Long Nobility Poems
Long Nobility Poems. Below are the most popular long Nobility by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nobility poems by poem length and keyword.
Compelled by growth in time
Hoping to arrive in a matter of time
Away from the land they know
They left for a land they know
Thousands of miles away
The vast lands all lay
Clothed by the greens of nature
Inhabited by bands of creatures
Out of this must come
That which must be a home
Great was the task in hand
Great was the fear in mind
Fear of failure placed aside
Off they went to conquer the land
Day by day they worked at site
Bites and stings nearly at hand
Digging and tilling the order of the day
Drains and paths in order to make
Block on block they began to lay
Structures for shelter in order to make
Now from far and near can be seen
The glories and wonders of a scene
The land of thorns and thistle
Turned so great a castle
The citadel of wisdom and nobility
The palaces of princes in humility
What huge landmarks and sores
The fruit of the great pioneers
He:
Pardon me,
It is I, the peasant gentleman.
From yester’s encounter.
I apologise for not revising nobility.
But as I said I have seen you before.
She:
I doubt we have met.
I never forget a face,
Perhaps you mistake me for one of your women.
He:
Ha-ha, I may not be a man of noble raising.
I would have loved to have women;
But my dignity I value, even as a man.
Many affairs would not serve my purpose.
She:
What is it that you want from me?
I do not care of your affairs.
Or anything of your interest,
I would very much like my space now.
He:
I had my doubts before,
Now I am sure you will recall our numerous encounters.
As your tongue is still as bitter.
They called you Amanda, of which I’m sure you still are.
Pardon me, I did not mean to startle you.
She:
How could you possibly know my name?
He:
Ah! Finally I have broken your daze.
Though the look on your face is still amiss.
I believe you could never remember me.
As I looked a little different back then.
She:
Well, given the impression.
Maybe we did not run in the same circles.
As I said I never forget a face.
Is this altercation necessary?
He:
Pardon me,
I mean no harm,
Let’s forget I know you, nor you I.
Please let me lend an ear.
Pardon me but it sure seems like you need one.
She: sighs deeply
He:
It would not help to keep all that agony.
You might wrinkle, my mamma always told me.
Some say confiding in a stranger eases your woes.
I will not judge you.
She:
At the crack of dawn I rose up looking….
Ha-ha, I was looking for my children.
I was looking for my husband.
I did not find either.
All I found was an emptiness.
He:
Terrible endeavour that must be querida.
At our age one would like to have it all.
But that’s no reason to despair.
Is it not that we all serve a purpose?
She:
I should be on my way.
Pardon me this time.’
I have cats to tend to.
© Herzel Poshiwa
Form:
(William Hammer, Thomas Alva Edison's assistant,
has reached the end of his tolerance. His boss is
planning to electrocute an elephant for a publicity
stunt.)
If he goes through with this, the dam has burst.
I'm done with him. Of all the tricks he's pulled,
this is the lowest, cheapest, cruellest. Worst.
Yes, Edison. He can't be serious,
can he? To execute an elephant?
He's out there, grinning like a Barbary ape.
Where two or more newspapermen are gathered,
Alva loses all his self-control.
He'll be there now, perspiring, shouting, lathered,
excited to his flinty, vulgar soul.
I'm William Joseph Hammer. Who are you?
A quarter-century I've spent with him,
but now the scales have fallen from my eyes.
The man's a pirate and a charlatan.
Inventor? Him?
Well, since I'm stranded here
in shabby Coney Island in the rain,
ignored and slighted, spited yet again,
I'll tell you. Edison did not invent
the light bulb - that's what he employed me for.
Besides, I'll name a dozen scientists
who'd made a working lamp some years before.
What is he good at? He's a patent-mill!
He takes out patents like a dentist, teeth
(except that dentists never put their name
on what they've pulled). The man has got no shame.
The team has all the talent, he the grin:
we think the thoughts, and Alva cashes in.
I think he's met his match in Westinghouse.
The so-called war of currents. Who will win?
America will buy one set of goods,
and where this country leads, the others go.
To get his system in American homes,
He'd kill his grandma.
Hence this all-time low.
He's worse than Czolgosz. At the very least,
the latter had nobility, although
misguided. Alva has no other cause
beyond himself. Those motion picture-things
are here for Alva's glory. When the blow
extinguishes that poor beast's life, you'll know
whose self-promoting hand was on the tiller.
Saint Thomas Alva Edison's a killer.
NONPARALLEL NATURE
Novel Nature notifying nobility
Overwhelming opulence of resources to explore.
Nonparallel nonpareil
Pretty precise in perfect purity
Amazing astounding administrative affinity.
Rustic raw yet rolling on refinement
Attaining artistic adaptive ability
Liberal Law of Nature supernal
Lovely lovable luminous in diversity of life.
Emancipating eccentric ecstasy.
Leading smartest role in stirring emotions
Nurture Nature for future.
