Long Museum Poems
Long Museum Poems. Below are the most popular long Museum by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Museum poems by poem length and keyword.
History of the Star Spangle Banner
Maybe idea of Major George Armistead
The glory of Americans who scan her
Of Mary Pickersgill she was begat
The creation of the original flag
Be still a subject highly debated
Mary Pickersgill was not one to brag
Old Glory she made, beauty wind inflated
Armistead first requested it to be
A large garrison flag for reason
So the British have no trouble to see
Good to see our flag has flown in season
Fifteen colonies equal fifteen stars
Having eight red stripes and seven white stripes
Red and white stripes run in parallel bars
She flows in glory apart from other types
Rumor has it two glories were first made
For a small and a large Mary did charge
A document exists a bill was paid
Though small one be lost or is still at large
The varied small Star Spangled Banner
Never made it home to the Smithsonian
Would be nice to see displayed in some manner
In national museum the large is on loan!
For Contest Dazzle us with History
For Carolyn Devonshire and James Frazer
The History of the Real Star Spangled Banner
The creation of the original flag is still a debated subject.
However, the general story accepted by most historians is that Mary
Pickersgill was commissioned to make the flag by Major George Armistead
for $405.90. Following the victory at Fort McHenry, the flag was preserved
by Col. Armistead and it remained in the Armistead family. A smaller one
which was flown during the actual battle, and a larger one that was
flown as a replacement immediately after the British retreat.
This was a common wartime practice of the period.While no one
can say for sure what really happened, documents exist that show that
Mary Pickersgill was paid for two separate flags, a small one and
a larger one. If the smaller flag exists, its whereabouts are unknown.
In 1907, George Armistead’s grandson, Eben Appleton, expressed
interest in donating the flag to the state of Maryland or to the city of
Baltimore. After discussions with Maryland’s governor and the Mayor of
Baltimore, Appleton eventually placed the flag on loan to Smithsonian Institution
and it was displayed in the Hall of History at the National Museum of American
History. The loan was converted to a gift in 1912 and can still be
seen at the National Museum in Washington, D.C.
We planned this trip with forethought…it’s the way we both prefer
but no matter how well we planned it…unexpected things occur:
Today instead of using our GPS to take us to Banff
I used a map …and apparently I still have a lot to learn…
because it wasn’t until we entered British Columbia
I realized somewhere along the way…I’d made a wrong turn.
What made me realize I’d made a wrong turn?
that I wasn’t a great map-reading man?
because the province of British Columbia was never in our plans.
But on the lost part of our journey (when I turned left instead of right)
we drove through some beautiful country and saw some amazing sights.
We happened on Turtle Mountain…an awesome sight to see…
It’s where a massive rockslide buried part of the town of Frank…April 29, 1903.
There is a museum there to commemorate that moment…
of the Frank Slide and all the lives it took…
So, thinking we were heading in the right direction and had a lot of time,
we stopped to take a look.
The museum had this beautiful but eerie presence…from the moment we arrived…
as we learned about the devastation of that day…and heard the voices of those who survived.
If I hadn’t made that wrong turn…(which at this point was still unbeknownst to me)
we would have missed this wonderful moment to learn a little of Alberta’s history.
We would have missed this moment…
what happened on Turtle Mountain we’d probably never know…
and we wold have never stopped to pay our respect to those who died all those years ago.
It wasn’t long after Turtle Mountain (thank you Welcome to British Columbia sign!)
when I realized my mistake and turned the car about…
and once our GPS accepted my apology she guided us to Banff…
even took us on the scenic route.
Unexpected happenings will always arise in spite of our best wishes, plans and hopes….
the true measure of a vacation, however, is how we carry on…and cope.
We always leave time in our day for the many unplanned stops we make.
We know out there our new memories to be collected
but we’ve also learned to embrace the unanticipated…the unforeseen…the unexpected.
And this trip we’ll add Turtle Mountain to the wonderful memories we’ve collected…
her memories join those of the mountains, the rivers and the lakes…
becasue no vacation would be complete…without a few memories of our mistakes
43 American presidents since our founding. Living history, alive and well in 5 living ex-presidents. If individually good enough to become a US president, what could they accomplish as collective and unified minds?
Are they not a treasure house of history, wisdom, and experience?
***********************************************************
*Mr. Carter(1976-80) He was a successful peanut farmer, and a Governor. Now, a brief condensed version of his 4 year presidency: Change the heart; Being born again; Tell no lies; Surprised at The Soviet Union for invading Afghanistan; Fought hard for peace in the Middle East and won the Noble Peace Prize, but lost the Peace; Iran: Could not bring the hostages home.
