Long Monarch Poems
Long Monarch Poems. Below are the most popular long Monarch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monarch poems by poem length and keyword.
The Monarch Who Thought He Was King
Once there was a butterfly
who fluttered by a gate.
The gate was closed, that’s when he said,
“O shucks, now I’ll be late!”
He danced and pranced and shouted
and did not hesitate,
“I demand,” he said with power,
“please, open up this gate!”
To his surprise before his eyes
the gate did open wide.
“A lovely thing; I am the king!
I’m surely qualified.
I had no choice so with my voice
the command I simplified:
‘Just open up this gate!
I need to get inside.’”
He told to all who’d hear him:
“I am the King,” he said.
While some bowed down and listened;
some would not turn their head.
They huffed and puffed and scoffed away,
“We’re sure that you misread.
To open up a gate is easy;
like falling out of bed!”
His shoulders drooped, his forehead sagged;
his eyes filled up with tears,
“You cannot make me less a king
with your scoffing and your sneers.
I am the king,” he fluffed with pride,
“the ruler of my peers.”
Then off he flew without a thought
of all their laughs and jeers.
He fluttered to a purple bush;
the hue fit for a king.
And there he sat to contemplate
and other kingly things.
“I’ll show them all; the small and tall,
and all the scoffs they bring.
A proclamation for my nation:
we’ll hold a royal fling.”
From low and high, from far and near
they gathered close to see
the monarch make his grand command
and show his identity.
A thousand monarch butterflies
watched with frivolity
with five or six ambassadors
from the queendom of the bees.
And there he came with pomp and pride
the self-made king to share
he was a monarch butterfly
and worthy of their care.
He preened his wings and listened for
the sound of his fanfare,
but all he heard was rustling wind
which threw him in the air.
He crashed and tumbled to the floor;
they could not believe their eyes.
The kingdom they had counted on
was built on fibs and lies.
The king was crumpled to the ground
ashamed in his demise.
He let the rain fall down on him
from clouds in the gray skies.
And then he woke up from his nap
and turned inside his bed.
He saw the flowers of his home
of purple, blue, and red.
Right then and there he promised
and to himself he said,
“I’ll be the best of butterflies,
than to be king instead.”
“since thoughts speak in past tenses,
drop mind, rely on senses,
embracing and releasing,
pain pangs and pleasure pleasing” ~ Unseeking Seeker
The sun
w a n e s into the saline swell,
and the ether
undresses corseted ruminations,
while heart follows formless flames
illuminated with flares of
frankincense forgiveness
as mind replays recurring regrets
like vinyls~
spinning forlorn runes
laced with fallacious fragments,
clouding the intricate cycle of lunar~
intuitions with illusive riddles,
drifting into the eventide of agony…
So I drink and I dine
from the hyacinth hands of
the golden chalices
brimming with turmeric tranquility,
listening ~ in sync ~
with the soul of sanguine stillness
ricocheting with rustling repose,
erasing cracked crevices
heavy with ache
from soft smears of monarch-bliss strokes,
spilling picturesque pigments of peace
from Mona Lisa musings
to veil visions of vanity,
to mask mirrors of melancholy,
to soften scarlet streaks of sorrow…
Tonight I close the portals
of perplexed perceptions,
unlocking the crown chakra
like forgotten forests
glowing with faith and fireflies,
allowing stars to glaze
my inner psyche
with dusts of glistening gratitude,
fine-tuning the symphony of Kundalini
to musical mists of mindfulness,
cloaked in
crystalline clovers of clarity~
like an awakened fairy
flipping leaves of lotus love,
pausing the pulse of pain
beneath an empyrean embellished
with spiritual elixirs,
detached from darkness,
clinging neither to
the seraphic scriptures
nor the egoistic galaxies,
sprinkling superficial sparkles
of material mantras.
As enlightened ink r e m a i n s
reliving ~ sewn into the
seams of sacredness
like endless rivers rippling with
opalescent quiescence…
O divine almighty,
I vow to sow herbs of harmony,
engrossed in the timeless phase
of rose-wine twilight~
untangling twisted tulips
intertwined with
weathered willows.
As I seek nothing but lucid light,
soaked in petrichor musings,
resting in zealous zenith,
for I am a rhymeless disciple
accepting the reality
that kissed the silk of silhouette
amidst rain and warmth~
the celestial peaks of change.
I taste flavors of kismet,
swallowing spices of lament,
comfortably composed
in the mystical essence
of soundless rhythm…
KING ALFRED THE GREAT MODERN ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS
King Alfred the Great (c. 849-899), arguably the first great king of England, may have done more to lay the groundwork for English literacy and literature than any other English monarch. And he was quite the scholar himself, although there is no consensus that the following translations were primarily Alfred’s work. He could have done the translations himself; he could have overseen the work; or he may have commissioned the translations. No one really knows.
