Long Pompeii Poems
Long Pompeii Poems. Below are the most popular long Pompeii by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pompeii poems by poem length and keyword.
It can’t be art
Spun in a windstorm of caustic insisting
Plastered like mud on the walls of Pompeii
Frescos of joy before charcoal was misting
Writing in ash, catastrophic display
Poetic spittle once cast to the broken
Scribbled in diction now smeared in the rain
So many follow yet nothing is spoken
Below these skies with the cherry red stain
There in the distance a magpie is flying
Scavenging wings while you shout from the ground
Screaming a truth midst the unending lying
Circling nightmares of places you’re bound
Can it be art if it’s not as remembered
Past of the days when you pissed in the snow
Spelling your name as your mother was watching
Turning in shame as if she didn’t know
Damning Picasso for changing direction
How can a nose sit so far from the face
Pollock’s spilled paint way beyond your detection
Charging a gallery, demanding your space
Photo laced albums of cellophane pages
Developed by hand in a room with no light
Look at these kids and their digital stages
Feigning creative, it just isn’t right
Does this explain every tactical action
While you count blocks as if streets don’t exist
Pulling a woodpecker’s tail to get traction
Hiding the reason you just can’t resist
You say that art can be all that we’re thinking
Then in the same breath you say it’s not true
Often we wonder if you have been drinking
Make up your mind, it’s the least you can do
You are all artists, yes you who are reading
Writing your words that you put on display
Spilling your heart while emotions are bleeding
It breaks my heart when I hear someone say
It can’t be art, all those losers are dreaming
Seeing and clicking and sending and such
Downloaded images, videos streaming
When the truth is, you are just out of touch
It was two decades ago today when an actor took his final breath.
When he starred in Doctor Who, he starred in "The Robots of Death".
His name was Russell Hunter and he was born in February of 1925.
Next year would've been his 100th birthday if he had survived.
Hunter starred in nineteen episodes of "The Gaffer" and one episode of "Born and Bred".
People in England were sad twenty years ago today because they learned he was dead.
In 1976, he starred in one episode of "Play From A".
He also starred in "Daddy's Girl" and "Up Pompeii".
Hunter starred in "The Cockleshell Heroes" and one episode of "The Bill".
When it comes to forgetting him, the good people of England never will.
[Dedicated to Russell Hunter (1925-2004) who died twenty years ago today on February 26, 2004]
Excavations expose stunning skulls of history,
Where-around emblazoned scripts cultures and creatures;
Minds of human beings and their mass mystery,
The whole lot that surrounds them with all true features...
Be it Rosetta stone or Ashurbanipal's,
Troy or king Tut's tomb; Machu Picchu or Pompeii;
Be Akrotiri Tehra or the Dead Sea Scrolls,
Olduvai Gorge, or structures stunningly cozy...
I have been wondering at unearthing premiere,
Of the terracotta army of China's first king,
Unearthed by the farmers on a mystical sphere,
Where they witnessed the painstakingly created wing...
The clay warriors with chariots and horses,
Acrobats, musicians, artisans, and craftsmen;
Buried as the emperor's crisis armed forces,
Defend him in his afterlife from every pain...
Are these artifacts blended with enormous love,
Of the citizens to their beloved king great?
Or a branch of paraphernalia does state shove,
To preserve the power of the king and elate…?
Excavations, within, are essential as well,
To ascertain every strength and frailty hidden;
To learn lessons from failures and past flaws to quell,
Every darkness dwelling in the realm, forbidden...
Let's dig! Deep! Not content with the periphery!
Expose the minds! Hearts! Bring out the innermost soul!
Hair split the history's marvelous mystery!
Test the artistry, sandstone, proficiency whole!
Think of the human hands that create every art,
Cumulating courage; working relentlessly;
Hungry, thirsty, empty-handed, love-filled at heart;
Partaking in the endless plan of God restlessly...
