Long Monuments Poems
Long Monuments Poems. Below are the most popular long Monuments by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monuments poems by poem length and keyword.
Stonehenge is a famous monument in Britain
a prehistoric mystery, architecturally sophisticated
built in stages, the first part built 5000 years ago
the unique Neolithic stone circle about 2500 BC
it is thought to be build by Druid Celtic high priests
and used for sacrificial ceremonies in their time
also thought to be a place for burials of the dead
it was created by people who left no written record
some of the stones are called ringing rocks, acoustic
for when struck they make a loud clanking sound
it has always been a mystery- never quite explained
The Georgia Guidestones are a monument in Gerogia, USA
made of huge granite slabs erected in 1980, planned for 20 years
built by R.C. Christian on a five acre site later given to Georgia
it is a set of guidestones inscribed in eight languages
its purpose to function as a compass, calendar and clock and guide
engraved with things like "Prize truth-beauty-love-seeking harmony ...."
some of the ten guide lines are not as acceptable to people
engraved in the eight languages on each individual slab
since erected conspiracy theories have abounded
the slabs have been defaced many times with graffiti
For me there is little to compliment each other
except they each are both made of stones
in a circular formation
and they both symbolize something
Stonehenge is really, really old and a mystery
the Georgia Guidestones build in 1980 with a clear meaning
so, in my mind they are separate monuments
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October 21, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/Stonehenge and Georgia Guidestones
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1398-714-21
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
For the Standard contest, Georgehenge Stone Cold Mind Reflect
sponsor, Joe Maverick, Judged 11/28/2021
Fifth Place
The little ants,
Collect their grains,
With effort immeasurable,
Only too find them,
Erased by waters...
Little honey bee,
For a drop of nectar,
Visits thousands of flowers,
To get them only stolen,
By human selfishness...
Great and small builders,
Building brick by brick,
Erect marvelous monuments,
Only to find them razed,
By rival rulers and kings...
Innocent children,
Keep on building,
Beautiful sand-mansions,
Only to get them washed away,
By unpredictable waves...
......................
..................
..............
I too, often, meet my plans,
Witnessing ruins by my very eyes,
Yet, like ants, bees, builders,
And, above all, those little children,
I go on with reparations and repetitions...!
16 January 2022
War, War
We need more War.
Come patriots,
Come comrades,
Let’s all go to Waaaar!
Raise your banners,
Gather your muskets,
Sharpen your swords,
Let's all go to Waaaar!
Won’t it be fun,
To kill a man
We do not know.
To take his life
And rape his wife.
Let's all go to Waaaar!
We need no cause
That is because
We just need War
War, War,
We need more Waaaar!
Let’s all go to Waaaar!
Little boy dreams
Of wooden sticks
And cardboard forts,
Playing at War
On a summer’s eve.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Let's all go to Waaaar!
Hup, two, three, four
Buckle your shoe
I’m off to War,
Hup, two, three, four
Let’s all go to Waaaar!
March, March, March
Let’s all March
Through the Valley of Death
Death, Death, Death
Let’s all go to Waaaar!
Death on the right
Death on the left
The shots rang out
Ten Thousand died
To save the king
Waaaar! Waaaar! Waaaar!
We need more Waaaar!
Give us more Waaaar!
Boots on the ground,
Boys in a trench.
Flanders’s field and
Normandy’s shores,
Hiroshima and Nagasaki too.
Honor guards and monuments,
One million crosses in a row.
We’ll come and visit
On a springtime day;
Pay homage to all
Who sacrificed.
We’ll Lay flowers on their graves,
In honor of those
Who died this way
Waaaar! Waaaar! Waaaar!
We need more Waaaar!
Hup, two, three, four,
To white crosses on a hill
Many have heard the story of Lucia and her cousins,
that took place in Fatima Portugal in 1917.
I will spare you all the details for with research they are easily found.
The story begins with three children tending sheep,
they claimed that the Virgin Mary appeared to them with revelations,
and described her as "a lady more brilliant than the sun."
The story became controversial, yet, thousands flocked to the spot.