Alluring attracting your kinship to Nature.
Twined turbulence and tranquility.
Undaunted unconquerable unbounded unique ubiquity
Radical rational reasonable reality.
Enhancing evolution on excitement enrapturing, exulting admiration.
07/12/19
Contest on 'FINE TUNE THIS COLLABORATION'
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The nobility, the priesthood,
The common, the slaves
A life's journey fixed,
Elected for life or
Passed from father to son.
Omens, divinations,
Predictions, reading future
They were skilled mathematicians,
Historians, keepers of knowledge
Recorded details in codices.
Books of fig bark paper
Mayans wrote, kept count
Of Sun's path, tracked Venus
With surprising Accuracy,
Marked zenith twined with beliefs
Hard workers ate well,
Worshiped their many gods
In willing exuberance
Artisans, carvers,
Traded true, cities grew
Peaceful obsidian warriors
Extravagant kings and queens
Fell to their own intelligence
Wrath of gods unfurled red-carpet
For death and destruction
Nothing to eat, nothing to carve,
Nothing to record, nothing to trade,
Nothing to fight, none left to please god
Nothing to sacrifice, simply collapsed.
They weren't spared, would we be?
Milady, you were always loved
For twenty-five years, the people honoured you
They believed you were one of them
Not either royalty or nobility
Just the same as they were
But you had someone loving you who you did not know
No one knows anything about it
Just that it arrived on the day you were buried
Milady, it must have boundless love for you
Every night, it comes to you with a white crystal rose
It just sits on your tombstone waiting for you
Sadly, you may never return
But know, milady, that love is there for you
All in the guise of a raven and a rose
© Poem – XI/VIII/MMXXV
LRET
the sands
a practice in patience
as they shine inner
tranquility
the sands
mystify with colour
a minds silent
solitude
the sands
shines a light inside
shining on the jewels
of truth
the sands
opens the door to
nobility, love and
harmony
the sands
a creation of the universe
they have a beginning
and an end
the sands
lift the mist then
float in calming
waters
the sands
a symbol
of life
More often, her soul widens
farther than breaths of a moon...
and through irreverent eyes,
she saunters into the ledge of woods
past time's curfew and nobility --
a wanton stroll by this sylph
daring the commoness of old rules--
Twirling along pebbles and sand,
kindling night's liniment glorious
like the flared climb of dusk,
her wildfire spews a wanton blaze ----
fearless like some insolent woman
rising from mediocrity, burning oil
while dragonflies sleep in a lull ;
her navel radiant in the flickering,
feathering night with such
stubborn will...a maverick defying
traditional anthems of her nun's school.
Yet, this flared essence turns into warmth
as she tenderly flushes my fears at night
to hold the moon soft blue
while her arms delight in classic tunes,
cleansing my tears with hums
of ardor...and wings spread on
hope's ride divinely beaming with grace:
Mother.
Mama- light tenderly cuddles me;
each sky, each ream of grass
healing my rough, young adult soul...
...Apologies to Heraclitus and W. H. Auden...
We, defeated by the merest things,
in defeat, endure...for now.
No abiding truth in faith:
origins and destinations
we cannot differentiate,
all random, unguided
by any prescient power;
but, not illogical
(there is no illogic.)
We impose all universal order,
influence what subsequently occurs,
to learn, or not, through endless repetition,
endless failure...and we are
but a current iteration,
here for now -- in constant flux,
defeated by the merest things.
Courage and nobility derived
from continued confrontation,
continued endless struggle,
let us show an affirming flame.
Venice, the daughter of the sea
Winding paths, waterways or cobblestones roads
Rulers of the renaissance, noblemen would be
Her navy full of conquests, her triumphs all would see
From nobility rose, a woman fair
Her life a whirlwind, with her share of despair
Banished from Venice, for daring to speak
Her desires and wit, did many a man seek
The golden rose the pope did give
As she fled to Florence, so young and deceived
Her strength in spirit and a mind so refined
Her friend Marco, the captain, with whom she dined
He parted his wisdom as best he could
He sailed victorious, for Bianca he should
His secret was safe out on the seas
Which is why he and Bianca, could never be
Her royal blood would keep her in stead
As nobility in Florence would turn their heads
Francesco indeed would commission a palazzo
For Bianca his mistress, in waiting, his queen
The Grand Duchy of Florence, all powers bestowed
A seeker of knowledge, of wisdom composed
His Austrian wife, alone, cold and barren
Could not compete, with his love yet to be
They danced, they confided, in each they held
A love of intellect, beauty and lust to be feld
And sadly, one day, the enemies of Venice
Plotted and schemed to bring about a demise
The poison was swift, and an era did end
In a villa in Florence, Francesco was dead
Bianca his love, her beauty unblemished
Fell by his side, and whispered to thee
My dear, my love, it was meant to be
Bianca Cappello (1548 – 17 October 1587)
Note: OK OK I invented 1 new word, that's what poets do