**********************************************************
Five ex presidents, still alive to shape, to show, and to tell their own story. And their own history of 4 to 8 years is part of the same history of America. Are they not also a collective institution, a museum, as well as a library? Away from the Oval Office, are they being utilized for the cause of peace?
********************************************************* **Mr. Bush 1(1988-92) And now, a brief condensed version of his 4 year Presidency: New World Order; Read my lips; No New Taxes; Manuel Noriega; Panama; Saddam Hussein; Iraq And Desert Storm.
*************************************************************
09222017 PS
*The listing order of Presidents is purely chronological
**Mr. Reagan followed Mr. Carter, but he is not a living ex-president
I have seen the formation
Of ancient lands
I have seen the creation
Of ancient hands
Pyramids
That soar to the sky
Here amid
Temples majestic and high
I have seen
Wonderful things
Tombs and scenes
Of ancient kings
I have seen huge blocks of stone
Cut by hand of flesh and bone
Fit in place for reasons known
To the architect alone
Each stone block from the quarry
Has a structure to help build
Each chisel cut tells a story
Of a mason’s guild
I have seen towering obelisks
With finely chiseled hieroglyphics
And ancient golden relics
Like toys in the attic
I have seen ancient mummies
The walking living dead
Take care or you’ll become these
Walking around instead
Dinner I have eaten
With pharaohs and kings by many names
And I have beaten
Them at their many games
I have sat on the temple steps
In the shadow of a large mastaba
I chatted with the great Amenhotep
And the gods Isis, Anubis, Thoth and Ra
They told me I could become a god
If I live and died in the manner of a king
I thought that was a little bit odd
For I came here wanting nothing
Tomorrow we go off to fight
The empire of Kadesh
If you come, you will see some sights
That you will never forget
I saw the battle of Kadesh
Now written about on the temple walls
I saw the battle in the flesh
Now celebrated in the temple halls
I watched the battle and from what I saw
Neither side won the war
From my standpoint the battle was a draw
But the Pharaoh will celebrate a win evermore
Pharaoh Ramses lived to the ripe old age of around ninety two
He outlived a lot of his hundred children and many wives
He’s remembered as Pharaoh Ramses the Great who
Built many monuments and revitalized the Egyptian’s lives
When they found Pharaoh Ramses the Great’s body
They found no silver or gold
Only the great king’s mummy
Thousands of years old
The archeologists all made a great noise
Where was all the silver and gold?
Where was all the old man’s toys?
That the grave robbers stole and sold
A lot of his stuff is still out there
In Egyptian antique stores
And Egyptian homes and country fairs
To get something you could spend a lot for sure
Nowadays Ramses is lying in state in the Cairo Museum
And men and women and girls and boys
All flock to the museum to see him
And Tutankhamen’s wonderful toys
Written: September 12, 2023
Ocean Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
“The sea is an underwater museum still awaiting its visitors.” – Phillip Diole
______________________________________________________________
In the endless expanse of the ocean's domain.
Calm, circumfluous crystal collides coiling terrain.
A bed of iridescence behests the view.
Turquoise riddles, azure feral, and true
Humpback whales waltz on the horizon stage.
Their majestic demeanor, the ocean's sage
Waves akin to a shroud, coral reefs below.
In a cerulean ebony, enigma utopia to know
Tidal waves waltz ripples in a twirling thunder.
Foams that fizz and fatuous horses canter under
An aphrodisiac shore, paradisal and grand.
Where quicksilver spume kisses saffron sands.
Barefoot on the shore, spate, and pelagic breeze
The brine in the breeze, a savor of the seas
Seaside pearls and garrulous nautical dreams
A seamount allure, where kelpies do gleam.
Waves wreck as cymbals, water splashes spray.
Unplumbed bedrocks where sunfish play.
Blase naiads and abysmal gaunt cries
In the abyss, the embrace of diastrophism rises.
Swell of the abyss, corrugated, and red.
Balboa sails in pits due to intricate coastal spread.
Nebulous littoral shores, worldly and true
In Japan splurge, a seabed quells the view.
With a caper and a queen, the gulf turns alive.
Natal seaboard, where nexus coldness does thrive.
Beyond the gloom, where ocean waves are silver,
Moonlight pulsates, spritzes, and yelps as a river.
