Long Piteously Poems
Long Piteously Poems. Below are the most popular long Piteously by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Piteously poems by poem length and keyword.
"Seeded"
planted in the mind, another way of being
outside spectrum, the act of forgiveness
the lore of love, united with the Seven Sisters
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"The Pleiadean Frequency"
https://youtu.be/5FHMTeyPlbo
“Suddenly they all fell off the edge into the sky, where they all turned into stars."
“One day, as they danced, they found themselves rising little by little into the air, their heads being light through hunger. How this happened they did not know, but one said, “Do not look back, for something strange is taking place”. A woman, too, saw them rise and called them back, but with no effect, for they still rose slowly above the earth. She ran to the camp, and all rushed out with food of every kind, but the children would not return, though their parents called piteously after them. But one would even look back, and he became a falling star. The others reached the sky, and are now what we call the Pleiades, and the Onondagas Oot-kwa-tah. Every falling or shooting star recalls the story, but the seven stars shine on continuously, a pretty band of dancing children.”
Pleiades
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pleiades
What is a Starseed?
https://typicallytopical.com/what-is-a-starseed/
Starseed, Pleiadian
https://typicallytopical.com/pleiadian-starseed/
Starseed, Types
https://typicallytopical.com/starseed-types/
Legends of the Star People
https://montanapioneer.com/legends-of-the-star-people/
Concept of Soul among North American Indians
https://www.se.edu/international-student/wp-content/uploads/sites/85/2019/09/NAS-2011-Proceedings-Danchevskaya.pdf
Onondaga Creation Story
https://www.aaanativearts.com/onondaga-creation-story
Origin of the Pleiades/Onondaga
https://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/OriginofthePleiades-Onondaga.html
North American Indian/Creation Legends
https://www.aaanativearts.com/legends-symbols/creation-legends
https://www.aaanativearts.com/legends-symbols
Once upon a time, Prunella
dwelt amid a magic wood
a dainty pixie most rare
whose temperament wasn't good
Last one of her purple line
in that dreary, dreaded glen
where beasts ever feared to tread
and mankind had never been
For purple pixies were known
to be devilishly mean
they'd terrified the kingdom
wherever they had been seen
So Prunella lived alone
and pouted, skulked and scowled
and dark nights when coyotes called
she piteously howled
Until one day she found them
some children lost in the wood
and scared the daylights from them
just because she knew she could
The children fawned and pleaded
to appease her rotten mood
this only made her madder
so she copped more attitude
But she'd miscalculated
when she made the last one mad
and felt the ammunition
from that slingshot-wielding cad
Wee bits of sweets kept flying
so like pebbles at her wings
until he ran out of those
then he chucked most anything
Around the wood she darted
avoiding him at some length
until at last she gave out
having used up all her strength
He plucked her from where she fell
and plopped her into a jar
then she began to bargain
as the village wasn't far
But Fred, both shrewd and clever
vowed to keep her locked up tight
'til they all were safely home
and ev'rything was made right...
So she charmed the fireflies out
to show them all safely home
bossily shouting orders
from within the jars glass dome
But once they were safely back
the boy quickly changed his mind
decided to keep Ol' Prune'
(as pixies were hard to find)
And 'though she was mad as hell
and her wings pulsed fiery red
she couldn't help but admire
this precocious, wily Fred
'Though he never let her loose
they became the best of friends
laughing with glee as they kept
his parents at their wits-ends
“What's with these wild ideas?”
They would grouse, and groan, and moan
unknowing those mischief-plans
were a pixie's- not his own!
I stare piteously at my grandkid-
kid jumping with aggressive joy
at each completed level of
a mindless game displayed
on the computer screen,
played by hitting a key
repeatedly, with hands trembling
will-less I crane my neck
to look upwards through rows of
buildings, all I see is
A handful of stars in a hazy,
un-naturally
lit-up bright night sky
less cared by many bumbling lives
Each innocent night, every
night as a child, I used to
sit by my father who
made up stories divine on
group of stars
a line, a mat, a dog so like
animated with my awesome nods
I used to hear his voice
till I drooped like a feather
sound asleep, sleep
so pure, so restful
even angels smiled
and twirled then
in my dreams with colorful streams
That serene childhood
filled with fun, with love
rich with truth, with honesty
that angel sleep,that angel dream
can never be passed on
can never be re-lived
through our children, ever again
As I prepared to go out on my horse
One eve, despite pleas to stay from my course,
Just as I reached for my hat from the rack,
A whirlwind crested across dusty tract,
Lifting dead leaves from the Aravalli hills,
Twirling them high over the palace ills,
While a loud peal of mocking laughter rose,
And faded out where the sun slowly goes,
Robbing my dare and my ride in the wood,
It stole away my English hat for good.
