Long Overrun Poems
Long Overrun Poems. Below are the most popular long Overrun by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Overrun poems by poem length and keyword.
A grand display the way she plays
the game of love to hearts’ dismay;
with shrewd foreplay she stalks her prey
expecting that she'll have her way.
Like game of chess with quick aggress
and strong pursuit she starts to press
with deep obsess and skilled finesse
to score the king, his crown possess.
With knights so grand held in her hand,
the pawns and rooks at her command;
she'll make her stand, her foe outmanned,
her strategy so deftly planned.
With game begun she starts her fun
and moves her pieces one by one
to make him run in hopes to stun
until her prey is overrun.
But not so fast my lovely lass
perhaps her house is made of glass,
and with his brass she's met her class,
and he will have his piece of her…
He’ll take her down and spin her round
and leave her pieces on the ground
so neatly wound and tightly bound;
he'll have his way...still she'll be crowned.
Despite their claims of skill and fame,
…who has really won this game?
She's not to blame, there is no shame,
‘cause deep within they're both the same.
February 18, 2020
They taxed us without our consent,
we who though we were Englishmen,
said we had no say in governance,
so we simply boycotted them,
threw their tea into the harbor,
let them know that we’d had enough,
they sent troops to beat our spirits down,
didn’t think we would be all that tough.
But when they marched for Bunker Hill
two times we made the redcoats run,
they crippled themselves for ‘victory,’
come and see what the rabble have done.
And when they arrived in great force,
our militias then tasted defeat,
they forced our forces from New York,
and pressed us down though New Jersey.
Many thought the game was over,
that is was but a matter of time,
then Washington crossed that river
to declare we were still in the fight.
Surprised all the dreaded Hessians,
asleep in their beds at Trenton,
didn’t lose a single soldier,
come and see what the rabble have done.
When Burgoyne started marching south,
determined to split up this land,
citizen soldiers from all around
assembled to challenge the man.
Locked in stalemate at Saratoga,
the British went out probing,
not expecting our forces would stand up,
much less charge forwards attacking.
The great professional army
soon would find itself overrun,
the first big redcoat surrender,
come and see what the rabble have done.
When Britain took Philadelphia,
the rabble went to Valley Forge,
Britain thought they all would freeze,
dwindle away until no more.
But those cold men, no food or shoes,
persisted against winter’s chill,
learned old Europe’s fighting style,
under Von Steuben they would drill.
At Monmouth they gave just what they got,
held their own until the setting sun,
beat the British at their own game,
come and see what the rabble have done.
Again at Cowpens, Stony Point,
King Mountain out in the back woods,
when the royal army struck at us,
we gave it back just as good,
until finally at Yorktown,
a French fleet blocking the escape,
the rabble came for Cornwallis,
who could only yield to his fate.
They played ‘The World Turned Upside Down,’
believed that the peasants had won,
not understanding who they had fought,
come and see what us Free Men have done.
*Image of The Adventures of Jonny Quest on File.
The Adventures of Jonny Quest and The Talk
[Truth be told, I was too young at the time to know the nuances as to why after a year, this cartoon series ended until later in life. Here is my interpretation]
Hey there Jonny,
what's with the "H".
Gave it to Hadji?
or the ole MPH!
You've been off the air!
What? The station's bare?
No more Jonny Quest Adventures?
Or heavily backed-up debentures?
No, we're just on a little hiatus,
Right, Hadj!
Nobody truthfully hates us,
No dodge!
It's Been a Long, Long Time, I feel!
Song of the sixty's is your spiel?
Man, I'm just stating some of the facts!
It's not about you it's about the contracts.
Read it, man, it's all there in black and white!
It's all signed on the bottom line, it's airtight!
Come on guys, they carried you all on a year's run.
Every episode had proceeded into a cost overrun.
The handwriting was definitely on the wall,
Someday, all the king's horses had to fall.
Thanks for all of The Adventures of, Jonny Quest!
As all good things must come to the end, at last!