Whipping and splashing, an aqua symphony
The ocean's orchestra in idyllic harmony
From abyss to surface, the music does swell.
A symphony of water, where stories do tell.
In the moonlit dusk, waves waltz and sway.
Their silvery, pellucid shimmer steers the way.
With every pulsating and splashing sound.
Ocean's placate melodies and quiddity abound.
Abyssal symphony is a seraphic sight.
Where nature's cynosure beauty bears flight.
Waves, akin to dancers, gracefully behoove.
In a rhythmic squirm, their sapidity grooves.
Susurrus slipshod secrets of the steep
Splashes of euphoria, sojourn, and sweep
A symphony of splendor, a chorus of grace
The ocean's melody is in every embrace.
2nd place contest winner
Although I greatly loved socializing, I really enjoyed being alone,
Like ebony evenings of magic, with no ringing of the telephone.
Since my young childhood, I had been, an introverted extrovert,
Like one with eyes to azure skies, for solitary sun's extra burst!
I loved my work as a museum tour guide, as blossoms love rain,
And offish Mars loves twirling alone, in the red days of his fame.
Yet, in leisure hours I was often alone, like a full, alienated moon,
Or stunning, vibrant rainbows, that won't be amassing very soon.
Friends oft invited me to parties, and sometimes I would accept,
As sun is seen coaxing roses, from the beds where winter's slept.
I lived in the house of quiet starlight, each of them roving alone,
Like solitary, jade grasshoppers, when green grass is overgrown.
My nearest neighbor was my best friend, and we were like family,
Ofttimes together, laughing steadily, in the days of golden vanity.
Pleasant summer was in high spirits, with a whistling in the trees,
And a continuous, merry humming, from hives of the honeybees.
One day, I labored in my garden, while marigold blooms sang sun;
And I saw a lone woodpecker tapping, getting his own work done.
It was not the first time I'd seen one, and they were always solo,
Like a total eclipse of the glorious sun, making of him a no-show.
Then I saw a pink hummingbird, flying backward, and upside down,
Reveling in aloof, open air dining, out on the quaint sunshiny town.
This brought to mind adorable koalas, living out serene lives alone,
Like a dramatic, lone shooting star, heading out to zones unknown.
Later I saw a pretty emerald butterfly, more solitary than the birds,
They live and usually migrate alone, past the city's outlying suburbs.
Then there is reclusive, giant panda, active at night and by twilight,
When hued skies remember and review, the golden day's highlights.
Thinking of complex nature's solo acts, I did gain valuable insights,
For being alone is only natural, circumstances defining what's right.
I am no longer feeling guilty, but am accepting myself just as I am.
As the sun accepts taking over, when heavy storms are on the lam.
I still laugh it up at joyous parties, like fireworks and confetti stars,
Yet, I require long intervals of silence, like silky nights of no chaos!
DOES CHANGE CHANGE?
For history is wont to repeat itself
Ever reneging, constant turning on the hinges
For the old in nature’s obeisance
Enter oblivious existence
That the present may succeed the past
For things now visible and feasible
Were once formless vision, thoughts and whispered words
Does change change?
Will there be housing unit or tourist centre in the moon?
Will a white smoke produce a black pope
Will monarchy be separated from British democracy
Will Christian and Muslim find a common ground?
For the present order and scheme
Were the embryonic idea in the belly of the past
For just above some 1oo years ago
Popular commerce was the transatlantic slave trade
The equivalent of 21st century crude oil and narcotics
Long before Wilberforce crossed Hull’s bridge
Does change change?
Will terrorism go the way of the dead and forgotten
Will Palestine find Stately peace?
Will Osama ever find the salaam in Islam
Will Hamas and Zionists find a common factor of human race
For barely 15 years ago
Apartheid’s spectre stood stoically in South Africa
The Black now reign where they once toiled like lesser humans
For small-pox once held terror court
Near and far, leaving more casualties than wars
Dreaded like its 21st century incarnation –HIV
Less than 50 years ago
Black lived as slaves in sugarcane plantations across US
Now US first family is full blooded black
Does change change?
Will HIV become a mere word of old English
Will guns and nuclear weapons
Enrich and adorn our museum in 25 years now
Would Iran be rich in Uranium or people?
Will peace find a permanent seat in security council?
For it was Kings and Princes some time before
Reigned over lesser mortals as Lords and Masters
of the known world called empires and kingdoms
Now the emerging relics of our collective past
Wall-posters of where we have been, and regal tourist attractions
Government houses now in place of kingly courts; parliaments for palaces
Does change change?