The night was old when the sobs softly stirred,
Heart-rending, stifled, right below my bed,
Rising as if from unknown nether world,
Perchance from many a pathetic head,
From darkling depths of a damp grave of old,
A voice piteously cried, catching my hold,
Imploring me, ‘do something, rescue me
From what eternal prisons seem to be,
This deathlike slumber, fruitless dreamy ills—
Place me on horse and race on the double,
Press me close to your heart, riding through hills
And woods, and across a dried-out puddle,
Take me to sunny spots from dark, new thrills.’
Many a doubt flashed in my bestirred mind:
Why be it me? How can I rescue thee?
What passions shall draw thee out to be free?
O Beauty, from this wild whirlpool of dreams,
Do tell me whence didst thou flourish and when?
By which cool spring, in what shady date-groves?
Thou wert born in whose lap? By what homeless
Wanderer, what desert, and which fierce
Bedouin snatched thee from mom’s arms? Pray, tell me,
A mere bud wert thou plucked from a creeper,
And placed upon a horse, lightning swift flash,
Far, far across the scorching desert sands—
O to the slave-mart of what royal city?
Hearing laurels of thy blossoming youth,
To which chieftain had thou been taken then,
Placing thee in a golden palanquin
As royal gift fit for an emperor.
__________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
Like a mourning dove, my lament is spilled
I cry in grief as shadowed night grows cold
Spirit crushed from love's promise, unfulfilled
Burdensome sorrows in my heart unfold
Succumbed by tears, I piteously weep
In sullen thoughts and restless sleep, I dwell
'cross the skies, Luna flies in lambent sweep
With consoling hope, or my tolling knell?
On winds of change, I'd soar to zenith height
With wings fanned in poetic volition
Never again fearing a mawkish night
No room for gloom, nor fear of perdition
My eyes long for benevolence anew
Where the world is adorned in hues of blue
11~17~2020
Winds of Change
Sponsor: John Hamilton
The Wonder Boys
by Michael R. Burch
(for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric,
who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and
a fine poet in his own right)
The stars were always there, too-bright cliches:
scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew
as baffled poets winged keyed kites?amazed,
in dream of shocks that suddenly came true . . .
but came almost as static?background noise,
a song out of the cosmos no one hears,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared.
They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke
of words poured from their overheated hearts.
The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope . . .
You will not find them here; they blew away?
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung
by fingertips to satellites. They strayed
too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young,
their words are with us still. Devout and fey,
they wink at us whenever skies are gray.
The Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
The sun that swoons at dusk
and seems a vanished grace
breaks over distant shores
as a child’s uplifted face
takes up a song like yours.
We listen, and embrace
its warmth with dawning trust.
Dawn, to the Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
“O singer, sing to me—
I know the world’s awry—
I know how piteously
the hungry children cry.”
We hear you even now—
your voice is with us yet.
Your song did not desert us,
nor can our hearts forget.
“But I bleed warm and near,
And come another dawn
The world will still be here
When home and hearth are gone.”
Although the world seems colder,
your words will warm it yet.
Lie untroubled, still its compass
and guiding instrument.
One day I delivered a poem
one that seemed to be premature
so I swaddled her up
and set her aside
to grow 'til I felt reassured
How she yowled and howled for attention...
how she cried so piteously!
How she coughed and she sneezed
whimpered and wheezed
then threw up all over me!
Still I tenderly tended her bedside
and lovingly nursed her along
determined to sacrifice everything
to raise her up healthy and strong
As she grew and recovered, she wandered
and crawled over everything
and I found I had trouble containing
my rambling, unruly offspring
She became an inexcusable bounder
a wayward and bratty ingrate
who despite all my love and affection
refused to make sense or read straight
She dallied in questionable places
she idled and shiftlessly shirked
lazily lagging, ignoring my nagging
while I selflessly, endlessly worked
Firmly applied discipline to her
and structure, and meter, and rhyme
but she bucked, and rebelled, and bit me
and stayed up beyond her bedtime
We wrestled, and wrangled, and brawled,
bickered in bitter altercation
if I didn't do something quite soon
she would ruin my good reputation
At length, I decided I'd had it
we had reached the end of the road
and although she clung like a wet paper towel-
I flung her and flushed the commode!