Long Orators Poems
Long Orators Poems. Below are the most popular long Orators by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Orators poems by poem length and keyword.
If this was the last war
I'd see purged the shadow bombs that press us from sleep
I'd no longer view sky high places that bleed red
to the clouds
but celebrate a rejuvenated land free from the spray of guns
I'd hear church bells careening with the swell of promise
the pull of new movement
gleaming
like the dissolution of sorrow
I'd hear laughter broad, like peacocks preening
and hallelujahs from the lips of orators
I'd invade streets smeared with the joy of dancing
I'd no longer weep at new war graves with poppies on
crosses
I'd see the sacred cord that binds soldiers to their mothers
restored
I'd throw to a meadow sunflower seeds to grow a
Van Gogh
I'd take a hay wagon ride with my lover to debate love's
curvy options
with compassion now a measure of value
for the end of war is like dreams on high volume
that mark the preservation of life
in its most vital form
beyond the reach of forgetting
In endless quest we sought seclusions peace
hiding in the mystery of a strength always thought weak
and so denied the hero the still of death’s parade
waved surrender’s handkerchiefs to fill his empty grave
relied upon the charity of victory’s feeble thrill
struggling to rise above fresh bloodied horror’s sound.
Relentlessly the ears decry the loneliness of empty sound
as furtive eyes no future seek in fear of war, in fear of peace,
the agony of their disgrace, the joy of living without thrill
they know they’re strong, they know they’re weak
for somehow evading battles grave
to march in fiction’s harsh parade.
Solemnly on hush of wind, wars ghosts, in shadow on parade
march to history’s retold lies, leave no footprints, make no sound
for they will not resign their fate to earthen shell of shallow grave
nor will they let it slip behind the fragile wall of unearned peace
returning to a world in which we are perceived as weak
malign them with contrived disdain, condemn their sacrifice as thrill.
Podiums will hail the cause, cheering crowds create a thrill,
rolling drums will precede taps, politicians will parade,
orators with fiery words that make us neither strong nor weak
echoing across dead ears jaundiced by the painful sound
of promises that never are the troubadours of peace
and fall, as soldiers fall, alone upon a grave.
Newsmen mumble, double talk, of situations grave
amusement parks entice us with a death defying thrill
fire crackers, waving flags, noise to celebrate a peace
heads will bow when passing by war’s endless parade
the young will even shed a tear at taps lamenting sound
grit their teeth and know that honor’s tears don’t make us weak.
For freedom is the resting place for the bravest of the weak
who stand in freedom’s honor when the threat is grave
and rally to defend her, to keep her promise sound
not seeking to be heroes, nor the deception of war’s thrill
just honoring the memory of those still on parade
knowing there’s no solace in seclusions peace.
At heart we know that all are weak, that war is not a thrill
that those who fill the graves are shadow soldiers on parade
that the melancholy trumpet sound is the exhaled breath of peace.
John G. Lawless
©6/19/2014
Toothless Dragons
And so the toothless dragons roar
tepid flames of apathy staining the air
regurgitated realities revisited
picked at in search of sustenance.
Circling, they do the hating dance
feet spurred to movement by heat
applied by flaming puppeteers
protecting the strength of their strings.
Moving - the flaccid jaws of acquiescence
beholden to the controller of the strings
paralyzed by the power of weakness
voice-less orators forever pontificating.
Dragons – seeking victory’s defeat
pure fire stolen and defiled
truth’s roar relinquished to their “keeper”
free flight denied to vision’s quest.
There is no power in the grip of power
no freedom in the clutch of lies
no wisdom in the sight of “blinders”
no teeth required of the pabulum fed.
John G. Lawless
10/3/2015
A vast multitude adorn in dregs purloining,
Fashionable filth clocked with piety,
Showmanship on sacred alters,
Multitude of compromised public orators.
Fair formalities of professors void of sincerity,
A subtle subversion of ancient landmark.
As scandalous abomination alters this call,
The affinity of sheep and the goats,
While men slept, a mixture of poison,
Clerics of the dark kingdom,
With multitudes of biblical illiterate,
Suiting the flesh, seeking Dara prim relief,
Unconquered flesh and gain seekers
Ego vaunting and magical scene to attract multitudes,
Scarcity of Teachers with spirit power.
Public show devoid of private piety, attending our days.
The Holy Lord suspended as men with itching ear socialize.
Ichabod! The emblem on our walls.
Magicians on pulpits lacking puritanical piety.
Simon the sorcerers with microphones as Peters are murdered John banished,
The Constantine type Christianity with allegiance to the state, unwilling to the stake.
Where Ahab is pampered by Elijah.
And Jehoshaphat in affinity with enemies of Truth
Religion devoid of righteousness.
Is this the cause for which God became man?
Take away the dross
Oh, for an impassion commitment to duty
Oh, for another awakening, with enthusiasm for truth.
Oh, for a real revival.
Yeshua hamashiach,
Beneath thy cross I own my guilt
Revive thy work, Bring us back to Life.