Alfred the Great undertook to translate “the most needful works for all men to know.” He wanted to succeed “both in war and in wisdom.” Alfred has also been credited with helping to develop a new English prose style.
The Meters of Boethius: Prelude or Verse Preface
attributed to King Alfred the Great, circa 880 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Thus begin the tales King Alfred taught us.
The great West Saxon ruler, in his cunning,
Understood the art of all songmen,
Revealed his great skill as a poet.
Keenly he longed for Saxons to craft such songs,
To make men merry with manifold amusements,
To ward away world-weariness with pleasing poems.
Alfred loved poetry for its art and power,
Longed for it to free men from both boredom and pride.
But the arrogant man, in his self-importance,
Pays little heed to wise words. Still I must speak,
Begin my singing, weave tales well-known
For attentive mortals. Hear me, if you will.
Boethius Lay I: The Goths
from King Alfred the Great's Meters of Boethius, circa 880 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Long ago the Goths left Scythia,
swarms of shieldmen streaming from the east,
two savage tribes tramping southward,
both growing in greatness year by year.
Under the rule of two remarkable kings,
Raedgod and Aleric, their people prospered.
Many Goths made it across the Alps,
intent on conquest, raging with war-lust.
Braying brazen battle-boasts, eager to attack
the awaiting Romans, their armor flashing,
stout shieldmen descended, waving war-banners
and slashing swords.
They intended to overrun Italy...
Keywords/Tags: Alfred the Great, Old English, Anglo-Saxon English, Boethius Translations, West Saxon, poet, poetry, art, power, pride, wise, wisdom, king, kings, leadership, war, battle, England, literature, words
Tell all the worlds about the treasures found
Renaissance trace spellbound in the ancient form,
Tender and haunting; an era of time curves around
Past the present to a future beset with tech charm.
Historical pages cling romantically to our eyes,
Each epoch defines a sparkling gem of surprise,
Their fluttered rebirth is like stars changing sizes
Release by time flown from the damp demise.
That dip their limbs to bow unto gloss modernity
Like the artist and sculpture, they paint a world.
Of aesthetic peculiarities and lofty discovery,
Longing to find a place soaring free in the soul.
A vault of citadels says much; then said no more
Deep within, ancient wonders rise from the ashes
Talented beauty weaves from centuries we adore,
The time and place asleep in a waste wilderness.
The plague of colors survives in medieval triumph,
England, a literary monument of architect literature.
Finds the noble heart to express cherished breath
Creating the etiquette claimed by French culture.
Such dept alone could not be paid by metamorphism
Humanism fading in a mist has its place in society,
Heightened with extreme lust and erotic mannerism,
Italy removes the conscious veil from bizarre reality.
Ceiling significant through music strings serenade,
Renaissance dazed; allusion lay dreaming half awake
The inquisition of fate went on pilgrimage made,
German sentence commute through the classical gate.
The Netherlands explore and navigate all the distances
Byzantine adherence goes beyond impregnable walls,
depict faces of the Tsars persist in the military hypothesis,
And labyrinths take refuge in Russian banqueting halls.
The richest measured proportion of distilled beverage,
Vodka values more than all the dull limited senses,
Spanish religion repository of the myths and rage
Set the path where new western experience commences.
Portugal selfie, the pinnacle piece that thirsts for commerce
Lisbon flourished paints and medicines with Flemish.
Poland concept and conflict gain border land dominance,
Spice trade rises high and makes indiscreet allusion flourish.
We travel far beyond renaissance to the greatest monument,
When the transition of culture from the middle age evolved
Mesmerized art is a rediscovery of an enduring cultural movement,
The monarch of the Roman Empire renaissance man inspired.
little green dragon sprouts emperor’s wings she lights tastes red plum nectar _family hopes among trees monarch blown from seas one love will never be still dancing rhythm meet _erratic dance but on course destiny sea blown alone sun's daughter she flies wisteria’s home _cherry blossoms roam wild rose fawns run firefly hides sparrow plucks delicate wings sunflower escapes _to moon flower clearing skies monarch gone sparrow sighs apples ripe the winter the flowers are gone _Madame butterfly hides child - * Note - based on Madame Butterfly" is a short story by American lawyer and writer John Luther Long
I see it now
flying low
over silver-spumed waves.
I am a watcher
I can enlarge the picture
zoom in
look into bright midnight eyes
as if it were I
that propelled it.
Spreading bright foils
catching the billowing blows,
a clean swell-rigged clipper
sky-sailing sailor
tacking to gypsy winds.
