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.
whence place thy sight up above thine shoulders,
as it tarries to see no one but thee alone,
even when thy path seemeth crooked,
and goest astray like a lost wondering sheep,
ye durst wax in the Barn of thine selfishness.
Thy ego seem so high to accept rebuke
and chastisement, at war with thy virtues.
Been sober, thy countenance speaketh not,
submitting only to thy will and thy will alone.
Always wanting to so'er up high,
but impatient to beget wings.
Ye only bequeath Love for thy honour
and thy appreciation, dost for thy increase.
Art thou worthy of thine brag?
Nay! But thy acclaim, betwixt fame and glory.
Loudest in the proclamation of thy victories,
like a conqueror from whence sing of his battles
and a Merchant, fullsome and majestic.
Thy Robe, when touched or felt by she below,
light up fire from the fuel of thy Anger.
Henceforth, beseech not thy friends,
for their company art thou ruthlessly bargained
with the proceedings of thy wanton folly.
Verily, verily this cancer-worm soweth deeply,
like the root of a deciduous Tree
and just before its leaves wither away,
the path to destruction befalls thee
and behold! the time to take heed hath by-passed thee.
Thy redemption, more difficult than building Rome
because the cup of thy transgression hath gone full.
My long ago mother
used to string together cheap jewelry,
baubles and glitter threaded onto silvery strings
for a begrudging merchant
who kept a cramped second floor office
near what I later knew as Smithfield Market.
I would go with her
for I had nowhere to go but with her.
The very thought of 'nowhere' now
fills my mind with the muddy puddles
I used to jump into as we walked for miles
to a place where she sold
her time absorbing, paid for hourly
and tedious labor.
A place where an elderly, sour
and sniffing man doled out
a few coins into her open hand.
A scant amount and never enough of it
for us to ride a London bus
back to where we came from.
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.
She never said she loved me.
My mother shone when she spoke of my brother
he was the firstborn when the world was magical
she loved him and did not tolerate any criticism
of his behavior
I, the younger son, was often ill and sent away
to a children's home and later to a farm for me
it was beneficial, my health recovered, but I was
the absent child
He died relatively young, and his mother was devastated
think she never overcame her grief.
I later asked her and later regretted asking her
if she had a choice, whom would she prefer to
die first me or my brother
She didn't want anyone's death, but she didn't
know me since I was always absent
at the farm in the morning, leaning my head
against a cow's womb, I wished my mother would
love as much as she loved my brother
I joined the merchant fleet; when returning
I flung my arms around and told her I loved her
That's nice, she said and asked if I wanted coffee
She never said; I love you, son, only thing
in the world, I had wanted her to say
From a town where the sun don’t shine,
To overseas, but they called it mine.
My heart in shadows of the street,
Returning home I lost my feet,
Faces changed, but not memories
I wrote a song about that.
Life has a way of teaching you pain,
From child dreams to love's rain.
Every tear left its mark on my path,
And through it all, I found my voice
I wrote a song about that.
Then came the call of the sea,
Navy blues and Merchant dreams.
Fighting battles and demons within,
Came back with scars beneath my skin.
A hero on paper but alone in this fight,
I wrote a few songs about that.
Life has a way of teaching us pain,
From child dreams to love's rain.
Every tear left its mark on my path,
And through it all, I found my voice
I wrote a song about that.
Love lifted me high above the ground,
A Latina cruel, my heart almost drowned.
She married a drunk; his heart never true—
Haunted by her name; what could I do?
Nights chasing after ghosts gone bad—
I wrote a lot of songs about that.
Tijuana where the neon glows bright,
Met a call girl who danced away the night.
Her smile held secrets in her embrace;
Our stories are lost in time and space.
A moment lost forever just like that—
And I wrote her a song about that.
Life’s has a way of teaching us pain,
From child dreams to love's rain.
Every tear left its mark on my path,
And through it all, I found my voice
I wrote a song about that.
I wander alone, to places unknown,
Each and every heartache carved into stone.
Traveled the World and it never felt flat—
Seems that I wrote a song about that.
As the presidential plane kissed the Alaskan ground,
I beheld Putin — the fox, the KGB man,
his boot pressing on soil once Russia’s own,
a chess master reclaiming forgotten squares.
Another jet descended. Trump emerged,
a merchant prince, an actor upon the stage,
his hand raised high over a land America bought,
yet Russia never forgot.
Shadows lengthened over this summit:
Will it weave a ceasefire for Ukraine?
Or shall vultures circle,
Europe’s hollow face speaking only through America’s tongue?
Putin has danced with them all —
Clinton, Bush, Obama, Biden —
and now, twice with Trump,
he checkmates the board with steady calm.
Where is Zelenskyy?
Wise, or merely a fool at the table of giants?
Will he steer his people toward dawn,
or cast them deeper into the furnace of war?
These are not questions for the blind.
Those who pierce the veil,
who read the game behind the gestures,
already know the answer.
History weeps, but power does not.
And in the silence of Alaska,
a cruel truth lingers like smoke:
The world is a stage,
and men are pawns—
until the fox decides otherwise.