So, I do want to apologize for sorta steppin' out-of-bounds,
Okay, guys, we're done here, lights out, release the hounds!
(Stage goes dark, as sounds bark ...)
2022 January 30
*1st Place*
a conversation with a fictional character
~~Natasha L Scragg: Judged 2022 March 02
KING ALFRED THE GREAT MODERN ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS
King Alfred the Great (c. 849-899), arguably the first great king of England, may have done more to lay the groundwork for English literacy and literature than any other English monarch. And he was quite the scholar himself, although there is no consensus that the following translations were primarily Alfred’s work. He could have done the translations himself; he could have overseen the work; or he may have commissioned the translations. No one really knows.
Alfred the Great undertook to translate “the most needful works for all men to know.” He wanted to succeed “both in war and in wisdom.” Alfred has also been credited with helping to develop a new English prose style.
The Meters of Boethius: Prelude or Verse Preface
attributed to King Alfred the Great, circa 880 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Thus begin the tales King Alfred taught us.
The great West Saxon ruler, in his cunning,
Understood the art of all songmen,
Revealed his great skill as a poet.
Keenly he longed for Saxons to craft such songs,
To make men merry with manifold amusements,
To ward away world-weariness with pleasing poems.
Alfred loved poetry for its art and power,
Longed for it to free men from both boredom and pride.
But the arrogant man, in his self-importance,
Pays little heed to wise words. Still I must speak,
Begin my singing, weave tales well-known
For attentive mortals. Hear me, if you will.
Boethius Lay I: The Goths
from King Alfred the Great's Meters of Boethius, circa 880 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Long ago the Goths left Scythia,
swarms of shieldmen streaming from the east,
two savage tribes tramping southward,
both growing in greatness year by year.
Under the rule of two remarkable kings,
Raedgod and Aleric, their people prospered.
Many Goths made it across the Alps,
intent on conquest, raging with war-lust.
Braying brazen battle-boasts, eager to attack
the awaiting Romans, their armor flashing,
stout shieldmen descended, waving war-banners
and slashing swords.
They intended to overrun Italy...
Keywords/Tags: Alfred the Great, Old English, Anglo-Saxon English, Boethius Translations, West Saxon, poet, poetry, art, power, pride, wise, wisdom, king, kings, leadership, war, battle, England, literature, words
My Love is like a cherished gift I covet in my room;
My Love is like a budding shoot forever caught in bloom;
My Love is like a melody I captured whilst in dream;
Of a lilting sensuality of a pleasure quite serene.
The passion of my Love can sear and yet can also heal;
There is no bar can measure how intense my Love can feel;
My Love warms me in winter's chill but cools my irate state;
With calming words of meaning my Love knows what soothes my aches.
I have seen my Love shed tears of pain as passions overrun;
I have seen a sorrow in my Love from hurts that I have done;
And yet I felt forgiveness from my Love that is so deep;
Absolving me from my past wrongs and setting me then free.
My Love lives that which teachings say as goodly souls we should;
Engender in each other and instill within our youths.
My Love is solid fundament of realism pure;
Not concepts or imaginings of damsels in knight's lore;
And yet the magic that my Love displays for me each day;
Would put to shame all fantasy in children's fairy tales.
Eerie parlor music squeaks out over the musty floral rug
No human people have been in here for a long time
The organ has lost some keys; which gives a weird sound
The ghosts in the attic cringe, remembering better days.
Once a showplace, the house is overrun by vermin now.
Skittering and scampering across the floor is commonplace.
Mice have nests in the rug, and in the long-forgotten divan.
Tiny streams of light come through the holes in the paper blinds.
Owners of this house have allowed it to die an unnatural death.
Urine smells keep the riffraff out; including a mother opossum.
It is the place where halfhearted spiders go to die.
Not haunted, yet, full of unhappy memories.
Why the organ plays herself, none of us know.
We wait in the shadows, willing a human to come forth.
Hoping they will somehow fix her up, making her fresh and new.
A man attempts to peek into the windows.
