Long Murk Poems
Long Murk Poems. Below are the most popular long Murk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Murk poems by poem length and keyword.
A Penn Valley phantom appears to haunt and lurk
premises at 1148 Greentree Lane
his youngest daughter (Abby) I pledged my troth and, natch won my Zison’s
Dunkirk
ire and vindictiveness akin to rivalry of Abel versus Cain
now breeds and festers hallucinations that make me go berserk
also brings to mind myth of another named King Canute, a Great Dane
whose battle cry and hymn of the Republic made manifest with ease of dirk
visitations with ethereal sprite pushes me to madness and makes me go
insane
torture treatment mangles mental management amidst mire and murk!
The rattle of chains heard despite noiseless apparition and wraith, which curse
and bain
from dark and sinister shadows make me feel like a jerk
at such fallacious belief in preternatural imaginative creations ranked as inane
by this skeptic whose vulnerable acuteness to otherworldly visages does perk
especially during wee hours of morning when superstition runs amuck and
seems to gain
upper hand and let spiral out of rational control thought of afterlife quirk
yet confession must be made that long dead father of wife does wag finger of
disdain
and utter silent disapproval and near ruination by marrying a bum of a guy who
lacks for work!
It was another grey stone winter.
Menacing Queen Beira terrorized the countryside.
We traveled the winding cobblestone way,
the grey stone winter way.
We believed in anything to get us through the murk,
anything to overlook our disintegration.
We sought patterns, convictions, decrees within the chaos
until all our candles blew out.
We believed in believing and we thought it worked,
so it must have.
When the Queen ended her wrath, we felt the warm balm
of spring restoring our faith in life and order
but the second law of thermodynamics was not reversible.
Our animated order of life expended more energy,
By delaying decay we paradoxically tended toward it,
Like snakes, we shed our skins,
transforming, reforming until death.
The impressions lingering from our consciousness
seek new venues,
we know not the dimensions of these new spectral landscapes.
Not created, not destroyed, our energy transcends
only by the menacing queen.
I loved that day which blest its night
With antediluvian might,
Of ours flourishing souls in joy
That some divine being must deploy.
It was a lithe nocturnal wood,
‘Midst whose darkening core there stood
A tiny cottage, ancient as the Moon.
Whence we then heard the leaves to croon.
Lagoon! a lustrous lagoon saw we!
Beside the trees, serried in glee,
And our small home– its lovely limit
Never saw this oneness split.
‘Twas morning then, but now the murk
Embraced two lovely hearts, and hark !
The crickets, ever hidden did hurl
Their doleful screech from many a knurl.
Above a couple at peace in a nest
Did murmur private words , as if lest
None could overhear their sound,
None could intrude their world from ‘round.
Then thou closer, closer wert,
I dwelt, exulted, on thy sinless heart.
And our gay mutters were no louder
Than theirs who loved the voice of amour.
A luscious smile as thou didst pour
On night’s abundant beauty store,
Perhaps He lavished for lovers’ sake
Another world that we could make.
Fake! ‘Twas fake for it wouldn’t last,
As that unseen joy glided fast
Towards a sunny dullness again;
No mystic love there did we regain !
Act II: Judgment in the Forum
CHORUS:
O Rome, thou ancient nurse of law and might,
What shadows now do stretch across thy name?
The marble gleams, but virtue lies in dust,
And gold usurps the laurel of the just.
FIRST CITIZEN:
Didst hear the sage? His words were sharp as steel.
He dared to chide the Consul to his face!
SECOND CITIZEN:
Aye, but what good doth wisdom serve the poor,
When coin and cunning rule the Senate’s floor?
THIRD CITIZEN:
Yet truth, though trampled, rises from the grave.
The gods are just, though men be brave but base.
CHORUS:
Behold the tyrant, robed in purple pride,
Who feeds upon the commonwealth’s decay.
He builds his fame on broken oaths and lies,
And calls it glory when the people pay.
FOURTH CITIZEN:
Lucilius speaks as if the gods still care.
But do they hear us in their starry halls?
FIFTH CITIZEN:
They hear, though silent be their judgment now.
The wheel shall turn, and Varro’s house shall fall.
CHORUS:
O Rome, remember Brutus and his blade,
Who struck for freedom, not for selfish gain.
Let not thy soul be sold for silver’s gleam,
Nor let thy laws be writ in blood and shame.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Ye sons of Romulus, awake, arise!
The state is not a spoil for greedy hands.
Each citizen must guard the sacred flame,
Lest darkness drown the light of liberty.
CHORUS:
Speak on, good sage, thy voice is like a star
That pierces through the murk of tyranny.
We are not beasts, nor slaves to gilded chains—
We are the heirs of Cato and of Rome!
CHORUS:
So let the tyrant flee, his brow unbowed,
But know the people hath a memory.
And when the hour of reckoning draws nigh,
Let justice rise, and falsehood fall to die.
I breathe silence in the hush of a lavender sky morning
and in a sweet symphony I hear as dark becomes day.
There’s a melody that delights me as the world grows light,
where once shadows embraced the murk of night.
In these moments of sapid solitude, I find an inner calm
soothing my spirit as the world around me slumbers.
It's as near to any meditative mood that I ever tread
when waking from bed to herald aurora before sunrise.
In the realm of 'just before dawn,' songbirds join in
an avian chorus that I think is meant only for me.
