Long Paraded Poems
Long Paraded Poems. Below are the most popular long Paraded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paraded poems by poem length and keyword.
Before you came into my life, the sun shined, the breeze blew, the birds flew, and
people mingled. Day after day, I witnessed life's splendor through my window. I had
an urge one day to venture outside my captor. The sun still shined, the breeze still
blew, the birds still flew, people still mingled, and I was life's spectator. Suddenly,
then came you, you entered my life like the sunlight that interrupts the dark, like the
music that fills the silence, like the supernova that brightens the sky. Our hearts
spoke an inaudible language that only two lonely souls know; thus, faith has
become our liberator. Now, we are inseparable. As we frequently strolled through
the ravine, the sunlight paraded her beauty laminating our path, birds gracefully
glided through the air as if they were been choreograph, the summer breeze burst
with fragrance caressing our souls, and consequently we became a part of the
cosmos. like a well-deserved gift that is torn from one's arms, so is my heart, faith
has torn us apart. Instead now, we are kindred spirits separated by distance, so, I
retreat to the familiar to witness life's splendor. The sun shines, the breeze blows,
the birds fly,and people mingle.
I DECLARE WAR!
We are the few against the many — sheep led to the slaughter,
paraded ’around like martyrs fed into sin’s war-machines.
We live in dark days but are not overtaken by darkness;
broken-boned but not broken-hearted.
A light in the face of death — and all shall receive justice!
“Vengeance is mine,” thus saith the LORD. (Deuteronomy 32:35)
My God will have His righteous revenge.
To evil men, dark hearts, and lying lips I offer a choice:
Repentance or Reckoning.
Everlasting Life or Eternal Death — because I declare war!
I declare war on small vision, empty dreams, and useless ambitions!
To hell, witchcraft, bindings, hexes, vexes, and weaves — to the very man of sin himself I declare war.
I declare war on passive Christianity, weak churches, and slothful contentment!
My LORD OF LORDS comes riding in on a white horse: to judge the living and the dead riding with ten thousand of His saints. (Revelation 19:11–16) — Selah.
We are battle scared, yes — but not defeated. Even in darkness hope answers.
And on that day every knee shall bow, every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is LORD! My knees will bow willingly. Will yours?
This is my rallying cry, One day every heart will answer what it now ignores, I only wish for all men to experience the love of Christ, What will you choose?
I’m too tired to tell another story
About the pangs of reality
of my barricading delusions
and my spontaneous God given days
A long wait ;A fat fate
A nine day wonder that forever lay in yonder.
I’m bled out of verve ;high on adrenalin
I hated narcissism ,ignored individualism.
Am losing my creed hard as it seems,
No need for innuendos and cover ups
No gimmickry no false flags
I believe in theocracy,oneness of the most high.
I have been punched and bruised
Dead beaten and Ill stricken.
I've been a witness to sordid days
Happy years and bonfire nights
I once asked Santa for maiden
He told me " dude lets be serious"
I won't even bother Cupid
That naked winged baby wielding weapons
who even crowned him an angel ?
I've breached the rules
Threshed on everything with a head full of pain
Tried singing when broken
Only to realise my voice is even worse than my problems
In my fantasies I probed for honesty ,
Paraded with veracity.
But bliss is not a thing life guarantees
And I know this is how life in its entirety goes.
My imaginings are wilder,
Might soon catch a banshee
My nostalgias are inconsistent ,
And My health is really getting better
Will someday soon sky dive in Ghana
Or yet still rally on the Savannah
I sought levity in the midst of debacles
Only to find fury in endless spirals.
I stumbled on a prose
Lo! let me sip on its sweetened repose.
In my hands a pen a paper
so I can write away my woes.
recite it like a rhapsody or sing it like a hymn
As a form of consolation,An escape from reality.
Mom and Dad passed on and crossed that mysterious veil.
The old farmstead and all they owned are now up for bid and sale.
Time to auction things accumulated o'er the years by Mom and Dad.
'Tis truly a most dreaded day leaving us very pensive and sad.
Folks came from near and far for this very special event.
The auctioneer starts his spiel in a lilting, sing-song chant.
Men in overalls, their women in bonnets and colorful calico;
Shrewd country-folk bidding for the least amount of dough.
First up for bid is Mom's china, her treasured joy and pride,
Her very special wedding gift when a young and blushing bride.
Multi-patterned quilts made long ago with fingers then so nimble,
Each stitch a token of love, deftly crafted with needle and thimble.
Next on the block are Dad's John Deere tractor and all his tools,
Poland China hogs, Jersey cows and a pair of cantankerous mules.
Dad took pride in his herds and tools and they really looked good.
He was a well-respected farmer in this his life-time neighborhood.
The final bid is offered for the farmstead with its rich, loamy soil,
Where for decades our parents nurtured us with love and honest toil.
