Long Ottava rima Poems
Long Ottava rima Poems. Below are the most popular long Ottava rima by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ottava rima poems by poem length and keyword.
He was the Lamb that had to be slaughtered
during the Passover and without Calvary, there wouldn't have been any salvation;
nothing would have forgiven our unpardonable sin!
Christ, as Isaiah prophesied, came when Jerusalem
was in dire need of a king who promised freedom!
The Romans were the conquerors with that mighty sword,
but only the defiant Barabbas waged war against Caesar with many a rebellion!
Many say that we shouldn't venerate the cross which Jesus died upon,
but without the presence of that cross, we couldn't have been saved;
Jesus' blood gushed from it, to stain the rocks below, and wash all inequities away...
and the weeping and wailing of His mother Mary deepened when Christ expired,
as the earthquake jolted Jerusalem's streets and Temple,
to even make the envious and skeptical Priests tremble,
the radiant sun became invisible as darkness covered all;
and was it a coincidence or the undeniable fact that God Himself showed us His mercy?
We haven't carried the heavy wooden cross through Jerusalem and being whipped,
and laughed at; and we haven't seen those women cry for the Christ whom they heard speak;
and we haven't felt the agony of the most atrocious hour that He endured for us all!
An impostor wouldn't have suffered and died to become the Redeemer they awaited,
a liar wouldn't have glorified His Father and preached a Gospel that offered much hope;
History was changed at Golgotha, and human kindness nurturing divine love triumphed!
Lord Jesus, many heard you speak on the Mountain and beheld what we could not!
Lord Jesus, Andrew and John stood by you and comforted Your Mother with their tears!
As you promised the good thief...Lord, remember us, too when we testify in Your favor
or die for Your sake! Paradise awaits us, and all who believe in goodness, not evil;
the excruciating crucifixion was predestined, not being staged by Man who hated love,
it had to happen in order for Humanity to reconcile with their forsaken God of Israel!
We can never be worthy for Your sacrifice, unless we become the messengers of true faith...
to uphold truth and dignify love as you often did in words and deeds!
If we forget Your passion, nothing can magnify the purpose of Your death;
and without a shepherd, this flock will aimlessly roam among rocks and weeds!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Suddenly everybody was awaken by the strong tremors
of the early April's earthquake...walls falling all around them,
dust suffocating them as they ran out to the debris-covered streets;
with no slippers and shoes on their cold feet;
people of all ages with their robes and pajamas on...screaming,
running scared with horror-stricken faces, not wanting
to be buried alive and actually die in the rubble!
L'aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust,
and by the dauntless spirit of its people, it must be rebuilt:
as it arose from destruction and returned to dazzle;
the earthquakes that preceded were unpredictable,
but this one was announced by a concerned scientist,
who warned of the disaster, but authorities ridiculed him and didn't heed
the warning, but rather called him an imbecile!
O L'aquila, unless your bells hadn't rung, not everyone could have been told!
This medieval town of L'Aquila was besieged by armies,
but they never conquered it and its invincibility angered its enemies;
now, it is crumbling, shaken by the fury of the inclement Nature;
devastation is seen everywhere: churches with a toppled bell tower
or cupola...castles and historic buildings heavily damaged;
corpses strewn along the dusty streets...people searching for survivors:
digging with their bare hands to save lives, and some are found alive!
O L'Aquila, highest eagle on this devastated hill, see all the tears shed!
A dog, limping and bleeding, seems lost among dusty stones and faces not so recognizable,
is he looking for his owner; and over two-hundred fifty bodies not yet excavated...
how can he find him? By Heaven's mercy, someone lead him to the piles of rubble,
to let him sniff in the spot where he is buried...hoping he'll be alive, not dead!
And why should everyone despair?...Isn't life worthier than those lost art treasures?
L'Aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust and light is erased from the taciturn sky;
I weep like others, and my lamentation echoes in the doomed valley when peace was audible!
O L'aquila, more glory awaits you: arise from the ruins and your greatness won't fade away!
This poem is dedicated to the unfortunate people of L'aquila and those of the surrounding
villages that were devastated by the earthquake of early April.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
The crone can hear the children's laughter, cold as ice
And they exclaim out "witch", not thinking she can hear
Their parents then admonish, "Try to be quite nice."
Upon her thin, emaciated form they leer
Of love forbidden she has paid the awful price
Malicious magic powers all the children fear
She only wears black, mourning each and ev'ry day
Her world is full of dismal, somber shades of grey
She loved a wealthy cultured handsome gentleman
But she had not the clothes nor proper pedigree
And never would be issued any wedding bann
For poverty did not amuse his family
When finding herself great with child of his, she ran
She felt displaced, just like a dead uprooted tree
In bleak back alley child unwanted disappeared
No chance immoral tainted peccant child be reared
Although she lost her core, her heart, her soul, her mind,
She wandered dazed and crazy back to town she knew
Her fam'ly said, "We never have produced your kind."