Their trills are like placid waves floating in my mind
that guide my thoughts across eternal ripples of a sea.
You see, I feel as if no one else exists in my castle tower
at the hour I live in these moments of tranquility.
I find silence holds sway to keep woeful worries at bay.
At the window, I notice mundane things here and there...
how the slight breeze makes moss flutter through trees
as if it's weaving its fingers through someone's gray hair.
Often, I try to remember what I should surely write about,
but being afraid I'll miss one minute of nature's dance,
I remain at the window breathing in all the quiet I can hold
with the promise of dawn as the sky is brushed amber gold.
Softly now, light glows in the East in pale shades of blue.
I sigh, knowing the transience of this hushed time will not last
and inhale every bit of stillness I can before it slips away.
In the midst of each early morning hue, I savor every sight.
Each breath I take in that sweet silent hour brings me peace
in the taciturn time when appears in my vision, morn's first light.
It is the night, in deepest dark, that death foretells
the demon heart in which all lonely feeling dwells.
Yet, in plain sight, our eyes can’t see what life impels,
emotion’s plea, our deepest sorrow love dispels.
Blind are caustic ink filled visions, all light repels,
like charred decisions, ash from crematory tells
a tale where quietus intrepidity sells
the silent impetus toward a life of many hells.
Walled inside this ebon murk, my emotion wells;
beyond they lurk, those who are sane, their tale retells
how life is to live, and the end but brief farewells.
Though my will may bend, it is I that death compels.
02/16/2018
Shut Up!
Shut up the hurricane shutters!
There's a storm that is ready to blow.
Batten down all the hatches!
Mother nature is angry, don't you know?
There's a man on the watch tower
and he's signalling to the boats in the harbor.
There are squalls on the horizon,
and he doesn't want you to go.
Keep your prayers close beside you.
Keep your loved ones by your side.
Settle all scores that divide you.
Pray for forgiveness, and for strength to abide.
Paint the front doors that judgement pass over.
Burn the candles that welcomes the Prince of Peace.
You can see the four horsemen come riding.
There is no shelter from His wrath to hide.
The mockers will taunt you,
as Noah had to endure.
Your obedience is your love,
and in faith, your salvation is assured.
When finally the seas die back.
And the armies of evil are drowned in the murk,
A ray of light like a dove will descend on you,
and everlasting paradise will be secured.
by Martin Braun
3/17/2024
Infused with newness, available script ushers me in
Eyes peeled with anticipation for next discoverings
Last easy bend of cane growing country road owns
Entry to rewound time, fibro cement rows of homes
Palm sprinkled, speed decelerates in sleepy streets
Alluring new place charisma, adventure incomplete
Faintly reminiscent of brisk Christmas road trip visit
First time river glimpse brings excitement exquisite
Quaint little town, family pub, caravan park opposite
Mere steps reveal mangrove muddy boat ramp slip
Tinny two horse standard, - biminis seen as high brow
Fishing rods' supple hope supports mates' bonding, tribal
Murk of shallows turn sparkle, close island destinations
Brown armed boaties lower crates to catch crustaceans
Wander past real estate branch (sole agent for miles)
Owner opens door, pulls me in, I admit I'm beguiled
Offers me a place to rent, sixteen steps away, got key
Forty minutes later, I'm signing papers, - it had to be!!
Two years in paradise passed, an idyllic place to dwell
Worked in the big smoke, drove home to Jacobs Well
15th August
' Sanctuary' Contest
Sponsor, Silent One
''Become who you are;the future belongs to the noble of heart'' -Pindar
She strides with courage in a world of thieves,
a sentinel of truth,a sword against rot
Her eyes pierce the murk of corruption,
her voice shatters the silence of the spineless
But the night is cruel.
Six bullets bite her blood on the pavement,
her life stolen while innocents sleep,
her daughter's laughter fading behind locked doors.
The state turns its back,
its paper turns shield worthless against the gun
the killers roam free,
while kingpins cackle from towers of impunity.
Courts,cops,politicians-
all hands tied,or worse,greasing the path of evil.
We cry,we roar,we rage in whispered storms.
The streets echo her absence
Yet her courage lingers,
a torch blazing in the darkness.
Babita's name rises,
a hymn against fear,a banner against cowardice.
Her truth cannot be buried,
her legacy cannot be stolen,
In the shadow of assassins,
amidst the syndicate's tyranny,
her light endures,relentless,radiant.
We bear witness.
We lift our voices.
we demand justice,
we demand honor
We demand that the noble heart of the future be remembers
and answers-not with vengeance,but with
the unyielding fire of truth
“When you are on the playing field
you are just a footballer. If you’re
good, it doesn't matter if you [weild]
CP, autism, or whatever [you lure].
You’re just a player. [There’s] a level
playing field. I hope people will see
me and feel inspired to [start to bevel]
with sport and not give up.” Soundly.
Emyle made his debut in Rio 2016,
He coaches at football with West Ham,
He has Cerebral Palsy, is a mild clean,
Says that attitudes have changed, bam.
He says you should pursue dreams,
And not quench them or patronise -
Anybody with CP who sports screams,
“The world is your oyster!” So ionise.
He says that: “Put in the extra work
you need whether it be [in] training,
ball work, fitness or whatever [murk]
and make your dreams true,” aiming.