It was called a miracle but the children were taken into custody,
all three were questioned and threatened but they never wavered.
Two of the children died in 1918 due to a flu epidemic,
but, Lucia lived on and became a nun reporting many apparition visits
right up until her death at ninety-seven years old.
On October 13, 1917- 300,00 to 100, 0000 people gathered in Fatima,
they had come to witness the Miracle of the Sun,
and from rain and dark clouds the sun broke.
The sun at first seemed an opaque spinning disc in the sky,
casting multi-color lights across the landscape.
Then, it came careening toward Earth then, zig-zagging back in place.
Some witnesses claimed their wet clothes wear suddenly dry,
and the soaked ground became dry, some called it a sun dance,
and some say they saw nothing.
To this day, some believe the story of Fatima and others do not,
however, the catholic church must believe for it has created statues
and other monuments and named churches and prayers of devotion
referring to the lady in the visions "As the Lady of Fatima".
Do you believe the children ?
Do I believe then children, yes I do!
______________________________
October 28, 2020
Poetry/Narrative/The Story of Fatima
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1298-545-28
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Fatima
sponsor, Kai Michael Neumann, Judged 11/29/20
Highgate Cemetery
Thank you, my young English photographer brother, for the tip
I will come back often to visit this fantastic and beautiful cemetery
The hours I spent here changed my life, those souls were owners of the life
Meet with them here was a realistic dream, the living past is real
So many cristal craniums live here, artists, scientists, politicians, and more
The atmosphere here is unique and empyrean, ethereal, unearthly
A walk here is more than a confession in a church, it cleanses your heart
Much more than a university or a gigantic library, all the monuments teach you
The life, everything, this is atmospheric intellectualism, the gate of the high
Highgate Cemetery
The Gate of the High
Yes
Creative and inspiring
Always living past
calling all mistreated jugglers
and wretches of condemned madhouses
bewitched by fingers of freak fame
the spindly fingers of trickster twins
that open the floodgates to occult caverns
unleashing the brusque wraiths
the brittle symmetry of her glacial eyes
cast down from the empyrean skies
as a sanctified abyss from ancient past
eyes as candlelit rectory windows
shining bright like voluptuous pyre
and ferryman’s lantern on turbid nights
calling all gritty peyote coyotes
gargoyles of noxious mind germination
whistling by the graves of stars
in the form of ravenous black holes
so vexed by the self-immolation of lovers
the musicality of their hearty asphyxia
tantalized through thick and thin
falling in cascade down the wailing well
how do we always end up vampirized
singing the longeval sardonic litanies
outliving the meteoric tremors
as monuments of the past tumble down
calling all incorporeal beasts
to swing the fate’s pendulum in effigie
and mourn the motheaten grandeur
of lofty and aged Victorian ancestry
within the reach of eternity’s gate
disemburdened and lost to the ether
melting at last in the muse’s embrace
eclipsed by the fading night gyrations
there’s no excuse not to leave in rapture
one last rainy walk by the derelict wharf
ready to fall down the fissures en masse
into the ruptures of our narcotic glossary
Black History is Our history
Black History is American history
Black History is World history
Black History is The history
Black History IS History
Although it is celebrated in February, Black history is not just a month, it is every day history.
Black History is a reflection of the segregation and discrimination and the sacrifices and struggles for our freedom for justice and equality.
It reflects how far we have come, from where we were to where we are.
Black History is History. It is written by “We the People,” and in case you didn’t know, we are part of the “We.” Our story matters and our ancestors stories matter.
So no matter how much they want to have “selective memory” and try to dismantle or impose restrictions, take away fundings, or pick, choose or limit how much (if any) is being taught about Black History, it is our job as parents, grandparents, leaders and people to teach our children, nephews, cousins, friends and others about “Our” history.
Black History is History and it’s not just up to the teachers to tell our history. With that being said, parents, Be the change! Teach them at home, individual, in group settings… take them on field trips to museums, monuments, parks, take them on a bus ride, show them videos and books… By doing so, we are allowing the history (our history) of our civil rights leaders and ancestors to be remembered as their sacrifices for our freedom was not in vain.