There was no place to go and nothing left to do
But after mournful agony she came to find
Satanic powers very evil she would rue
She met the incubi in wooded forest glen
Although she knew it was an awful, grievous sin
Her soul and body raped by evil forces bold
Instilled in her the seeds of their foul awful pow'r
That grew more potent as she grew extremely old
Demolished, shattered self continued still to sour
Her sterile body, now quite barren, grew ice cold
A vile vexatious tongue lashed out at all each hour
Thus she became a bitter venomous old hag
While dressed in filthy clothes; on head, a dirty rag
She met a fine genteel young man, so good and kind
A person reaching out to all in charity
Attempted making better lives where he could find
He wanted human folk achieving parity
However, he had never met an evil mind
The succubus seduced his soul with clarity
She crippled psyche; took his cash, his bonds and stocks
Her languid lips convinced him caged; no keys for locks
Then when the moon was full one night, she murdered him
Around his vile demise all sorts of tales arose
She had dismembered rigid corpse each limb by limb
Disposed so very well of ugly bloody clothes
The whole ordeal had been a gratifying whim
Upon his naked body set a blood red rose
His corpse was never found; base tales do not abate
Today she suffers vile result of cruel fate
Rosebuds draft in scarlet, crimson, or maroon,
dreams to capture the viewer's point of view,
as its blossom's sheath their basis to its prune,
magnificent achievers rise in rows queue,
as the loss of age cast their field of thorn strewn,
shadows the facades to pipe a distinct tune,
shear away those sharp pokey points of danger,
and frail petals to amend its life-changer.
Amendments trail the housed maxed of tabletops,
of revived rosebuds claim a home as their own,
a treasured wealth trades with the town's floral shops,
then set at one's front wicket by an unknown,
or adorn tombstones as floral wreaths that props,
and crowned on a princess who sits on her throne,
a taxing burden to detain the death masque,
not tiny but thornless as Bonsai craft's task.
The Pyramid steps like the Baguio steppes,
where Filipinos view as their time-out spot,
the other is ancient for tourists who peps,
while an isle serves the rosebuds to sprout and squat,
nature confides stemmed thornless maroon by reps,
students check articles of the course they plot,
as a new breed of rosebuds shelved a terrace,
elegance embrace the solitaire heiress.
Loosely sketched parcels that the rosebud dwells in,
fresh sod fertile and well-sopped sealed neath the sun,
from its current strain, since its birth in Eden,
inspire blossoming with faint buzzes outdone,
coy rumors, green greener, red redder, seeds in,
East rises, and West sets, how the rosebud won,
Bonsai is an ancient craft not deemed as new,
man named rosebuds since their virgin birth, it grew.
Spring sprung sprouts as their healthy roots hug the ground,
a wealth of newborns reach for the warmth of skies,
its outstretched stem hardens merely being gowned,
a promised promenade paramount to rise,
by patrons, the sun, moon, and earth make their round,
a glowing shape as a rosebud is its prize,
the fields are graced with rosebuds color-filled rows,
as they grow in opened splendor till it snows.
Botanical Society best: Sowers.
ranked by their breeds and regions where they were raised,
down to idyllic truths, forthcoming growers,
who take pleasure in their leisure being phased,
where growth is best tended as their height lowers,
promised its dowery by virtuous praised,
reach prosperous glory in you or outpours,
rain or shine achievers within or outdoors.
A span of questions fogs the mind of man.
Some famous thinkers wonder; is there God?
Was man formed by chance or by divine plan?
If not by God, the Bible is a fraud.
Yes, Big Bang Theory through men’s minds does scan.
They may look at the world, like Adam, awed.
But the soul inside of me screams out, shouts!
The heavens pout when science leaves God out.
The Genesis account tells all minimally.
Man’s creation took God seven days.
If God’s creation to you seems flaky,
Consider that account in diverse ways.
After God rested, Earth life was empty.
Book one of Genesis says seven days.
Confusion says, “Look, a contradiction!”
The faithful say, “Find the explanation.”
Day-one atomic parts were organized.
God’s energy… orderliness began.
In great wisdom light and dark were revised.
Thus, light waves, sound waves, no waves as per plan.
Day-two divisions, has man theorized?
The waters were divided; place began.
Oh great expanse where suns-stars would soon shine.
Small things, together, all workings divine –
Day-three was the day for the seeds and trees.
Every species received traits by God’s hand.