I pattern my rhymes to relate to the divine plans of the maker/
Marvel at how my nouns and verbs seem to dance on the paper/
Advanced orators don’t hesitate to drop the prepositions/
And don’t use words unless you know the proper definitions/
Create metaphors and similes to enhance the verbal imagery/
Discard any absurd words that disturb the symmetry/
The energy used in your verses should be used in your chorus/
And don’t be ashamed to use a dictionary or view a thesaurus/
The law is never to bite a rhyme cause you’ll face relentless hell/
Always practice your elocution when the opportunity presents itself/
And defend yourself whenever you’re faced with instigation/
Constantly write what you see. Don’t waste the inspiration/
Some misuse their muse and write pieces that barely move/
Find topics in your daily news or try views that’s rarely used/
Don’t choose to follow pop kids in their quest for tall pockets/
Their life is all profits as they digress to false prophets/
Claim to be discerning entities without learning empathy/
Requiem for fallen emcees as their bodies burn in effigy/
My recipe for writing lyrics of all classic varieties/
Mix in skill and honesty and add small dashes of irony/
Don’t lie to me about packing heat for handling stress/
Damsels in undress and how your style’s damaging reps/
Can I suggest you keep it real and spit I can feel/
Ink scripts with writing skill and flow sick with mic appeal/
Don’t get discouraged for fear that all your peeps will hate it/
This is the primary obstacle on the road to being creative/
And be original, whether you’re a warrior or a pacifist/
Find your own niche in the realm of emceeing and master it/
/
There’s 7 billion stories in this world all ya gotta do is tell em….
The Poets are our quintessential rebellious, rebels
The Maroons, the Braves, and the Daredevils
There is a ton of biases even in simple poetry
The Poets are known to be born freedom fighters
The unafraidheroes of hell, the sweet bees
Which can sing and sting, and deliver honey
Even in Poetry, we encounter weird free-loaders
Sick unabashed orators and pusillanimous braggers.
The Poets are born to be different, legally liberal
Awkwardly conservative, strong ass-kickers
Blunt truth seekers, and not obedient ass-kissers
Call the generals, the Police, and bring the arsenal
Of bloated words, and epithets; dumb or foolish attributes
Write verses and elegiac poems to pay countless tributes
To the sorry plagiarists, and to the ill-polished writers
Nobody cares anymore about the well-versed truth tellers.
Copyright © November 2017, Hebert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
The Sparrow
by Positive Mark
Torch-burnt quills never offer apology.
Scorched earth policies revive a dead polity.
Force fed intellects give rise to economy.
Those who don’t fit, I advise you to follow me.
First, let’s pay homage to walls that were climbed.
Put in the time, and you’ll shine like Coach Prime.
Kill or be killed at the devil’s insistence.
If you lack fortitude, strike from a distance.
Fiery orators once fit the bill.
Now, they’re a hallowed list of confirmed kills.
Dead at the podium.
Dead on the balcony.
Genocide rhymes have become the new alchemy.
Armies of men show their butt on the street.
Reeks of an old auction, selling Black meat.
Honest comedians cancelled for jokes.
This is the new definition of woke.
Now higher frequency thought has been shattered.
Shirts weren’t printed when Black lives still mattered.
No reparations for cultural rape.
Modern day poets ain’t bustin’ a grape.
Torches on quills that were once burning arrows.
Who watches you, when his eye’s on the sparrow?
An ugly contraption, but you didn’t mind ; a temporary solution of the permanent kind. It served you well in those hard years when you were most unwell, when you needed utility more than beauty, economies more than luxury, and loyalty more than the flattery of perfumed orators.
But now that the barren desert has been crossed, and new shiny things vie to seduce and usurp, will you forget your roots and the old that gave you fruit? Will you join the vast ranks of rakish ingrates, or will you prove loyal and true, and hold onto the hand of a wilting friend?
Poem released into Public Domain
Organization man. In the best sense
creating the environment in which experiments
can be savored and remembered.
Then there is the world of interlocked
organizations. A world of missions and contracts
finely tuned and binding.
Is the formation of associations
as instinctual as nesting and gestation?
A leader may be one who asks a question.
Or may be one imposing order.
Imposed through consensus and broad shoulders.
Waits, watches, acts his part.
I was impressed by the list of distinguished senators
from Vermont. He placed himself among men,
orators, imperfect, in history.
We march forward, imperfect in our justice
and compassion. Overriding logic with conscience
sometimes, not often, when it counts.
And mercy. A seemingly irrational, total
abnegation of the markets, rules of war, law.
Good to be so flawed.
In slumbering slope they lay,
their gaiety snores in rhythmic peaks of cadences,
The lily livered japes
Kings from central castings,
Heroes of one hour,
jostling for President with mere words
Resigned to bed now, save one.
Cowards, afraid of prison walls
seeking fame by fraud.
Oh Fame, how Disinterested
oh time, how revealing
motives concealed but not to all,
they were boys all along
impressing us by publicity
with drama for the surface
But the sternest stood alone
though jeered and calumniated, yet undeterred
taunted by the guns of the oppressors
marooned in their prison
confined to Abuja
denied of dignity
Yet his passion soars with coruscation of brilliancy
The quest for freedom stems from the heart
the cause for which he dared a tyrant
who sought a cause by a fraudulent jurist
to make him bend or make him bow.
unlike the cowards he never stooped,
he stirred the oppressed from their slumber,
and made some men by delayed revolution.
where are all the orators who came to bury Caesar by campaign?
They snore in the bedroom unaffected by the groaning of the people
some seeking publicity by suing twitter,
others purloining at the tables of business felons.
In the struggle for emancipation,
the boys are separated from the men.
Dedicated to Omoyele Sowore
The Nigerian Born Activist
who stood alone when other younger candidates resigned to fate after the fraudulent election that imposed Buhari