or a prom's
carnation, white tinted blue
like the cottony sky
draped over the fringes
of liminal lives cast onto
the arcane stage
of a paralyzed
mortality. A need
of warmth for the flower,
the snug petals that breach
an infernal cut into
the animus in life.
A stygian gash
insufferable like a pompei
brain cooked into glass,
a fossil the tinct
of diabolical eyes. An
appollyn rises
to seize the sun's foxy
neutrino, more easily
snared than bombs.
February 29th, 2020
alternately titled: 207th leap year since 1582
the year Pope Gregory XIII world leader
(i.e. essentially paterfamilias among
Roman Catholic flock)
timely maneuvered around calendrical rock
and hard space implementing
viable system tracking years ad hoc
out of sync and lock
step by one day
with astronomical calendar,
slated more'n acceptable tick tock
off kilter around the year of 4818
after common era making mock
re: regarding mankind organizing and
witnessing global chockablock
Democratic celebratory anniversary party
millenniums after Republican dynastic deadlock
thoroughly walled imponderable gridlock
worse fate than quaffing hemlock
practically snuffing out lock, stock
and barrel constitutional birthrights
thirteen original American
founding fathers ghosts experiencing shock
how initial inalienable rights
activists sacrificing life and limb
united with linkedin armlock
said freedom fighters shackled
within crowded jail moldering cinderblock
cold upon hemorrhoid riddle buttock
diehard libertarians unified, pilloried, denounced
legion with repulsion as Shylock
purported, reputed, touted playwright
(William Shakespeare's sited anti semite
The Merchant Of Venice) doth mock
Judaism in vogue four hundred plus years ago,
smoldering think white supremacists i.e. skinheads
violently aiming to knock
non Caucasians upside the head
courtesy pistol whip,
and/or emptying gunstock
into human flesh disenfranchise scaring up
one after another racial and/or ethnic aftershock
aforementioned celebrated bard unwittingly
strictly opinion of me:silly poet -
despite hashtagged as laughingstock,
(plus vitriolic objection taken)
voiced by Shakespearean expert defenders,
yours truly reckons mine thought provoking
regarding storied, lauded, and feted Globe theater
literary King my interpretations not crock.
Do you think I can save all ships in distress?
How wrong you are! Times when I sorely pressed,
Times when my beacon was snuffed out of its glory.
Oh, I can tell you many an adventurous story,
Exciting exploits on the tumultuous and stormy seas
High waves span all around me, ugly with a heavy breeze.
Still, there’s one I would sincerely like to show,
Although it happened a long time ago.
The Greyhound had a young master, rich and mean,
And he dared cross the sea, oh what a scene.
The winds were high and the sky was overcast
Waves were high and terrible. The ship could not last.
Aboard the vessel, I saw the master of the merchant ship,
Carrying slaves and other goods, was a doomed deplorable trip.
Above the dim of wicked waves, clangs of iron I heard,
And screams intermixed with every offensive word.
The man drenched held to the mast, knelt and prayed
Let them be saved, he would renounce his trade.
Years passed and the man gladly his faith he did embrace.
He vowed he’d fight slavery with his “Amazing Grace”.
UP, The Revolution
Norway is a fascist state run by an elite
throws coins at people, keeping them calm
and access to the easy housing ladder.
It is the same people, whether to the left
or the right that runs through Norway, appointing
themselves lucrative ambassadorship say
In Sweden, we know how that ended
And there is the man Jageland, who has been
around since my time, still finding
There was a time when the merchant navy was
important, a seaman had to stay on his ship
for 1,5 years to get a free ticket home, late
Reduced to one year of sailing time
For many seamen, it became too much, with
divorce and psychological issues, and many drowned
in the restless sea of alcoholism
The survivors of this injustice get paid a miserly
low pension, they even have to pay tax while
The elite pay themselves millions
With the death of the famous pedophile, it
It's all coming too late, telling us Norway needs
a social revolution to bring justice
Somali Pirates prowl the Gulf of Aden
For merchant vessels with cargo laden
From the tenement rows of Puntland
Poor fishermen, ex-militia turned brigand
Now pledge fealty to the lucrative capitalist brand
Which polluted their waters and denuded their coast land
Fitted mercenaries scout the narrow strand
Booty and hostages from itinerant ships to remand
From mother ship, crafty navigators plot vessels' course
In speedy skiffs, armed with guile and every pliable resource
Stealthily stalk their prey gratuitous demands to enforce
Their mantra greed; ransom and loot their tour de force
Battering ram of rocket, grenade; calm hands from cargo to divorce
With hooks, ladder springing aboard, subduing crew with little discourse
Pilfering their bounty; enslaving the crew without remorse
I am the stranger who loves you in silence,
A merchant of echoes in the endless bazaar of nostalgia,
From the shadow where chicory flowers bow their heads to pray,
I whisper to you, sweetly clear and unheard.
I am the stranger hidden in the shadow of a reticent love,
Who kisses the pages of a dusty volume, filled with poems that would weep,
On evenings that sink into the dim light of a forgotten world,
Where I call upon the muse, in a late and solitary recital of yearning.
My gaze upon you, an unfinished poem of ardor,
With every passing moment, you become a string of divine pearls,
You let me drown in the sea of your remembrance,
Sailing on waves of longing and on the ship of dreams.
In this world, you are the untamed sonnet, and I—
The stranger who once knew the depth of your eyes,
Now, I cry out to you through an echoless abyss, unhinged,
I return to search for you, dreaming that maybe, maybe you will come to me, someday...