So many things paraded before us today from the early dawn;
Each a treasured memory taken by final bid, now forever gone.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The definition of Kismet is “destiny or fate”
This power is alive and well
Examples are constantly paraded before us
To me it's as clear as a bell
A much greater power influences our decisions
As we blindly follow our hearts
We must be willing to adhere to it's guidance
And be responsible for our part
Kismet is instrumental in the choices we make
Without conciously being aware
It helps us through many difficult situations
Moving forward with a confident air
By trusting your inner voice, you won't go wrong
You'll usually make the right choice
Never pay attention to the many other temptations
Listen only to your trusting inner voice
The definition of Kismet is “destiny or fate”
This power is alive and well
© Jack Ellison 2015
And here you had me thinking
That I was the scum of the earth
That you were the Queen of the Night
And that you had everything all figured out
And here you had me dreaming
Of turning back the clock night after night
Hating myself more and more
Wishing I was strong as you
And here you had me screaming
Pain in my chest as you clung to another
Images of you two sweating your rhythm
And with me loathing my own sexuality
And now I can only laugh
As I find out your truth
That you're still the haughty winter princess
That flew too close to the sun
That you still haven't gotten over a thing
That the thought of me happy still tears you apart
And so you came back to keep me under your heel
While I drank the rain that was your tears
You laughed at me for wanting comfort in another
And here you are, doing the same thing
You cling to the ideals you set for yourself
As the Queen of a kingdom of emptiness
And this is my greatest joy
Knowing that not only am I right
But I've always been right
And the only one in the world who thought differently was you
You were the only one who agreed to abuse me
You were the only one to grind my face in the dirt
You were the only one to parade your story as fact
And ensure that the victim looked like the aggressor
The sun hasn't stopped shining on my back
Not since I forgave myself for sins I never committed
For the sins you paraded as absolute
For the sins that weren't sins
You're no Goddess
You're no saint
You're no angel of radiant light
And this Falconia isn't your Millennial Kingdom
So fly away on steel wings
Quench your lust on the body of another
Bite your lip and pretend it's love
After all, lust is a sin to you, yeah?
You're no better than me
And you never were, were you?
You're stuck slumming it out with your world of prejudice
And I'm elated now
I'm elated now
I'm elated now
I'm elated now
I'm elated now
The Madonna looked less
than amused as she swayed
in time to the steps
of the six men who carried her
aloft down Hart Street
towards the river
and the waiting fleet.
This was no solemn affair
but a spectacle played out
to attract the favor
of a power moved by
pageantry and theatre.
No puritanical restraint
paraded here.
Crowds lined the way.
Half the number were Italians
who cheered and gave full throat
to their passions
and the pride in planting
a cutting of their culture
to root in the shores
of a new home.
This was the sixties.
Their infectious spill swamped
the normally staid order
of the working class precinct
and set something exciting loose.
The other half, local Anglo stock,
kept their distance and a firm grip
on exuberant display,
harboring approval within
the limits of a broad smile
and a self conscious clap.
Emotions were only let out
on Saturdays to support
the local football team
when even the meekest
could become rabid.
The Blessing of the Fleet
still plays out each year,
largely unchanged,
though kept afloat by increasingly
secular sentiments,
and sways its way through
a crowd now more a singular
chorus of noise and hard
to seperate. Fishing boats
festooned in flags blaze
triumphant under a bright
September sun.
What’s In The Urn
Strangers offered me to join them in a drink
I met them on a mountain edge while skiing
They seemed like friendly normal people then
So what could happen in a simple cabin?
Finding that which is not there or vanquished
What is there that cannot be perceived?
Placed upon the mantel piece are ashes in the cabin
Brass vase, a receptacle for lost souls sits in repose
A death vase to glare at over cognac
By the sober flames cast by
A fire place glow observed in action
Liquid spirits pour out their poison
In the cozy living room inside the cabin
Drinks alone cannot remove this feeling of distraction
The urn is piercing through my soul
People belong in cemeteries you know
With all due respect for the dead
Scatter them at sea when they‘re deceased
Not paraded around in gloom to cause unease
Or as a center piece for living rooms
I’m not relieved to find it is a lizard on the shelf
To be exact, an exotic iguana family friend entombed
And to assume that fact makes this matter optimal
I beg to differ on that point and voice my opinion later
There must be a plot of ground outside
Or toilet somewhere to flush it down
But better left unsaid, as they are bereaved about the death
And I am their invited guest
Iguana tried consuming the family’s cat
Another favorite pet I guess
It is surmised, that’s how it met its end
Wound up expired inside the urn
The receptacle was there and going nowhere on its own
I swear it follows me from room to room
By embers glow and ash, shadowing my every move
A brass smile casting off the urn, leaving me concerned
I could not take my leave
The container followed me
So I waited, fixated on the thing
Is it coming back to life to eat more bugs or me?
Finding that which is not there
Is easier in the dark
Rising to the occasion of the day that breaks
I must escape the premises to continue skiing
Into the frozen world outside I fly
With no discernible signs or paths to lead or learn
I get away, no time to say good-byes or find my way
Never again will I say; what’s in the urn
She said I am odd, that I didn’t really fit,
That I didn’t belong anymore,
And she told me to leave, away from this place,
Throwing me right out the door,
So I found a new home, a welcoming home,
Where I’m greeted at the start of each day,
Where everyone here is odd like me,
And we’re oddly paired for display.
My white dots, on a background of black,
Pair with stripes that are red, black and white,
And now, with these new feet, I’m proudly paraded,
All day and throughout the whole night.
I love my new life, since losing my twin,
Being discarded, left for dead on the floor,
My life’s been odd, living with folks just like me,
Living, together, in a big odd sock drawer.
A MODEL PERSPECTIVE OF THE PERVERSION OF LIFE
(Apropos Models on Parade)
Mocking humanity and the children of death—
Hunger and starvation—
Her frail skeletal frame of a body
Wrapped in cloths of richness of life,
Strode and glided across the flushed runway.
As she faded away like smoke of a dying fire,
Thunderous applauds echoed throughout.
Across the parched desert-like clods, bloated bellies
Wearily trek alone the barren trail that seems to lead nowhere;
Overhead, winged angels of death glide to and fro—patiently.
Dry winds echo over the exodus of the walking dead.
Strange how the rich pervert starvation and parade themselves
To a distorted mocking beauty of lush living;
While bloated bellies are fatal victims of starvation’s perversity:
Shamelessly paraded as “Breaking News!”