Long Podiums Poems
Long Podiums Poems. Below are the most popular long Podiums by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Podiums poems by poem length and keyword.
How dare they think to diss our Flag
and disregard our Anthem song,
when this great country gave the chance
for them to move and rise headlong
into the limelight of renown,
be part of teams respected wide
and honored by sports fans galore.
Why from their country must they hide
and take a knee when glory calls
to then respect their land of free
that gave them status in their field...
this land of opportunity?
They gladly sign their contracts, though...
those multi-million, three-year deals
supported by their fans that cheer
with pride in our country's ideals.
Why even all Olympians
with their own flags march in the crowd;
on podiums with medals show
pride while their Anthems play out loud.
And why has N F L now caved...
our Anthem banned at many games.
Teams, win or lose, will bear the cost
as followers condemn their shames.
When pride in country disappears,
to play for money, the main goal,
it leaves sad emptiness within
each patriotic heart and soul.
September 16, 2018
~NA~
Contest: Unsheath Your Sword
Sponsor: John Lawless
Contest Rules:
"UNSHEATH THE SWORD – HACK, SLASH, PARRY, THRUST
WRITE WHAT YOU WILL – WRITE WHAT YOU MUST
WADE INTO BATTLE – BLOODY THE PAGE
POETS ARE WARRIORS – REGARDLESS OF AGE"
They do not begin with fire—
no banners, no marching drums—
only a whisper placed carefully
into the softest parts of a child.
The most vulnerable—
those already standing barefoot
on the thin ice of belonging—
are the easiest to teach fear to,
the easiest to bend toward certainty
that is not their own.
A lesson repeated becomes a truth,
a truth repeated becomes a weapon.
In dim courtrooms where time is currency,
men trade their innocence for daylight—
pleading guilty not to crimes,
but to the suffocating wait of cages.
Freedom, reduced to a bargain,
signed with a trembling name.
And somewhere above,
in rooms upholstered with promises,
the system hums its quiet corruption—
gears greased with silence,
hands washed in procedure.
Lists are made.
Always lists.
Names written not in ink,
but in permanence—
registries that outlive mistakes,
outlive context,
outlive mercy itself.
Local hands build them,
brick by careful brick,
until the walls begin to resemble
a nation cataloging its own reflection—
afraid of what it sees.
And governors—
smiling from polished podiums—
speak of order, of safety, of strength,
while somewhere beneath their words
is the ancient arithmetic of ambition:
that power may be climbed
on the backs of the condemned.
A body becomes a statistic,
a statistic becomes a platform,
a platform becomes a throne.
And the children—
always the children—
watch.
They learn what justice looks like
when it hardens.
They learn what truth becomes
when it is traded.
They inherit not only the country,
but its contradictions—
and in the quiet spaces between them,
something begins to take root.
In endless quest we sought seclusions peace
hiding in the mystery of a strength always thought weak
and so denied the hero the still of death’s parade
waved surrender’s handkerchiefs to fill his empty grave
relied upon the charity of victory’s feeble thrill
struggling to rise above fresh bloodied horror’s sound.
Relentlessly the ears decry the loneliness of empty sound
as furtive eyes no future seek in fear of war, in fear of peace,
the agony of their disgrace, the joy of living without thrill
they know they’re strong, they know they’re weak
for somehow evading battles grave
to march in fiction’s harsh parade.
Solemnly on hush of wind, wars ghosts, in shadow on parade
march to history’s retold lies, leave no footprints, make no sound
for they will not resign their fate to earthen shell of shallow grave
nor will they let it slip behind the fragile wall of unearned peace
returning to a world in which we are perceived as weak
malign them with contrived disdain, condemn their sacrifice as thrill.
Podiums will hail the cause, cheering crowds create a thrill,
rolling drums will precede taps, politicians will parade,
orators with fiery words that make us neither strong nor weak
echoing across dead ears jaundiced by the painful sound
of promises that never are the troubadours of peace
and fall, as soldiers fall, alone upon a grave.
Newsmen mumble, double talk, of situations grave
amusement parks entice us with a death defying thrill
fire crackers, waving flags, noise to celebrate a peace
heads will bow when passing by war’s endless parade
the young will even shed a tear at taps lamenting sound
grit their teeth and know that honor’s tears don’t make us weak.
For freedom is the resting place for the bravest of the weak
who stand in freedom’s honor when the threat is grave
and rally to defend her, to keep her promise sound
not seeking to be heroes, nor the deception of war’s thrill
just honoring the memory of those still on parade
knowing there’s no solace in seclusions peace.
At heart we know that all are weak, that war is not a thrill
that those who fill the graves are shadow soldiers on parade
that the melancholy trumpet sound is the exhaled breath of peace.
John G. Lawless
©6/19/2014
I’m letting go of the urge to be seen,
to stand beneath lights that never stay.
I no longer need the world’s attention
to tell me I matter in any way.
I’m letting go of the urge to be heard,
to speak just to prove that I exist.
Not every truth needs an audience,
not every dream needs a witness.
I’m letting go of the urge to be trusted,
to keep explaining who I am.
Those who see me will see me quietly—
the rest were never part of the plan.
I’m letting go of the urge to be number one,
to run a race I never chose.
Peace is not found on podiums,
nor in competing with hidden foes.
But one small urge I still hold close,
the only one I refuse to lose—
the tender urge to stay happy,
a life I now consciously choose.
And in that urge, I find my calm—
no noise, no crowd, no burning need.