I am the stranger who loves you in a world of perfect illusions,
With a soul dancing upon the ruins of a forgotten fortress,
Sifting through the ashes of your abandoned memories,
Calling out your name in the wind, unheard, tirelessly, even beyond death.
Every day without you is an eternity of unfulfilled longing,
And the embodiment of loneliness clutches me tighter,
I am the stranger who wants you as the moon craves the night,
And I adore you like the poet who, in the dark, still calls out for his lost muse...
I am the stranger who will not spare your shadow from my mind,
In the library of time, where we are but a burnt book,
And on every page, you will find written just twoo words,
I love you... I love you... in an eternal whisper, etched.
In the twilight hum of broken cities,
where glass teeth bite the smog-choked sky,
I walked—a stranger to my own time—
past dreams rusted in neon haze.
"This is the kingdom we made,"
whispered the wind through hollow streets,
"not with love, but with longing unfulfilled."
---
I. The Circle of Shattered Masks
Faces gleamed in fractured mirrors—
perfect, painted, pixel-deep.
Beneath the glass:
eyes dull as drought,
lips sewn with threads of trend.
They dance to rhythms of curated lives,
each step a scroll,
each breath a borrowed dream.
Here walk the hollow, the desperate to be seen,
trapped between reflection and reality.
---
II. The Market of Broken Promises
Silver tongues shout from golden towers,
selling futures already stolen.
Coins drip with sweat and sorrow—
the cost of hope traded for hunger.
A merchant, crowned with digital thorns,
whispers: "Buy immortality. Cheap today."
But the ground beneath him crumbles
into oceans rising, hungering for land.
"All wealth returns to the dust,"
carved on collapsing walls.
---
III. The Garden of Artificial Eden
Steel roots twist from concrete soil;
trees bloom with screens instead of leaves.
A woman made of glass sits beneath them,
her fingers tapping prayers into code.
"We built paradise," she sighs,
"but forgot the soul."
Silicon flowers flicker,
their light too cold to warm.
---
IV. The Chamber of the Last Oracles
Silent prophets, blindfolded, sit in rows,
wired to endless streams of data.
Their lips part, but only static spills—
truth drowned in the noise of the network.
"Is this wisdom?" I asked.
But my guide traced a circle in the dust
where answers should have been.
---
V. The Hollow Throne
At the journey’s end—a throne of ash,
raised high on promises unkept.
No king, no queen—only a crown
resting on emptiness.
And the wind whispered again:
"This is how the reign ends,"
"Not with a cry of power, but with silence reclaimed."
---
Epilogue: Between Light and Shadow
So the world turns in quiet descent,
from gold to ash, from dream to dust.
For in this twilight of longing and loss,
the hollow inherit the earth:
Not with fire, not with flood—
but with the slow fading of light
and the soft sigh of things undone.
Hold on to yourselves
It’s going to be a long one
I forgive you but I do not
Remember me
Or have you forgotten
I am the soul of Martha Carrier
I am the cold amongst un-forgiven barriers
If life were as smooth as fairytales
I’d lust with Arial
Young Goodman Brown
Trust is often dreamt upon
But never truly found
Marry me not
For Religion is often a foolish sound
I am the trust that never funds
The river that seas beyond and will never bond
I am the tissue that forever mends our scars visible
I am the light that shines only in hopes that my shadow may dim
I am, I am, Sam, I am not
Though my summers shall hoist the founding days
Oh I am
I am an artist amongst poets severely recognized
I am the misery, the matter that pours from within your eyes
I am the cake, the plate,
The smile which your child exhibits on common days
I am the Shakespeare within in lyrics
The only god to bring about tragedies to treasure
With out the theatre in play
The hollow that sleeps not to wish nor weep upon tomorrow
I am the founder of nothing
The whereabouts of that slave in Sounder
Who found more than nothing
Will you remind me when my days have finally dissolved?
Upon my graven lay I may receive but random applauds
I am the love you lost
The dove
Your lost savior
Stricken upon a cross
Get over yourself world
My cape
My suede
My vengeance
Receive my blade
Farewell love
All is well
Stage Fright
This has been a long Sunday it started off with two toasts with cheese and the glucose rose to stratospheric, insulin is needed where the heck
Is the bloody needle, mlg if you please followed by a thundering heart and unwanted anxiety, I have tried to overcome for over 60 years
In my younger days, I tried to overcome my nerves by drinking whisky as a calmer which made me annoyed with anxiety-riddled myself
My wish was and still is to be a brave person, who is able to express himself with confidence But, no deal baby, I ended up alone in a room
It is not like I don’t know what caused my total lack of confidence, our dysfunctional family was poor and I was literary farmed out
I was fourteen years old when I was set free to get a job as an errand boy in an office of nice people, who made me feel loved and wanted
Somehow, despite my nervous hands and clumsy manners, I was able to get an education, which was well-paid, in the Norwegian merchant navy
Later in life, I was in the café trade both in Britain and in Norway a business one has to be social and I had the hope to be cured of awkwardness
Finally, I sold out and went to live in Portugal where I bought a ruined house, fixed it up, and for years lived alone with a dog as companion
My dog died, and my aloneness became ghostly until I met a woman and my life changed, but my nervousness didn’t, but it didn’t bother her
I look back on my life and ask how the hell, did I managed this, with a lump of fear in my stomach nervous hands, and a lack of self-confidence
The house on the prairie is sold, and my rustic dream is over, what the hell man, stop worrying about where to live tomorrow
As I sit in my chair, I stretch and feel, without hesitation pleased with myself, a voice utters, you are a jerk, now, take Elon Musk……