Will semantics of poverty change to… say… property or plenty?
Will there be equality of the classes
Will woman truly be equal to man
Will there come a time when the day will nor break?
Will science conquer death?
Some time ago
Women were best house-keeping, voteless second class citizens
15th Saturday October 2009.
Jack is learning so much at home, he’s bright and cheerful and never alone,
there’s always something good to do, like playing with bubbles or a trip to the zoo.
Experiments with water and soap, testing if objects sink or float,
painting and drawing are so much fun, there’s so much to do, we’ve just begun.
Last week we went to BCLM, and learned how coal was mined back then,
no shower for you, when you got home,
a tin bath it was, but you didn’t moan.
No electric for your light, no tv to watch at night,
no pre-pack food or take-aways,
no fridges, freezers or microwaves.
History, science and a life of nowt, all learned about in a fun day out,
to actually see, with their own eyes, helps children’s brains to realize.
Being told things read from a book, is not the same as having a look,
to experience things through seeing and doing,
teaches us more in this life we are living.
A picnic in the museum grounds, then jump on the bus to look around,
down stairs first, to take a peek, then upstairs, to choose a seat.
Into the town we went on the bus, a man stood waiting and waved at us,
cobbled streets and lumps and bumps, down the road, past the petrol pumps.
Then to the narrow-boat for a trip, through the tunnels, watch that drip!
The limestone is white and crystal like, then out of the dark and into the light.
Legging the boat, through the narrow gap, is hard work for 2 at the back,
but we get through and come out at last, Jack’s glad he didn’t live in the past.
The chain-maker is doing a demonstration, he has a chain, for a link to go on,
he makes the link as we watch a while, “you would start at age 6”, he tells Jack with a smile.
So much fun we’ve had today, laughing and learning along the way,
looking at things, we’d never see, while stuck in school, at least till 3.
Jack looks at me with a smile in his eyes “thank you nanny, it was a lovely surprise”
“I didn’t know we were going today, to that museum to learn and play”
” I love being taught at home by you and seeing all the things I can do,
like making cakes and playing chess and doing experiments that make a mess”
We get home and Jack sits on my knee, “I’ll get that book you bought for me”
he reads his book to me out loud, I tell him ” I love you, you make me so proud”
Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.
We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘ed privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.
She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.
Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.
I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.
Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.
I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.
My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
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Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan
I gaze beyond
the silver winged
heart of
twinkling twilight,
lost within metaphors
in warm cashmere
bows of midnight.
Whilst lava lamps
for lost souls
f l i c k e r across
a maze of melancholy,
ghosts of past whispered
surreal sagas through
subtle mists~
silky snow that
d r i z z l e s
in the shape of crescent,
slowly trails
my moon-kissed skin.
If only the stars
of scarred silence
spoke the voiceless
truth raised from
the arms of trauma~
not every glowing
ray is destined
to be your wish
come true,
I was sculptured
in hailstones
of burnt ice,
and my ivory nails
drowned in the color
of your fire blood.
I am the throned
mistress of massacres,
a walking black storm,
that strikes onyx lightning
upon pearlescent
roads to hyacinth healing.
For everything
I touched
became frost,
when heavy clouds bled
to paint the skyscape
in citrine powder.
Perhaps, there is
no need of stretching
your fingers in gratitude,
as it shall
soon abandon
every lucky charm,
like the death of poetry
within inked
pages of
an accidental poet.
Yet, I still see
the unwritten
verses in your dewy eyes~
unsung
poetic confessions,
written in
diamond and rust;
“you’re the poison
I’m willing to take”
Like how romeo
died in the name of
a forsaken tale
told by the infatuated
soul of his Juliet~
Cupid’s bow still
is adorned with her
love-struck tears
that emanate
unshed truth.
So let, the alchemy
of dreams concoct,
a perfumed potion
from black
quartz rain,
to ease this caricature
lifetime of memories~
chasing sonnets
contrived in sorcery,
to seize the stories
of
misplaced prophecies.
whilst hope is flying
on paper wings
of a dark
horse carousel,
where my past self
was crystal-gazing,
to see the crown
carved from rhinestones
of shattered glasses,
piercing through
my honey mane.
But, this immortal
heart will remain
in a museum of
Monet’s garden,
where sorrowful
serenades linger
above thornless roses.
For I am heaven
and hell for you,
in everlasting awakenings
transcribed in turquoise
topaz till tomorrow…