Just Rajit, breathing in his own freedom,
finally learning how to simply be.
We are quarreling over a graveyard of great ideas
Wandering under skies filled with flying political spears
Ideas are rotting under the soils dug by the unscrupulous
We buried our true identity and our mourning is pretentious
The commoners with good intentions are called riffraffs
The undereducated with concerns are labeled bellyachers
The elite have a sense of entitlement that exceeds their competency
The clergy have cloaks covering hands reaching out for the treasury
When Jesus tells us to pray in private, that’s when we fill up stadiums
Or that “Lord! Lord!” won’t get us to heaven, we still climb the podiums
Our inaction disguised as faith and oblivious to the endowment of freewill
We are blind to nature's blessings and God’s delegation of power for us to realise his earthly will
Amidst the vastness of our resources, blossoms a narrowness of minds
If challenges delay our goals, a compromise sprouts, as success gets undermined
Our failures don’t roll up our sleeves for more efforts but for belligerence
Our tongues have become viperous easily inciting division and violence
We are guilty of killing the messengers
We have silenced voices that threaten our favours and status
We prefer fellow tribesmen and forego what statesmanship seeks
Distrusting progress of shared thought and embracing the selfishness of cliques
More deceit continue to deface our identity
Take heed of the manipulation of verities
Individualism is not selfishness
Patriotism is not self-praise
Salvation is not prosperity
Electability is not authority
Our leaders are just a reflection of society
Changing the mirror won’t cure their corruptibility
Everyone is intelligent
Of this, histories are reminiscent
You know something I don't
And I too have something to front
Then comes the flowery ideal of the idealist
To be straight-faced by the reality of the realist
And you wonder as you watch in mime
Whether you were born before or after your time
Some assert their point across
And soft spoken reason suffers loss
Some claim to be a voice for the voiceless
Claiming to air the point of the pointless
Some know how, others know what
Some have the world round and others flat
Some reside in the serenity of thought and deed
Others on the podiums of herald and creed
All these are the plenitude of God's Grace
Our striving comprehension is His Master ace
As we behold Him doing a new thing
One time a lifting shout, another a jingling ring
The greatest of a time may become a hazy memory
Or a legend commanding some unfaded glory
But all in all be not he that the enemy mildly sifts
When you hold back your ministration by your gifts.
K. Muitherero.
Whose Words?
By Mark Stucky
Hissing whispers in the garden
twisted the warning words of God.
A shadowy tempter in the wilderness
shouted enticements to the Word made flesh.
Twisted words whisper and shout today,
from screens, podiums, and even pulpits,
spouting conspiracies and misinformation,
pushing discord, division, and condemnation,
promising power, fame, and friendship,
flaunting false pleasures and successes,
but leaving hearers hurt and angry,
or lonely, anxious, and depressed.
Listening instead to words of Jesus
centers us on truth, love, peace, joy,
and working together
for the good of us all.
So many voices clamoring for our attention,
a noisy din of distortions and contradictions,
a continuous cacophony of words.
Some resulting in harm, some in healing.
Whose words will we heed?
Whose path will we choose?
(First published in Agape Review, 19 April 2023. See also my poems “Tweeting the Truth in Love” and “What Would Jesus Tweet?”)
(Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com.)
Our backyard
Whirlwind of summer firefly
Embers
Stirs up
From the long graves of grass
By the sprawling brooms of July 4th fireworks
Booming distant in the furled sky
Up high
The fire flies swirl to tree tops
Breadcrumb stars for swooping bats
Too many blinks to be gulped whole
Let it go
Paths split
Thunder fades to echoes
Consciousness is everywhere
So plentiful
Our heads tilt
Broken from their podiums
Like vandalized statues
Knees cracked ribs lanced
Still upright in the gallery of this summer
My wife and I
Hands freed from our marble robes
Hold together a single sparkler
Gaze to you
Private
Quiet
Uncertain future.
When the poem became tears
As the ink drips,
I have become an emotional basket case.
My keyboard squeals, as the businessman's anxiety climbs
At the sound of the opening bells,
Tariff wars targeting the poor,
Evil Eyes merges with the Texas Tycoons
What is the poor trader's offense?
Going once, going twice,
To be poor is to be honest,
How can honesty be the best policy
Knowingly, a poor man can never win a war with a rich man
Going once, going twice no deal
Tariff wars targeting the poor:
“They fought with them, we feel the pain
Forget the old saying, you scratch my back
I scratch yours, what are the poor man's justifications
Tighten your podiums, ring your bells
And remember the words,
“They charge us, we charge them,
Why is the world upset?
Aggression, depression, and the will to survive
Inferior and permanent: listen to
Bob Marley's “War song we will always be in war”
Bat-blind to looming gripe and cold decay,
Clueless shoots jump onto life's gay stage,
Oblivious of Grim Fate's scything designs
That waste with disease and stealing age.
They wouldn't turn around and at once behold
Slowly waning sires with mean griefs to scold.
Youth's full plate such wanton cheers parades,
That no eye can see sly time's thievish shades.
Thus enchanted our pleasure-lured victims file
Onto glum podiums whereon their sires stood;
Dancing to selfsame tunes of deaded antiquity,
Decoyed by vanity's unedited rhythmical mood.
While earth's tetchy wheel of raw fun yet turns,
One in the numbed lot in death's embers burns.
To decry such brazenness by that spiteful foe,
Smitten hordes seethe and writhe in brief woe.
In the end every joy-craving dancer sadly goes,
And green offspring pop in to follow their toes.