The organ ceases its dirge-like play.
We animals skitter into the darkest shadows.
A surprise for a realtor on this holiest of days.
Halloween, a day for crazed visitors.
Seems appropriate that he wears a mask.
Lovingly Dedicated to Billy and Kyle
I dedicate all of my living days to you, each one;
my heroic, special-needs son, my tender love and bond.
No labor defines the efforts from which your joys are spun.
My ultimate me is my all-time gift to you, my bro;
my lost, mentally-tossed brother, now joined in my home flow.
It is your needs that lift my daily gifts to heart-respond.
In God’s omnipotence, He set challenge on overrun
as He cast both your spirits as health tested and beyond
in His earthly realm where your current lives were begun.
You are each my sincere heart-loves, two miracles that show
my peace-centered, prime blessings to me in a full, vibrant glow.
If such is sacrifice, then of sacrifice, I am truly fond.
To aerate, babble and procrastinate
decluttering man cave rubbish
welcoming this temperate
(Billy me) idle March thirtieth
tooth house sand nineteen
eventually to accomplish
sorting thru lifetime
worth miscellaneous
papered material former
rainforest, I banish
to the shredder repurposing
once upon a time
stately majestic humongous
dignified cub billed bearish,
yet stern silent taskmasters
razed forest mongers left blemish -
fueling the roaring engines
of western civilization
paper products service
material world feeding bookish
appetite, sans (ironic
knotty twist) printed
hot off the press bulletins,
bestsellers inform boyish
wordsmith, how vast
treeless tracts hasten
global abomination, chopping
degradation, lamentation... brownish
blotches encompass inert naked,
torchered, and zapped
originally pristine realms
overrun by sawyers brutish
Paul Bunyanesque (sporting
as good) fellas carved
cleared, and cropped enormous
swaths back when bullish
intruders displaced indigenous
peoples crowing manifest destiny
as mantra to appease expansionist
predilection frenzied cultish
zero sum game to annex
unbroken wilderness promulgating
feverish gold rush to demolish
wantonly scorching Earth,
whereby present day burgeoning
population irrevocably establish
ruination ushering ominous augury
permeating mine mortal mutterings.
America, trillions in debt
gives to many nations!
Alas, what for, we are seen
as a selfish nation?
Homeless populate the streets
of LA.(thanks to governor Newsom)!
Yet don't you get it, we have
no extra money to pay.
No hidden vaccines do we store.
But all nations yelling...
More, more, more.
We are not a vaccine store!
I have no idea why we ever
helped our allies?
They do, to this day, forever
despise us
I would not come on an international
site.
Insulting any nation, as though what
they had, was my right.
We are on the road to becoming
Venezuela, two.
People waltz in here, like
we owe them a living, too.
Besieged with Covid at our
borders.
Thousands for a free monthly
check plus medications, such
hoarders.
There are people legally, wanting
to move here.
Overrun by gangs, the Cartels,
who have no fear.
I grew up in Chicago, quite
international.
Relatives, legally arrived when
LAW was still fashionable.
But we are expected to take all in,
as if we are a bottomless money pit.
Don't you understand, we've
surpassed our money limits?
Stop lying and saying we are
hoarding vaccines.
You are listening to the Cancel Culture
station, in itself, worse than the disease!
3/16/2021
~3~
Women
A point of view
They – flowers of diverse, exquisite, exotic, mysterious beauty –
are beauties that are meant to feed the eyes of men,
are beauties that are meant to stimulate the minds of men,
are beauties that are meant to set fires in the hearts of men,
are beauties that are meant to give wing to the spirit of men,
are beauties that are meant to be the resting place for the souls of men.
Women
They have become the thorns upon the stems of roses,
They have become the thistles that surround their flower,
They have become the poisonous plants that kill off pursuers,
They have become the weeds that strangle – overrun beauty
and assassinate all that nourishes passion, love, life, the spirit.
Men – responsible – has not evolved fast enough to keep up / get past.
B. J. “A” 2
December 29th 2006