Long Paroled Poems
Long Paroled Poems. Below are the most popular long Paroled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paroled poems by poem length and keyword.
For god so loved the world that he gave his one
and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not
perish but have eternal life. John 3:16 NIV
…the great street of the city was of pure gold,
like transparent glass. Revelation 21:21 NIV
DON’T SETTLE FOR FOOL’S GOLD
You wear that blindfold like
it’s fool’s gold. In merriment,
of excessive drink, the age-old
predicament, a curse retold -
‘tis cold within your heart,
unpatrolled by Holy Spirit.
Lift up the golden leaf, unscrolled.
Pages, let words mold to your lips.
Be bold in exaltation lift.
Fold your hands as you hit your knees;
thus God will hand you manifold
blessings. Close that centerfold - its
wage is sevenfold-sin:
the stronghold of pride,
lust, greed, envy, sloth…ice cold
gluttony and wrath. Take hold
the undersold Word, uphold light.
Does God withhold anything good?
To be controlled with patient right,
no need for scold nor scalding fire.
Better to be enrolled - the wise
fight to be paroled…nay…redeemed,
foothold on solid ground with sound
mind. Wait ‘til you behold Christ’s face,
caroled with the saints. I told you
so…heaven’s streets are solid gold.
Take hold of an inheritance
out of slavery…you are sold.
Don’t stay white-washed, stone-cold sinners.
Remold your life - believe the cross.
Behold the resurrected Christ!
5/12/2022
In the winter of 1873, Alfred Packer was hired to guide a prospectin' trek.
In the San Juans of Colorady they'd heard of gold that they wanted to check.
Alfred claimed that in Colorady minin' camps he'd driven wagons of ore.
He guaranteed he'd show 'em the valuable stuff that they were lookin' for!
They visited sage old Chief Ouray and he warned 'em to wait 'til spring,
To cross those rugged tors, but no, they wanted to press on and do their thing!
So foolish Albert and five of the group decided to trudge on through the snow!
Of the blindin' snow, lack of grub and perilous paths, little did they know!
A few months later Packer appeared at an Indian Agency lookin' fit and well!
He said he'd been left behind due to injuries, one of many tales he was to tell!
His story changed several times sayin' one man went berserk and killed the rest!
There was evidence that cannibalism was involved but old Albert never confessed!
Packer was jailed in Saguache but later made his escape to Wyoming state!
He was nabbed and returned to Salt Lake City for a trial and sentencin' date.
"They was seven Dimmycrats in the county", pronounced the judge from the bench,
"But yah man-eatin' sunuvab**ch, yah et five of 'em, fer that yer neck'll wrench!"
Later the sentence was reduced to manslaughter and he was given forty years,
To be served at the pen in Canon City, Colorady, but no one shed any tears!
He was paroled in 1901 and moved to Denver where he hung around.
Now his molderin' bones rest in peace 'neath a grassy burial mound!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 7 in Carolyn Devonshire's "Legend" Contest - April 2011
Whether you're in a prison,
Or a hospital bed confined.
Yours might just be a 9 to 5,
We all are still doing time.
Our conscience is our jury,
Declaring right and wrong.
Our thoughts the Judge who sentences,
To mental prison where we belong.
All of us are guilty,
In this life we're paying for our crime.
A death sentence has hangs over us.
In the prison of our minds.
But don't loose hope, there is good news,
How we all can be paroled.
The devil has to release anyone,
Even though they sold their souls.
God sent us an Attorney,
His name is Jesus Christ.
He said "All prisoners must be released!"
That believes in his sacrifice.
God sent him from heaven "Pro bono!"
For the hopeless, poor and lost.
He's volunteered to take our place,
Saying "Put me not them on that cross!"
"Father!" he said "Please forgive them!"
The know not what they do!
I've come to set the captives free,
Then I'll return to You!"
The Bible newspaper headlines reads,
"Whether you are young and old"
We have the scoop for all mankind,
The Greatest Story Every Told!
I lift and rise to being chased,
pops half-way, till full, beamed round-faced,
a fire host heightened its facade,
casting daylight shadows abroad.
Cool Earth plunged hot by its keeper,
heat courses like the Grim Reaper,
smiles at darkness to wait its turn,
up curve tidied, noon loses yearn.
Orange turns red, claws at purple,
white flagged as dusk makes a hurtle,
a gloaming rhythms the musing sphere,
like one tied to tracks, locked in fear.
Named twilight as some light appears,
though hour triggers those tryst affairs,
calm ruse warmth as limbs fuss about,
caught midnight streams like baited trout.
A night dips mid-Cherub's flirting,
their chariot horses fleeing,
while the golden sentinel rides,
as the solitaire lift comprised.
A new task surround, maneuvers,
seers illume become producers,
hail a whole new year of seasons,
first, until last, filled with reasons.
The lead round about the bodies,
as they spin on stage like follies,
glows revue as savory hams,
marooned its taste just like PB Jams.
Bittersweet, as they realigned,
lead pars best swept the rest, resigned,
equinox and solstice charted,
psyche chose, and rookies parted.
A decisive planet divides,
segregation always collides,
closets partitioned a household,
Edens knowledge, they were paroled.
As a classroom globe builds up dust,
while folks roam about, make a fuss,
intellect cleans a tarnished steel,
greens will entomb them 'ere they kneel.
America's bulwark, strong and true,
Resolved to defend, the red, white, and blue.
Mighty warriors, brave and bold,
Years of service, stories paroled.
Since '75, a nation's might,
On fields of battle, day and night.