It's time for me to do Marriage trade
Is it what some call bride price?
Never mind..I am a merchant so i call it trade
Barter trade system is my best
I give you a living thing for a living thing
Slave for a donkey
I will respect your business language of 'in laws'
Its like mine of the 'by laws'
Since your daughter has all the arms to dig
Legs to walk, eyes to see and a stomach to puppet
Yes
I am interested in this commodity
So!!! let the trade begin...
To be fair
I will take your daughter in exchange for six cows
If you hate cows
I can offer four goats in exchange for each cow
I know goats are somehow stubborn like women
So we can think of hens
Ten hens for each goat WHAT DO YOU THINK?
Or since we have the rats
and you enjoy these edible rats
I can give you 20 rats for each hen and then i take the girl
nice idea, don't you think so?
Don't fight
We are doing trade here
You will be a billionaire
Think about this
I will give you four thousand, eight hundred edible rats
For just one girl who has one head and only two hips
Its a fair deal old folk
Think about a farm of 4,800 edible rats!!
You will be voted the next village chief
For starting some big project around
As your daughter will shake out of her
My slave boys
Who will run my estate for years
see?
/*I wrote this poem with an African picture of 1800,
If you still do this just know you are mad..
Happy women's day*/
1.
observing the ardent eagerness of the wind
it is clearly understood
that nascent pollens are overflowing
the niche of her heart
in response to the signals of the river
she keeps on ringing
all long the month of earth-quakes
the bench of the rail-station
wants to hug her
the medicine-counter of the ***-end of the day
beckons her with the hand to come nearer
in the assembly-hall for musical demonstration
adorned with ash-trays
going on the rehearsal of her dancing and singing
she also distributes some life
to the meticulous dressing
of the magnolia
2.
let the swimming pool be fully absorbed
with its dark-room
when the feather of your fore-finger
becomes green
the merchant of venice
will leave his business of photo-coping machine
to start walking directly
in search of new earnings
evening sets in
on the boiler of the delta
putting on yellow-dress comes
the water-vessel of the paper-balloon
there is no singing bird
shivering with cold
in the fold of the dear bed-sheet
it is possible that the boldness of the metro-railway
may give some wood of tamarisk
on the expanded palms
yet oh the western page of night
do tell today
why so much tamed polythene
are here in our cohabitation
3.
after so many days
published in the wind
painted in wings
the recent heart’s desire
of the doors and windows
they have rolled up their fairy-tales
from the ignorant drawing-room that wanted
to set her mind to the hill slanting downward
they did not want to know
how much rheumatism is there
in the hands and legs of the bark
to whom is delegated
the control of the mason-made bus-journey
sleep hugs the eye-lids of the rivers
though there is no postage-stamp
within the reaching-point
then what magic is there
in the hill slanting downward
why the wall does not learn
how to swim like a fish
truly it is he from whom
those negligible moments of man-ism
itch for blue candle-stand
"Simhaladvipa or simply Simhala is the name of an island (dvipa) according to the Kathasaritsagara, chapter 56. Accordingly, “... there he [Candrasvamin] heard that the merchant Kanakavarman had gone from that island to an island named Karpura. In the same way he visited in turn the islands of Karpura, Suvarna and Simhala with merchants, hut he did not find the merchant whom he was in search of”.
The Kathasaritsagara (‘ocean of streams of story’), mentioning Simhaladvipa, is a famous Sanskrit epic story revolving around prince Naravahanadatta and his quest to become the emperor of the vidyadharas (celestial beings). The work is said to have been an adaptation of Gunadhya’s Brhatkatha consisting of 100,000 verses, which in turn is part of a larger work containing 700,000 verses."
Seren and Deep.
Simhaladvipa
Lamka Sri island so deep
the Seren and dip
the green mountain and,
deep-rooted, Adam and Eve
bright red ruby sparks
"if you fix the meal exactly like his " dear ole great, great,(I mean great!)
grand-paw-paw fix-it. he'll give you the contract plus a million dollars! just keep in mind, that your completion has the same opportunity as you do, and their want is just as strong, (if not stronger) than yours.
you have five days to perfect the recipe. Using simple ingredients, and a smile.
the limo will be over at exactly twelve noon! be ready for him to stop over and taste your food. He said you were the last one on the list, and he had a great big appetite. so by noon Friday be prepared! The contract and the million dollars!"
so all we do, is fix the food that dipper use to fix and the loot and the greasy-palm is ours? That right Diggle, that's right!
well we got a recipe to perfect don't we? We sure do said Mr. Slowcum, " we sure do!" I heard the audience clap, and then they stopped the filming!
this chick came out on stage and started singing. We couldn't tell if the music was live or over the head speakers, we kept looking up, trying to find where the sound came from. Other than that we had a marvelous time at the theater, while they taped an episode of " Gooney Bay!"
THE COMODEY ABOUT THE MERCHANT WHO REFURBISHED AUTO PARTS IN A
TOWN IN CALIFORNIA!