Long Napoleonic Poems
Long Napoleonic Poems. Below are the most popular long Napoleonic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Napoleonic poems by poem length and keyword.
you like history here you go, a list of their history in short
740. BC The Assyrians cursed them.
579. BC The Babylonians fell asleep and remained for about 60 years.
70. The Romans suppressed their rebellion and destroyed their temple.
135. The Romans suppressed their rebellion and expelled them once and for
all.
626. The start of their expulsion from the Arabian Peninsula.
1080. Expulsion from France.
1098. Expulsion from Czech Republic.
1113. Expulsion from Kievan Rus (Vladimir Monomakh).
Since.. Hoarseness of them in Kiev in 1113.
1147. Expulsion from France (second time)
Expulsion from Italy.
1188. Expulsion from England.
1198. Expulsion from England (Second Time).
1290. Expulsion from England (Third Time).
1298. Expulsion from Switzerland (extermination of 100 of them by hanging).
1306. Expulsion from France (third time, hot. s 3000 of them alive)
Expulsion from Hungary 1360.
1391. Expulsion from Spain.
1394. Expulsion from France (Fourth Time).
1407. Expulsion from Poland.
1492. Expulsion from Spain (second time and passage of a law banning them
from entering the country forever).
1492. Expulsion from Sicily.
Expulsion from Lithuania and Kiev.
Expulsion from Portugal.
1510. Expulsion from England (Fourth Time).
Expulsion from Portugal (second time).
1516. A law in Sicily allows them to live in their own neighborhoods only.
1541. Expulsion from Austria.
Expulsion from Portugal (third time).
A law in Rome allows them to live in ghettos only.
Expulsion from Italy.
Expulsion from Germany (Brandenburg).
Expulsion from Novgorod (Ivan the Terrible).
1592. Expulsion from France (Fifth Time).
Expulsion from Switzerland (second time).
Expulsion from Spain and Portugal (Philip IV) (Fourth time).
1660 . Expulsion from Kiev (second time).
1701. Complete expulsion from Switzerland (decree of Philip V).(Third time).
1806. Napoleonic Alert. Padarja.
1828. Expulsion from Kiev (third time).
1933. Expulsion from Germany.
Covid-19, do you run
on some evil foot
out of sight,
beneath the light
till your Napoleonic march
brings you to rout?
Or out of habit
Do you lust for old flesh
due to a generation gap?
Alien footsteps on our life intrudes
I hear cacophony of voices
counsel you to retreat
If you like our fireside
then consider the option
of a cease-fire.
In our sun-touched garden
your breeze of death
solidifies our pillars
of faith.
Across the wide swath
mother earth's bleeding
deploring your running stream.
Radiant glows our faith
against your lava
pouring in the hillside.
Fabled ways of flames and fire
we're more used to than
your cold killer façade.
Your rapid-fire genocide
is candidate for a new
Nuremberg trial.
America, fought by our brave fallen few,
Our men and women who honored our flag,
Our nation freedoms grow strong,
Our government is thought to be a democracy, gangocracy or mobocracy,
Our impetus, the Napoleonic Wars when Latin America became republics,
Our consequence is a country that has a fair representation of its people,
Our forefathers who created, the US Constitution and defined quite clear,
Our nation is a Republic, one under God,
Our laws make us great as if written by pencil where we can erase,
Our wrongs can be amended,
Our rights will protect us,
America is truly blessed.
2020 January 02 *2nd Place*
Whitman-Inspired Uplifting Poetry, old or new Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Carolyn Devonshire
Zolpidem kept me late, the library had been open for hours.
Young children studiously ran amok
from one poster plastered aisle to another.
I have this thing about female librarians.
I had hoped to have grown out of such fantasies,
emerging perhaps like some immaculate moth
from the grubby chrysalis of this crumbling body but…
The sight of a full-figured, middle-aged bespectacled lady
pushes demanding impulses through my bloodstream;
I retreat to the dark heart of the Napoleonic wars
where history archives many a pervert.
Old men fight wars, the young die for them, but outcomes
(exactly when the bloodletting must stop), they are played-out
in the deranged minds of those who then publish the books.
