Long Palatial Poems
Long Palatial Poems. Below are the most popular long Palatial by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Palatial poems by poem length and keyword.
an elephant and a mouse, were the best of friends,
everything they shared, from bed on grass to food they taste.
Jeremy the wisest elephant, and Elena the smartest mouse,
had so much fun together, planned to build a palatial house.
you are big – the mouse says, you are tiny – the elephant laughs,
together we are so powerful, together we are strong enough.
they built a palace, majestic, with huge bedrooms ten,
two living and two dining, and an enormous kitchen!
what is their favourite food? of course cheese for Elena,
Jeremy loves nothing better than leaves of banana.
together they lived happily ever after, all animals loved two friends,
singing and dancing merrily, the perfect pair in the forest.
May 21, 2021
(I still admire Shakespearean classic English as it sounded more poetic so I wrote this in that way)
O' man thou erecteth palaces, castles and courts
while on death a mere grave sufficeth thee
How magnificent and formidable thou maketh thy forts
in thy wish to make both future and history.
Thou who art' accustomed to mighty marble walls
and mansions of mirror, silver and gold
Thy grave shalt be small compared to palatial halls
even if a thousand demons it may hold.
Not a coin or even half a coin of gold
wilt thou take with thee to thy empty earthen grave
All that shalt ye leave behind for others to behold
and now shalt ye fear though ere thou hath been brave.
Thy innards shalt merge with mere earth soil and sand
No matter now if ye dwelled in huts or palaces of gold
Thy grave shalt occupy the tiniest portion of thy land
From the warmth of quilted beds wilt thee lie in the cold.
Thus ere ye consider founding, building thy imposing edifice
a homeless vagrant if ye shelter in thine care
Knowing our lives art' but on a mere precipice
while the joy of giving doth give a joy beyond compare!
Death's a journey but no provisions can ye take along and fold
How shalt ye respond when it inevitably calls?
Our skeletal bones, a simple ditch shalt amass and hold
as the living walk all over us with gentle footfalls.
Shakespeare too returned to dust as hath saith he
and while many might abandon his archaic style
yet his quill shalt vie for soul-like immortality
for his works might flow on as does the old Nile
Palatial palace with exquisite stained glass trim,
White marble floors, private pools in which to swim.
Peacock murals with unicorns and striped tigers too.
In the middle of this outstanding dream appeared Old Blue.
Where have you been? I asked my deceased husky friend.
Nowhere this gorgeous, he stated, and we both grinned.
Heaven’s not this beautiful? I asked, fully super surprised.
I wouldn’t know, he replied, I did not win that prize.
I thought this was interesting to say the very most.
Old Blue walked off with Jesus and The Holy Ghost.
Maid gave me frosted cinnamon roll number seven.
Pretty sweet dream my first day in the ultimate heaven.
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
Hart Crane tribute
forsake our eyes
in a lovers cry
&sigh
shadows sweep decends
that
doubtful day:
a lie revealed
now proved
first seen
in its fall
on a cloud
beyond desire
a tide of voices
sleeves
of sound
wash away
slowly distills
clustering
then
sleeps
out of sight
singing low
of long ago
times rcalled
I used to see:
timeless
now torn
on wayward plight
silently
below
into the dan
rhythm
drew a crash of leaves
like
a tide of destiny
change
began
consummate&
free
dream no more
with
barren trees
without a rein
remember&
atone
its not too late
sands
are running
the hushed lands
home
to our own
we all
in thrall
while
time clears
in endless space
it
smiles
as in a cloud
of
infinity ahead
abandoned pastures
mumurless
blind ecstasy
& mutual glee
unvanquished space
&
chiselled heights
with
sleeping havens
none escapes
the vision
in our hands
now
let go
now more alone
one by one
to
grieve
the backward vision
through
the smoke
tinselled hands
through windowed panes
of
seasons
fleeting
palatial white
in a show
survey
not
heard before
in antiquity or
parentage
the heart is wrung
forsees
the end
with easy sight
on&on
for evermore
one
after
one
breath
made cry's
surpassing call
beyond
time
Boyhood was a one-night stand,
So brief and unforgettable,
Full of dreams,
Sweet —like a rooftop party,
Wild and loud,
When the world several feet below,
Full of envy, shouted at us,
“Come down quickly!
Quick!”
Boyhood charmed me and
Did not harm me
It was a different time,
A different boy-game
All was different
Including the falsehood of the time
Fibs were crammed with the essence of joy.
Mawkish, they strengthened the walls of
Defence, by pulse or by slush —
One gave way for the other to flourish.
And I saw things the way they truly were,
Either red or white;
Nothing like reddish-white
Or whitish-red.
Just red or white.
Plain.
Pure and simple.
I didn’t mix colours except when I was painting
With brush and colours on drawing paper
White with the innocence of dawn
Watercolour streamed with tears
Genuinely shed with common bliss.
Our loudest poem was Twinkle,
Twinkle, Little Star
I’ve never ceased to wonder how they twinkled
In the dull eyes of dinosaurs!
And there was Humpty Dumpty,
Our dear friend.