Combinations of genes since then proceeds,
Day-four set the stars in the skies as God planned.
Our Universe became at lightening speeds.
Big Bang explains it to the human strand.
The Genesis account once known minimally,
Curiosity sees maximally.
Day-five, the day for birds, beasts, and creatures,
The genes were created, but not yet formed.
Every being received unique features.
The Powers of Almighty through space stormed.
Day-six: man, woman, genetic rapture.
To God’s great wisdom, creation conformed.
By these thoughts, my faith was persuaded,
That scientific fact has the truth, aided.
Day Seven, the day of blessings and rest.
God looked upon his goodly creation.
It was self-sustaining, working its best.
All forces, features, and facts did function.
God had laid the foundation for man’s quest.
However there was still much to be done.
He rested, time passed; creations seasoned.
Is there a God? Yes, for I have reasoned.
Ó January 26, 2014
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: In the faraway! (Old/New)
Sponsored by Giorgio V. Motiff Philosophical
*Genesis Decoded: http://www.redbubble.com/people/daneann/writing/3355478-
genesis-decoded
Even before the arrival of the first snows, so brilliantly candid,
we climbed mounts less dangerous than the Alps's;
and we proudly chalked it up to our experience.
Now the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders,
have lost their captious and so beatific image,
and quite too often we got pinched by burdock,
distracted by the robins chattering on a coarse descent;
I champed on crisp strawberries, while he challenged his strength.
My buddy never castigated me for my bizarre behavior,
and I admired him for displaying humor without repulsion,
or retort, and with chisel and hammer we engraved faces of historic men
on the smoothest rocks which were replete with their handsomeness.
Those adventurous afternoons are repealed when we look up,
and recreate them through our Male Chauvinism, cheery not dumb;
we felt like cave men making rudimentary drawings of their hunted animals,
while their women picked wild chicory for an early dinner.
Chums we were, resembling cowboys with wide hats in a chiaroscuro,
drinking in a bar filled with fashionable ladies frolicking and saying hello;
and chili con carne we ate, and plenty of beers to wash it down.
After our money was all squandered, our pockets were empty and we felt alone,
dazed...wobbling with fear, afraid to face our witless wives at home;
we were two idiots wooing empathy and some undeserving love.
And didn't they seem two witches ready for vengeance in their frown,
trying to squeeze the truth out of our silent and pretentious mouths too fulsome?
Frost will bring winter soon, and the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders will be covered,
our hair have turned almost white to match the bright color of the deep snows,
as this river is freezing up, to become a sheet of ice, where no boats or barges pass;
and we play chess, the intramural game of a confined life, without those clandestine affairs.
Our darlings approve with sweet intonation, intensifying their affection so amorous;
and we embrace them with that tenderness that they have long desired...
staring at the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders that these two climbers made their own,
remembering the cold and the shivering...coming down to a valley of comfort and domain.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Diane was like any other Long Island mother,
but on July twenty six she made an horrible mistake by smoking pot,
resulting in the death of five beautiful kids, as young as five,
and three passengers in a SUV driving northbound;
she drove intoxicated,erratically going the wrong way, plowed into this Chevy Trailblaser,
but her son Brian miraculously survived the crash...
frantically shaking her bleeding mom and desperately crying by her side!
Did she hear him? She was dying, and couldn't caress his adorable face!
Why did Diane get behind the wheel so high and under the influence?
Did she need a quick-fix to get away from her problems or illness?
I will not judge her, but the facts point the finger at her!
Mothers, drive sober on dangerous highways, be alert and avoid a crash!
You will regret it, if this results in the death of someone you love;
don't let the guilt forever linger on your conscience: do you see yourself
deeply moarning by a grave that shouldn't have been there;
and what will flowers do...console those who cannot hear, feel or love?
Out there, more mothers like Diane...hallucinated by visions,
drive recklessly because of ingested, harmful alcohol;
others mix liquor with marijuana or other illegal drugs,
and think that they have conquered the world with their high,
and they may not see another day when they lay there and die!
Listen you all, put down your rolled-up papers, and drinks,
save yourselves and your own children who deserve to live full lives;
don't cut them short...would you rather stare at their pictures on the wall?
Diane might have been nice and loving before taking the wrong path,
don't we all when our expectations don't exceed our wishes?
Whatever they may be, it would be wise to be satisfied with what you have accumulated;
don't ask for miracles with your undeserving prayers...they will not be admonished!
Start with humbleness and dedicate yourself to the noblest cause:
helping others, inspiring anyone who admires you...tackling their desire to live!
And what will be your reward? Only eldless joy...without the terrible spectacle of death!