Within its avian breast a magnetic compass
on a pivoting gimbal,
soon to make a terrible landfall.
For a ship came upon it
a craft arrayed in the guise of a cruel crocodile,
snagged from the air it snared the voyager.
A ship blighted by its own wake,
a very flowering of evil.
A wandering navigator brutishly used,
deckhands bundling broken wings
bound it as if a flopping fish,
gaffed its body open
to a hollow of hope.
I also recall a monstrous time
inside a crocodiles smile,
a time when poetry
was cut from my lips.
Yet here I am flying
in an airplane looking down
upon England,
following an albatross
only I can see.
Few crocodilians in London
yet more perilous reptiles there,
I shall have to take more care,
plot a fairy-tale revenge
with Peter Pan’s time-frozen statue.
At last to Paris
a windborne glide tracking a dream
of slow rowing wings,
there to dine with a restless ghost
who knows well enough
how dangerous monsters
can be
on land and sea.
There to restore myself
with Baudelaire.
to remake over
an imagined albatross of a life,
return it to humanity,
should it ever want to be
that flightless.
~~~~~
“Often to pass the time on board, the crew
will catch an albatross, one of those big birds
which nonchalantly chaperone a ship
across the bitter fathoms of the sea.
Tied to the deck, this sovereign of space,
as if embarrassed by its clumsiness,
pitiably lets its great white wings
drag at its sides like a pair of unshipped oars.
How weak and awkward, even comical
this traveler but lately so adroit -
one deckhand sticks a pipestem in its beak,
another mocks the cripple that once flew!
The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds
riding the storm above the marksman's range;
exiled on the ground, hooted and jeered,
he cannot walk because of his great wings.”
- Charles Baudelaire
* * * * * * * *
* *
The Winter * * The Winter
is coming to a close * * is drawing its curtain
as Spring arrives I wiggle * * down, and you won't ever
my toes. The fresh air greets * * see me frown. The days of so
me as I stroll, but I know things ** many long dark nights are over
no one knows. See there's this ** it's time to wish on St. Patty's
tiny Monarch that's caught my ** lucky clover. There's so much
eye, but I never do see her ** nectar for good nourishing
fly. She's there when I ** as all the butterflies are
awake in the morn & ** hopeful and flourishing.
saves me when my ** So much beauty seen
heart is so torn. ** and so very serene.
~~~~~~~~ ** ~~~~~~~~
Can I ever see ** Sincerity and love
any more lovely ** are two gentle gifts
beauty? I do think ** from up above. When
not, we are now free. ** darkness hovers and it
Our nature was gifted ** seems we fall, remember
from God's great creation,** the butterflies can save us
bringing us holy salvation.** all. Green, pink, yellow &
So as I go about my day ** blue, there's nothing a
a simple thing I always ** butterfly can't get us
pray. For life to be as ** through. For when
beautiful as a tiny ** we want to cry
butterfly, tears ** we'll be saved
fall from my ** by butter
eyes. ** flies.
**
**
**
*
Something Concrete Contest
April 9, 2018
I am the hunter with belt and sword.
I am captivity and desires searched for.
Great my name has become.
My dynasty is vast as a Roman Legion.
I stand for truth and honor.
Many have tried to defeat me.
Many I have defeated.
I am glory and shame in a world devoured.
So overwhelmed that we sputters to speak but overcame undefeated.
I am Law and Justice.
My government is Monarch.
I am the Emperor and Judge.
My engagements are that of Poet and Philosopher edification to instruct my people out of darkness.
So obfuscated, they splutter to speak but I am there as their teacher.
Mystification is our world.
Those who find us are forewarn that we are given life by God,
therefore, we are sentient to what is said.
If he or she sojourns, he or she must learn our ways.
So distinguished we are.
We have conquer multitudes.
Delegation to our land we deploy.
Emissaries formed and our people adhere.
We rejoice over our victories.
Measures are not require.
We know who we are.
This is our Empire beyond the stars.
Galactic bears as named.
Galactians are woman, man, and child.
Our minds are affixed.
Our hearts are forbidden.
We are not forsakes of love.
We are the image of unions.
Neither he nor she achieves without some form of unity.
Here is our belief and our creed.
We are the Galactians of Orion.
Constellation on the equator east of Taurus, we are one world diverse.
Our people are multifarious.
We are unions unified.
Our missions is to remain distinguishable from all others.
Strength of our brothers is strength to all.
Solidarity is domain, which includes woman and child.
Diversification must form.
Mixt we are colors all around.
Amalgamation is a twilight zone.
We are the Galactians.
Once discovered, we embrace.