Black History was then, is now and will forever be a part of history.
Acknowledging God as the omnipotent Creator
I believe that all components, elements, and substances
both of the Stonehenge and Georgia Guideposts
originated from the Almighty Source
Who can ultimately produce out of nothing…
… s t o n e s, s a n d, g r a n i t e
that upheld such monuments along their stature.
Appreciating the Lord’s perfect omniscience
and prevailing control above all circumstances
I assert that He has allowed in His sovereign calendar
the construction, preservation, as well as the sustenance
of both the S t o n e h e n g e and G e o r g i a G u i d e p o s t s
for a purpose, though seemingly mysterious with enigmatic impact
to admonish mankind’s search for HIM by faith midst spiritual relationship.
Admiring the supreme kingship of the Saviour
I bow to Him, exalting His name in worship divine
which my heart admits to be the meaningful message
of both the Stonehenge and Georgia Guideposts…
revealing mankind’s need for redemption of souls
toward eternal life, only He can grant
by His grace, mercy and love.
*Isaiah 40:28 Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the LORD, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding.
November 23, 2021
6th place, "Georgehenge Stone Cold Minds Reflect" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Joe Maverick; judged on 11/28/2021.
Shapur I, Wise King of the Simurgh Kingdom, and friend of Mani
The King of Kings of Iran and non-Iran, the sun of many
Walking through the valley of the shadow of death, the road of any
Recalling his life of war campaigns, stone monuments and plenty
Recalling his support and talks with Mani, though his heart was in doubt
Now he knew that the blazing flame, that guided him, was going out
Wondering why he believed Oromazd and Ahriman were brothers
Why he worshipped fire, for soon his fate will end in painful fires
Remembering how he dismissed the teachings of the lotus flowers
Mani’s gift of Persian honey, that he did not taste, like others
Ready for the chariot of burning flames, his friends started to weep
He sunk down into his soft bed, and fell into the clutches of sleep
“A voice calling from the Eastern Steppe, “Prepare the way for the Light
Make straight, open paths to the Light, dwelling in the heights above the height
Valleys will be made low, heavens will open, all in a king’s sight
The world will shake, and the world will be bathed in moonlight and in sunlight””
These are the words the angels prophesied about Shapur the King
Shapur before his sleep faintly chuckled at this, praying and wishing `
Shapur I came again, forgetting his former self and wish
But had dreams of the Just Judge, sitting just above a pond of pearlfish
“You allowed every flower in your vast land to grow and flourish
You were the sun shining indiscriminately on all plants and fish
And cared for that seven petal lotus in your garden and court
Though in the past, you politely declined to give your heart’s full support”
The Tale of Gallina Canyon, NM
Red sandstone, sheer cliff monuments awaits the morning breeze, and high above the canyon floor an eagle sores with ease.
As shadows of the mountain cliffs retreat from the canyon floor, a native boy and his grandfather sit enjoying the silence of the valley. Far below under the cottonwood an elk has given birth; now lays exhausted from her daunting night with her new born by her side. She nudges her a little to get her to stand, and with wobbly legs beneath her she plants them in the sand.
The old man stood and walked to the base of the sandstone cliff, a place where the ancient ones scribe the wall with painted hands, and others used sharp rocks to scrape away the red stone sand, and carved the likeness of their people and other circled signs.
His grandson walked up to his side and asked, "What do they mean?" His grandpa hesitated before saying, "They are pictures made by the ancient ones who lived here long ago. The circles within a circles count the many generations of their family who lived on this land. The swirling ones tell stories of the hunter, who hunted through the dark, and ask the gods of the night to provide them heavens light.
He wrapped one arm around the boy as his tears began to flow; he was thinking of his father who told him the tales so long ago.
They returned to their perch, above the canyon floor, to listen to the sounds of life and watch the eagle sore.
Before sheltering for the day, the Elk drank from the Gallina canyon stream with her newborn by her side. She paused just a moment, then looked up at the old man who stared back silently with love, knowing that they will continue to live together and share the spirit of this land.