Of course, they always knew they would get away with the lies,
probably knew that I would be here hiding
between these dishonest pages,
with nothing on my Ambien fueled mind,
but middle-aged female librarians.
~~~~
‘When will I anchor here again?’
The sailor’s heart then cried.
He asked it of the wind and wave,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The horizon called and still he stalled,
looking long from the landward side.
He wanted to shout his farewell out,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The mist began to veil the hills
where he left his weeping bride.
Would she hear his wretched sad goodbye?
But ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The captain’s call and the bosun’s pipe
could not now be denied -
so he whispered prayer to return back there,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
And for all the moons and different stars
and a thousand change of tide,
he raged to be away from home,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The storms blew and the cannons roared
and somehow our sailor died.
His bonnie over the ocean wept
and ‘shh’, the sea replied.
I have no clue what Krshna taught Arjuna
but I like the name Atman a lot.
Atman. Atman. Where a man is at.
At all times. No matter what.
Gita, get in the action, gorgeous girl,
God is the answer, keep the meter.
Wisdom, none.
What Krshna tells Arjuna makes no sense.
I prefer mathematics.
Knowledge of how things are made and done
more than meditation on the Self
as a manifestation of the One.
I’ll never have to leave this comfortable planet.
We have this asset but can we sell it?
In Paradise Lost, Satan executes his plan
but God already knows all about it.
Still, whether it succeeds or fails is up to Man.
Same here, when it comes to nuclear armaments,
a distraction from the work of making life permanent.
It is all premised on the mystery
of invisible but sentient particles—
little Krshnas and Kachinas
nesting inside one another.
Meanwhile life goes on outside all around you—
WWII, the Napoleonic wars,
the Civil War which we’re still fighting.
Krshna says behead your brothers
without prejudice or justice.
So it transpires in the nuclear fire.
Whatever forever.
Teacher, teacher—tiger!
you want to know a secret
when I write a poem and it's perfect
i dont share it
i bury it
deep inside of me
where no one else can see
i mean its perfect
not like this shift
it's elegant, poignant,
simplistic, bueatful
trucking perfect
its not erotic
but i read it
mentally masterbate to it
a euphoric chorus
straight form thesaurus
its just that great
im not being egotistical
if read, it would become universal
a meter tethered in clasical measure
a rythmic flow
with many metaphoric undertows
an iconic harmonic tonic
to make you feel like an embryonic hedonic youth
im not being napoleonic
its an actual truth
factually accurate
high in heaven
it produced a tear in the eye of god
who proclaimed
not a single flaw
not a single flaw
and he only saw what i wrote
well, because hes god
me being me i like to tease
allow me to be inclined to share a few lines
blow your mind
redefine your collective defective perspective
realign your ineffective respective connective tisue
"all my cows milk is homogenized
all my crows are well organized
all my sheep like to stare and creep
like to stare and creep"
but you'll never see
the rest of my secret poetry
that only exsist inside of me
cows will always moo
crows will always ka kah
sheep will always go baah baah baah
and the perfect elagance
of my literary inteligence
will die with me
never being seen
qouted, memorised or plagerized
as i will say with my last gasp
the next line being twice my last
all you super-duper-soupers can kiss my ***
ok all you super-duper-soupers have been slammed. if you want to slam me back just a few things. make it funny. make it a little nonsensical and definitly make it over the top
and if you do slam me back send me a soup mail or leave a comment so i can go read your slam.
Take Out the Landry
Dirty laundry for years on the floor
finally the dirt is out the door
Quebec is cleaning house
separatists being laid to graves
like Napoleonic mouse's
bury their rhetoric too
twelve feet deep
Wrinkled ex leader with
no musket or balls
no lead, leaderless
man of poisoned dreams
nationalist and king of hate
trumpets play for his distaste
if your wool is not pure
you do not belong on his shore
Villain as Lucifer or Lucien
robbing the people of their future
all for his midget delusions
now to be inhumed
in his own dirt
he will of course blame
the Chinese laundry mat
who lost his ticket
He is not to be interred
in red rags
honor will shed not one tear
where is his Nazi flag?
Boxed at Notre Dame
the church like Vichy
honors dictators and their clan
funerals they all say nice things
still
they toss out the laundry
as Canada sings
Only Toronto thanks him
for the prosperity