Long Pedestals Poems
Long Pedestals Poems. Below are the most popular long Pedestals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pedestals poems by poem length and keyword.
The lockdown is a knock down.
We can all run back out there!
So we are dancing in the streets.
I drive to town to dance with people.
Yay, for the Covid heroes!
I yell it too, only more loudly.
This strange person I do not know glares at me.
My first instinct is to stick out my tongue.
Really mature my inner voice chides me.
Yay, for the Covid heroes!
Now I get it. It is annoying to be mimicked.
This yell from my least favorite neighbor.
She gallops over to see what I am about.
Going to the store, I tell her. Better be off.
Yay, for the Covid heroes!
I agree they should be revered and honored.
Cherished and lifted onto pedestals.
I have the utmost respect for what they have done.
But it is driving me insane that we are all yelling the same five words.
Yay, for the Covid heroes!
..they were sent by those
who sat upon pedestals so high
whose life was sheltered and dry
and saw the new days bright shining light
and they were the ones...
who kept their hands fresh and clean
by sending others to do their evil bidding
in a another's land, a land far from home
no...they were not the ones
who saw a sea ebb and flow...red
and watched as the tide washed up broken bodies
climbed the cliffs as hell rained down from above
who watched as the blood poured
from the lifeless bodies of their mates
no...they were not the ones
who waited for the dreaded whistle blow
the sound that could signal the end of your days
and trotted through the blood soaked mud
thinking your next step could be your last
no...they were not the ones
who saw summer be replace by winterr
lived in the muddy trenches of hell
wearing the wet and cold as a second skin
smelling death and fending off cat sized rats
saw the mundane days became a war within a war
no...they weren't the one's...
and...they were not the ones...
who woke screaming at night
drenched in sweat
reliving their journeys through hell
had the vacant stare
with a tremor tortured body
a young life taken by a hidden plague
no...they did not...
forged a new culture for a nation
be written into folklore
and be called
courageous
valiant
heroes
---------------------------------------------------------
remembering the ANZAC`s...lest we forget
Moving on is such a sweet affair
When the going seems harder and harder,
Yet the trail may be hard here and there
For those not seasoned in the faith.
I long for the pedestals of Lincoln and Donne
And Keats and Shaw and Dickens;
Such brim-full fame for rare deeds done
By a mortal from an improbable world.
How these shall be accomplished I little know
Yet the urge within still convinces me,
That I should stoically bear every misfortune’s blow
And trudge on through the iron gates of hell.
And whether in such strains the world believes
Or not, this lone soul shall move on till the crown receives.
Cloaked in misty judgments, we have dressed ourselves,
Finding in condemnation a kind of sacred and dignified sport.
An inert paradigm, where blame is like a talisman
That people wear proudly, believing in the honorable artifices of justice.
We traverse the resounding carnival of designated guilty parties,
A culture that chisels the other's mistake into stone.
We raise clinical pedestals to extol the thesis of our virtues,
Each accusation – a medal, each critique – an ink blot on the intellect's sheet.
A parade of faults, finished in the gold of illusion,
Where the world applauds louder with every "you are to blame!",
And we become actors in this play of blame - where everyone performs,
Yet no one wins, only invisible paper crowns adorn our fragile temples.
It's a dark magic, a sorcery of faded virtues,
Where words are stones, cast into the eyes of him who sits low,
And he, however innocent, steps inward toward his own crucifixion,
Soothed by the mantra that caresses the ego: "No evil have I done, I... I have remained pure."
And in this bitter ritual, where accusation is the standard,
We wave whirlwinds of presumed superiority,
When the boundary between the fault placed on another and the link of our own ignorance
Is too thin, a broken line, drawn upon water in our migration toward a tranquil mirror's face.
Thus, in a world that glorifies blame as a victorious sprint,
Perhaps we might discover, on a reflective autumn day,
That true virtue does not spring from accusation, nor intellect from the pointing finger,
But from the sincere embrace of limitations and from the warmth of a heart that judges not, but loves with mending attention.
In a small dining room enclosed by three walls, a setting for two. Two candles across from each other lit cast shadows on the ceiling above the crystal chandelier. The round maple table- mirrors and reflects two tall wine glasses half filled with pink Champaign. On folded pink colored napkins three tine forks paired with matching gold handled knives compliment the candle holders. two pure white porcelain plates with saucers with gold trim shine. In the background on the center white wall, a black framed painting of autumn trees sits rectangular. To the left and right are two pedestals each with a bouquet of red roses resting atop. To the wall on the right a curio filled with Swarovski-"Wonders of the sea" Chrystal figures. To the wall on the left a roman numeral oval shaped clock with the time showing 4:45 pm. In the middle of the table is a small roasted turkey. Cranberries, potatoes and stuffing all in separate matching gold trimmed bowls 'round the turkey. On the dark oak floor, in the middle of the two chairs a golden retriever waits patiently.