Conformity is our aspect.
We informed with a straight face.
Life is not lost here.
Our horde will segment.
Our ways must be sought.
To those that come, whether by choice or coincidental, we inform.
Our creed is our belief that anyone can be a Galactian.
Within a dream, we may live.
Within in a world, we are.
If you are the choice or the coincident, we are your protector from enmity.
We are the Galactians.
We are warriors and man!
As a Roman Legion, we possess the power and the strength.
_________________________________/
Date Written: March 29, 2014
For the Roman Legion Contest
Faustus was an inquisitive man
Obsessed with a burning desire
To feel see and understand
The secrets of God’s universe
He was not afraid to make a deal
With the power that can make him feel
Omnipotent standing on the mountaintop
With the whole world under his feet
In the Himalayan highest hidden spot
Enveloped in eerie silence sinking
In the clouds in full moons shine
He saw the universe widespread
In a plain pattern in front of his sight
Like a canvas of a primitive artist
Expressing the longings of his heart
In a few simple strokes of a brush
And hectic colors swiftly layered
On top of each other in a way
He could see the pattern
Slowly and painfully emerging
Through the surface of abstract
Landscape of shapes and forms
Intertwining in emerging storm
Created by his racing mind
He can feel his heart beating
In this colorful pulsating pattern
That was brought to being
The night he made a fatal deal
For the price, he could not afford
His suffering soul became homeless
And lost forever in the outskirts
Of the abandoned world forever lonely
He desired to reduce the unbearable
Complexity of the world around
To the simplicity of a human mind
So, he could savor it and understand
In his lonely cell inaccessible to the world
And open only to his racing mind
Not even his heart was allowed
To enter the forbidden realm
Of unknown scary threatening world
That he was discovering slowly
Inside his incognito psyche
Faustus desperately wanted to know
And understand the mysteries
Of the infinite timeless world
Imprisoning it in his mind
Like a butterfly flying away
Locking it in the darkness
Of his lonely cold ascetic cell
With glassy eyes staring
The magnificent pattern of the wings
Of the monarch butterfly
Getting lost in his own drunken
Desire that made him high
Like an addict who can’t stop
Just a thought that he is the one
Can savor the secrets hidden from men
In thick darkness protecting him
From anyone else glancing at them
By the morning with light reaching
The window and squeezing inside
Through the metal rusted bars
Of his soul’s prison that he built
For himself the moment when
He invited dark powers to come
Mephistopheles stepped inside
In white angels' alluring disguise
And collected his ultimate prize
Built in a Belfast shipyard
for Shaw Savill ‘n Albion Line.
On her flagstaff wind ‘n lee
flew the Southern Cross ensign,
down a slipway to the sea
launched afar by Her Majesty
Behold her pale eau de nil
green ‘n painted hull of grey,
at twenty knots her rate
twenty thousand tons aweigh.
On the seas a ship of fate
the world to circumnavigate
Yon the Empire far ‘n wide
from Southampton to Trinidad.
Where from ship to shore
off I waved goodbye as a lad,
till in the distance I saw
my home to be nevermore
Smoke from her aft funnel
into a big Caribbean sky blew,
then set a course westerly
by merchant captain ‘n crew.
And to each port ‘n quay
across the ocean carried me
I remember gazing in awe
up ‘n down her length ‘n beam,
at the mighty waves below
and how sea ‘n ship did gleam.
In canal gates under tow
winding our way lazy ‘n slow
Crossing the equator I saw
Davy Jones ‘n King Neptune
rising up out of the deep
‘neath a high December moon.
Till in safe passage ‘n keep
back to the depths they leap
Out on Oceania as a boy
in the lido deck pool I did dive.
The Southern Cross ‘n me
would our long voyage arrive,
on in all her hope ‘n glory
the grand old lady of the sea
On final Far East voyage
would alas be her swan song,
beached on a tidal seaway
sold ‘n scrapped in Chittagong.
A line flagship in her day
stripped bare where she lay
Written: May 2017
It was on board this ship nearly 50 years ago that me and my family left Trinidad bound for New Zealand - I was nearly 8 years old. We arrived on Christmas Day 1968 in Wellington (pictured) and a couple days later disembarked in Auckland. Built in the same shipyard as the Titanic in 1954, the SS Southern Cross had a far more fortuitous career transporting immigrants and pleasure seekers across the British Empire until her sad and final resting place in Chittagong, Bangladesh (pictured) where she ended her 50 years of service as the Ocean Breeze in a ship-breaking graveyard in 2004. She was the first passenger liner to be launched by a reigning monarch. Not a big ship by today's standards but as a boy to me she was huge - I thought she was magnificent. Still do.