The Taconic Parkway tragedy could have been avoided, if she had had more love to give!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
I often visited the prittiest and kindest lady,
who lived by an abandoned, weedy cemetery...
and she told me tales that made me dream;
up that pine-scented and rugged hill, the Devil tripped many times and finally fell:
when her holiness set her gracious face aglow!
And she never cursed God, but continued her creed,
believing that she was put on earth to sanctify love;
and she planted many seeds in the moist garden...flowers that made her life livelier!
Exchanging her pure soul for money, never tempted her:
living happily and continuously blessing God's name;
if that's how one is blessed, many shouldn't need to wonder...
how she never asked anyone for anything...relying on Providence!
Every spring morning she tended to those roses and gardenias,
like mothers care for their adored children; and she sang
opera like a glamorous prima donna on the illuminated stage:
how astonished were the passersby hearing those lovely areas!
Giovanna, lovely prima donna, sing another beautiful area for me,
let me hear how a soprano can feel that divine harmony;
teach me all the lyrics and the tunes that embellish them:
I am a quick-learner and my passion goes beyond my talent!
Giovanna, lovely prima donna, you sought no honors or earthly glory,
and your visions were grander than those idolized singers,
who only asked for applauds and repeats from the cheering crowds;
you had none of these...only this aspiring-tenor-to-be!
I passed by her house yesterday, the shades were pulled down...her garden
without butterflies was arid and the pretty flowers fluctuated no more;
and the tall pines trees didn't offer their inebriating, sweet aroma,
but there was no sound of Giovanna's voice, the voice of the lovely prima donna:
canaries and bluebirds weren't frantically tapping on her closed window!
In a white laced dress, wearing red shoes and a green velvety hat:
she displayed her national pride, recalling the enchanted land of music and poetry,
where her unforgettable childhood was spent with an innocence so free!
The Big Bang Theory and others devised.
Professors armed with latest editions.
Soon, teach as facts; oh, faith of youth revised.
Inspired, common suppositions.
Biblical creation too soon capsized.
Unaware, youth accepts false traditions.
Half-truths and questions upon young minds flay.
It irks me; I saw my faithfulness stray.
Had God finished his work in seven days?
But fields of plants and herbs had not been formed!
Had Adam not yet met his earthly phase?
That contradiction through my faith once stormed.
And countless questions set my soul ablaze.
Is Chapter two of Genesis malformed?
I prayed for answers; turned again to faith.
Pondering, wondering until Christ’s waith.
Inklings energized my logical mind.
For Genesis, decoding must be found. *
One’s faith in God never has to be blind!
Ask many questions with thoughts heaven bound.
Upon my brain, some secret truths would bind.
Before too long, the logic came around.
Yes, answer found, years ago; set me free.
Those first days began molecularly.
By searching fact and theory my trust grew.
I prayed for wisdom as I pondered life.
Past doubtful years had sent my faith askew.
Those days watched science lace my heart with strife.
But, God above would see my trust renew.
With deepest thought a helpful book was penned.
Genesis Decoded, brought faith, again.
I know there is a God who made all things.
Laws of physics and each atom show his force.
Genetics explored God’s created string.
Now, scientists have altered nature’s source.
Relativity, the Theory, God sings,
Molecules are moving along their course.
So let us feel and know wherein truth lies.
Upon the facts, not schemes, forever cries.
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Don't write for the contest, Contest
Sponsored by: Vicky Tsiluma
Ó January 26, 2014
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
* http://www.redbubble.com/people/daneann/writing/3355478-genesis-decoded
ALSO SEE http://www.redbubble.com/people/daneann/writing/3479742-bridging-the-
gap-between-science-and-religion-the-hypothesis
My Life My Way 1
In childhood mom says:
don't
In school mam says:
don't.
In youth she says:
don't.
After that my age will say:
don't.
Don't! , Don't! , Don't! ,
don't .
Count how many times
don't.
Now go to hell
'don't'.
All is well, I say
My Life My Way.
PART_2
Can you change my
Yesterday (past)?
Can you predict my
Tomorrow (future)?
Uncle if you reply
Can't.
Then why are you spoiling my
Today (present)?
Don't mess with
Me and my way
My Life My Way.
PART-3
Let enjoy life with full
ups and downs
As lion in the land
As hawk in typhoons.
Do or don't may confuse
But not me if I choose
Forget nonsense rules
To enjoy life soon
Be ready to win the race
I honestly say
My Life My Way.
PART -4
I am happy with my beliefs
Without worries.
They sell a story in series
But a miser don't have more pennies.
All miseries dying where
Jumping without parachute from air
Can you like feet in sack
Mind your business o! Jack
You can entertain heaven only
With in my way.
My Life My Way