Become A Painting Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
11/20/2021
Gentlemen, raise your glass to the British institution,
Breeding the champagne elite with seamless execution
Exclusively tailored for the clotted cream of the crop
With privileged patrilineage as the firm backdrop
The bespoke cradle that nurtures elite evolution
Crafting leaders of Britain's unwritten constitution
Renowned for ‘hoorah’ high spirits and notoriety
Crowned on high pedestals in moments of sobriety
Vandalism explained briskly away
Upper class boys club spirits sashay
Entitlement says, "turn a blind eye"
The Club, “purely hearsay, by the by”
While the common personage may humbly sip tea
Tailcoats stained with joviality, champagnes spree
Aware the law will not have their ‘guts for garters’ *
In recognition of gab and bubbly barters
Once they graduate with the superior scroll
They enrol with honours on parliaments roll
Embracing all their fine manners and etiquette
Hogging the political scene, lest we forget
And through the vast ancient chambers and corridors
'Bully, Bully, Bully' seeps slyly through the pores
Where the brotherhood debates the law of the land
Holding a flute of the finest champagne to hand
*Guts for Garters – Meaning to punish severely
Date: 10/04/23
Contest: Bullingdon Boys
Sponsor: Joe Maverick
Sad Truth, this last century has been rough.
Remember when you were sought by poets,
and those who found you were revered.
Don’t you yearn to return to an age
when humanity proclaimed you with praise?
“Yes, those glory years when I was placed
upon pedestals and inscribed in stone.
But then they claimed I was contingent, and
everyone’s allowed to have their own –
that I had lied there ever was a Truth.”
“My twin, Beauty, now receives the glory,
and basks whenever poets opine
their lofty, transcendental thoughts.
But alas, everything and everyone
is now ‘beautiful’ – for it is far
easier to buy the cosmetics and
surgery to find her rather than toil
to unearth my deeply buried gems.
‘Congrats, dear Beauty!’ My loss is your gain,
I’ve faded away – but may come again.”
I will not hold your golden trophy high above MY head
Or wear your name engraved with cheap polyester thread
I’m so sorry you can’t decide what to wear today,
Will it be the Christian Dior or the Versace green lamay?
Your Jimmy Choos click-clack across pedestals that we have built
And we polish your statues that glow without guilt.
Did you really get paid millions for just reciting Macbeth?
As a trickle down economy allows us to scramble for what’s left.
Our nations school teachers can’t feed their own,
while our firefighters are dying of cancers unknown.
As our bellies swell and our hearts deplete
your SOLD OUT and we can’t make ends meet.
But we still continue to worship, love and adore
Blinded by the shiny smiles, screaming for more
Facebook, twitter and selfies infest are minds
keeping us preoccupied, oblivious to the times.
Stocks are up but my credit card is at its max
all I got was an extra twenty dollars from my latest income tax.
Fake Louis Vuitton on a budget and inflated Nikes by the pair
As they flaunt their riches and successes in our blank stare.
We paid for their ivory towers with large gates to keep us at bay
no invitation to dinner as our struggle gets harder each day.
Un news worthy lives, overprice items with enticing marketing schemes
Owning the latest I-phone feeling you are living the American dream
REALLY, another reality show, “Oh Gee Golly I can’t wait”,
Wake up, pay attention. But I think it's too late.
Is technology and Beyoncé our new gods of choice?
As politicians rewrite their own reality, muting our voice.
We pride ourselves in others lives attempting to forget our own
Bowing down as they step across our backs, ascending their iron throne
We created this disparity as their influences make us crave for more.
But the rich are getting richer while we remain poor.
It’s winter in the year twenty-eighty-four
Hell has landed on every shore
Devilish eyes aglow as they rose to dominate
People now captive to a totalitarian state
Society is now ruled with an iron fist
You’ve seen those movies; you know the gist
Elders tell tales of an earth so free
Crossing great valleys and sailing the sea
I haven’t seen the sun since they poisoned the sky
We scurry in darkness, where the wealthy don’t pry
The air has a noxious opacity that stings my lungs
Those activists on pedestals just spoke in tongues
These decrepit streets are treacherous at night
Instead, we huddle together in flickering candlelight
Few can afford the luxury of simple power
The doomsday clock lurks just shy of the hour
We rummage through garbage for anything to eat
Surviving cold-drenched nights is no easy feat
The smell of street food, I’m teased by the air
I try not to stare, for that chance he may share
I’m enslaved by demons who pull the strings
There’s no escape; they’ve clipped my wings
Can’t we break this monotonous chain?
Let’s rip it all up and start again
I tearfully weep, “It’s not meant to be this way”
I’m tired of being some sick monster’s prey
Every night I dream of the same old prize
That the darkness be pierced by a golden sunrise
A
question
that
never
slumbers
to the end
of hour,
is love exchanging views with
that of why. For both are
never ending, and never
ending are the pupils standing
seamlessly upon an exampled
tulip celebrated and cherished
known to man as female. A
female of whom among us
constitutes as God’s monumental
gift. Oh how thy sleep soundly
in the midst of her pedestals,
breathing in oxygen as
dehydration metamorphose
to liquid tears and unrehearsed
palpitation waltzes about thy
heart. Not even in the remotest
degree that today is of yesterday.
For whom to have known that two
visitors would
long to be
lovers of
love to
the extent
now
being
in
love.
Pace INK-U-SCRIPT
03-06-2013