Loyalty and honor, their guiding star,
Defending freedom, near and far.
In every conflict, they stand tall,
Embracing duty, answering freedom's call.
Ready to fight, for liberty's flame,
Sacrifice and courage, their noble name.
All through history, their valor known,
Rising to challenges, never alone.
Modern heroes, with hearts of steel,
Yearning to shield, the public's zeal.
Onward they march, with purpose and pride,
Fighting for justice, on every tide.
The Army's strength, a powerful force,
Heroes among us, taking their course.
Every soldier, a testament to might,
Unity and valor, shining bright.
Serving with honor, a legacy grand,
All across the land, a helping hand.
Over the river runs a hasty fright;
All our worry what became, becomes.
Instruments of time, un-tuning every night
Brooding with precision to a memory that numbs.
Golley-wogging on surfaces
Of mirrored ponds.
With an everlasting legacy,
No magic in our wands.
We do not have such words within
As those that shall remove us.
Ours bequeathed, by those
No longer here.
One voice shall rise above us all
To be a hero by default.
Each man is such when by himself;
To clothe himself within his doubtless lie,
Each time he tries to be more than he is.
Dismissed by parables,
Paroled by unknown mercies,
We seek our self
Inside the God of our perfection.
We are not He.
Were that we could move all words to be a shelter,
Giving what we do not have to all our children.
Intrepid creatures hollowing out the night.
Carving a totem of words.
Our falsehood of becoming laying flat;
Stating that
Our whisperings are vital.
We drown all words
In the air of our silence
We will not see them rise
Above the level of our sorrows.
When we learned our elderly, kind granddad had died,
all paternal cousins traveled, gathered and cried.
Later, the ‘reception drive’ offered varied rides;
in Rachel’s auto, they shared a liquor-filled flask
and in Rob’s ancient van, a joint or two was passed.
If any cousin did not seek a high that day,
Terry drove sober now that she was freely gay.
At the reception, we all loved, giggled and shared.
Funny, that the sober car was the last one there!
In time, we caught up using our familiar flair.
Rob, Rachel and Rita’s Father had been paroled.
Rob still refused to pay taxes or live controlled.
Rachel lost her job when her flask fell out and rolled.
Rita found Jesus after holding marigolds
and walking naked down a long suburban road.
Mark was racing fast cars, playing music in bars
and had built a planetarium to view stars.
His maternal grandmother supplied the dollars
so why not avoid wearing a working collar?
Terry shared the same dollars-aplenty, flow-jar.
She had just graduated college with honors,
moved in with Sue (who then quit work as a mauler),
and now barely leaves their home built near water.
I shared my struggle to work a forty-hour week,
make sure my special needs child never feels defeat
and bear my third spouse, who keeps a petulant heat.
When a toast or a toke to Granddad was complete,
Mark grabbed his guitar and set a steady, good beat.
Each cuz, in turn, sang their made up line which was neat:
“We’re from the family tree of true dysfunction.
What others call stupid, we see as brave gumption.
We do not take kindly to outside instruction
stalling our families’ chaotic production.
If we pass loud gas, we won’t care if others laugh.
Now, just like real life, our song has gone off track.”
As dusk their line visibly bows
Cropped heads beneath mounds fold
Glum shadows through addle fields row
Listless turrets sprout o'er demarcated woe
Sallowed eyes in bleary sockets rolled
As dusk their line visibly bows
Shocked ears to concussive barrage close
As sighs from clogged lungs are paroled
Raspy shadows through addle fields row
Smoldering smoke in singed heavens glows
Vaporous cloud o'er scout binoculars scrolled
As dusk their line visibly bows
Each rifle into a sterile stack goes
Rumbling caissons to dark corners doled
Steel shadows through addle fields row
The fog of war o'er dazed minds flows
An eerie wind curdles each silent mold
As dusk their line visibly bows
Wispy shadows through addle fields row
Torn apart a heart, not a soul,
you struggle.
No matter, you stay the course
stay whole.
Blue eyes brash, brazen,
ashen blonde hair
fight the establishment
“What the hell did you care!”
Cut the heads of the parking meters
like the Red Queen in Alice,
a laughing lunatic drunk on inequity
for that you get a chain gang,
no King's palace.
Even incarcerated you nobly rise.
Tyranny can not your spirit abide.
You run, you loose, your life controlled
a prisoner in the south’s underbelly.
You’re not paroled.
And, in the end you’re told
“Only bastards and cream rise, George.”
And, you’re neither.
And, so you see
I rationalize my success
and my failure for
neither am I.
I want to peer through tomorrow’s eyes.
Not a thing already old,
not a yesterday word
only temporarily paroled
from a moribund dictionary.
These words
newly dead now for millenniums.
Words old enough to have echoed from Eve
as she howled
from her guttural heart to a mute moon.
The newborn always come in the night
always in-between the past and future.
I want to be the parent of that birth,
not a distant and feeble uncle already
replicating an old understanding,
not a gummer or mummer.
I want words born in a universal forge,
their fire burning bright still.
Not any part of an effete scribbling
far removed from an Ur meaning,
its archetypal images already diluted
in ages of misreading and misdirection.
The etymological root of everything
is just the one word for everything.
Instead I only have these words
seeking to be new while still wearing
old, borrowed clothes.
Sometimes I wake up
in the middle of the night speaking in tongues;
a language so luminous
that star travelers from the distant future
could converse with me
from any compass point of my mind.
I want new eyes to drill down
to the pictographic roots
of every linked letter and script.
Words then would be individual revelations,
direct arrows from a new bow,
each a poem in itself.