Santa or Father Christmas,
Called and addressed according to your own side of
The pond, possessed the redness that charmed us
And the whiteness that froze us with ecstasy
And with the dynamism of Sunday school songs
Oh, his beard! Mammatus clouds so full and rolling!
The outlines of trees back then resembled the clusters of
Overgrown clouds laughing their senses off
Above us foolish little masquerades
A scene of a flowering act.
With our eyes we saw it all
Just like the television series we saw —
They all made sense —from Gunsmoke to
Bonanza and Hawaii-50
We saw all with grey, tiny eyes on grainy television
Screens, elevated boxes of palatial balls
Those days smelled differently —
With the fragrance of natural love
And the beats of honourable music
And we scribbled figures of maths on
Each other’s back, symbols of agricultural tools.
Oh, the arrangements of the planets,
Beginning with Earth,
Our darling Earth,
Since charity must commence at home.
Politics was far from us
So was double entendre . . .
A one-off incident,
Boyhood is a museum —
You take nothing with you while
Exiting it.
I drive back to it only on the reference gear.
I heaved a sigh…
when visiting an exotic country
witnessed a pageant of luxurious cars on the road,
exuberant palatial houses on both sides,
also saw a mother begging, carrying a fragile baby,
at the curb side…
What made me sigh….
on a bitterly chilly morning, watched people warmly dressed,
steaming coffee on hand…
heading to the workplace,
when someone close to the roadside heating vent,
in tattered clothes, trying to entertain them
by playing guitar with shaking hands….
for a few pennies.
What made me sigh
when I had to discard countless books and paper,
because they were considered old and outdated,
knowing thousands of needy children
across the globe could use them,
imagining how their eyes would sparkle with delight
finding those treasures!
I heaved a deep sigh….
July 12, 2021
For "What Makes You Sigh" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Brian Strand 1098 Free Verse Poetry Contest
FIRST PLACE
Thrilled to travel to a coastal region in India, I was only six…
with my mother and a little sister, lived in relative's palatial bungalow,
admired lace curtains with hand-embroidered pictures of deer and peacocks,
plush carpeted floors, elegant furniture with glass-top tables…
what took my breath away was the evening stroll, a few minutes walk
to the beach, frolic with sapphire waves lapping on the shore!
couldn't race back fast enough as we, giggling, chased the waves, slipped,
got fully drenched, bodies covered with sand, still rapturously amused!
sublime chimes from a temple announcing evening-prayer mesmerized senses,
taste-buds were satisfied with plain but mouth-watering treats -
luscious fruits, crunchy nuts, pieces of sweets, savoury bites,
I still hear the splashing waves, when holding the conch I collected, to my ear,
remember the ethereal colour of the vermilion sunset on the horizon,
lonely fishing boats sailing far away in the sea as if with no destination,
emerald water and amber sky touching each other in an embrace.
I was no sooner asleep, via another plain I'd arrived
It was not of this world, was my journey contrived
For I awoke in a place that I had never ever seen
Trying to understand where I am, what does it all mean
The surroundings that are before me are of a palatial theme
Furnishings so grand that would be fit for any Queen
Stonework like the Norman's, from many centuries ago
But finished to an out of this world modern, throws me so
An attraction allures my eyes, through long draped curtains
What will my eyes view to confirm my distant certain
The skies are not like ours, they are a cobalt crimson red
Planets dot their ceiling in their silent overhead
I turn as I hear footsteps, like a marching from Earths past
Double doors in gentle open, leaves this Semaj aghast
Before me stands a beauty, with porcelain skin so fair
Whilst a lavender ivy graces, her flowing jet black hair
She leans her head as if pondering, touching lips so pink
Hazel eyes now pierce me, I'm wondering what she thinks
She starts to speak a language that's very new to me
Suddenly it's broken English, what do I hear I see
I am Princess Lorena, and you were always in our dreams
It was just a matter of time when you rode our celestial stream
We know of your Scottish courage, your clannish inner self
And how you saved the Earth, from the Butterfly Winged Elves
You and your droid Etto, whom we've allured to help our cause
On our planet you now stand, like your Earth, has many flaws
We plead you to lead our army, for we believe you to be true
For in this I shall repay, I'll bequeath myself to you
This poem, written by me, James Fraser's is my entry into Constance's contest,
"Tell Her Story"
Max, the politician, wields a razor-sharp axe,
Slicing his chicken-bleep opponents' necks and backs.
"How dare they accuse me of power politics?" Max asks,
Innocent jowls masking the jaws of a shark's attack.
His gangland campaign staff for money never lacks;
Max' men shake down local pimps, and dealers of cocaine and crack.
As for the fuzz, Max is hip; he's got the inside track:
Scoring deals for them on the best ecstasy and smack.
First elected back in '72, Max walked the length and breadth of the state,
A reformer, he was, a renegade; at least the voters thought so and fell for the bait.
Ensconced in palatial power ever since, Max has glad-handed, partied, drank, and ate.
A 'politician's pol' all these years, his formidable paunch and polling punch have proven great.
Belly out over his belt, this balloon of a man once again challenges fate,
Can he hang on again in 2018, or will this be Max' last hurrah on the party's election slate?