12 July 2021
This or That, Vol 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
I won a holiday voucher; good luck had come my way
So we put the money towards my bucket list holiday
Ever since was small I’d dreamed of visiting Italy
To view the Pompeii ruins a sight I wanted to see
We flew off to stay in Sorrento at the Hotel Caravelle
The hotel was so grand, our bedroom was really swell
We booked to go to Pompeii on an organised tour
A little minibus picked us up outside the hotel door
It took us on a trip to the local railway station
To meet our tour rep who’d fill us with information
Pompeii was so amazing, on cobbled streets we’d tread
visiting ruined houses, and seeing relics of the dead
who’d perished when Mount Vesuvius tragically erupted
bodies frozen in time when their lives were all disrupted
A visit to Herculaneum was the highlight of our vacation
I preferred it to Pompeii due to the state of preservation
The well preserved remains exceeded all expectation
I vow to I’ll return to Italy without any hesitation!
We both want to repeat a bus trip along the Amalfi drive
With the skill of our bus driver we made it home alive!
What Have You Kicked Off On Your Bucket List Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
12/04/20
Those Tommies send their planes in large amounts
They drop their bombs but all they do is bounce
Like rubber balls their bouncy bombs all missed
Those British pilots must be really…
*
The steward asked the ‘Lady’ won’t you please enjoy our boat
The RMS Titanic is the safest ship afloat
The lady huffed and said a little service would be nice
I’ve got my gin and tonic… could you organise some ice?
*
Vesuvius is puffing out some wispy smoke today
They say there could be fireworks to brighten up Pompeii
How many more times will they say that mountain’s gonna go
And won’t somebody tell me what’s a pyroclastic…
…
Oh!
*
I learned my skills in marketing back in seventy three
For twelfth century Pisa was a training ground for me
I proved my salesmanship to market trader, Uncle Neville
I even got a few quid for that dodgy spirit level
The Players In The Park
by Edmund Siejka
An errant breeze slipped in
Somewhere from the West Village
Caressing a couple
As they walked out of the park holding hands
Shoulders touching
Running her fingers through her hair
She stopped to look up
In return he smiled
His arms bringing her closer
Their lips meeting.
Nearby, the park musicians called it a day
Tired, the old man carefully put his violin back into its case
Next time they might try something new
Perhaps something from Verdi’s Aida
Leaving the park, he passed Our Lady of Pompeii
Hurrying across Carmine Street
He adjusted his cap
Before making the sign of the cross.
Overhead, a rainbow orange sun slowly dipped beneath the City’s horizon
Transforming a warm day into a cool September evening
Weekend crowds
Started arriving
Loud and boisterous
They swarmed the streets
In threes and fours.
Walking home he worried
The crowds at the park were getting smaller
The young never had time for opera
But why did they make their lives so hard
Just to push ahead?
The old man had no answer
Holding the violin case closer, he knew one thing for certain
For him another long day was over.
There is a heatwave in my bowels
I want to write of it, every detail.
So I’ve been looking to the sky waiting for the sea to swallow the sun,
To show their is no urgency in matters of love
For masterworks take time to be made with sheer precision.
There is a lady I want to say my love to this evening,
She is green ribbon ticket and her heart is my jackpot,
Iron is iron
And is only as sharp as what rubs against it
So I’ve been tossing and turning with the lust of my heart....
We’ve built a friendship that outshines the city of Pompeii,
And now I quiver to the thought of setting fire on her flammable heart,
But there is still a lady I want to say my love to,
She is the daughter of a carpenter,
Her father has designed crutches for the man who is to break her heart,
And in my dreams we dance barefoot on grains of sand as I show her the star I am to name in her honor,
But this evening there is a lady I want to say my love to,
I’m plucking the courage to do so as I write this.
You thought you would hurt me
You thought I would cry
You though you would break me
You thought I would die
You went off with some girl
You thought you were happy
You thought I still wanted you
You thought you still had me
But when you crawled back
And asked for my heart
It was you all along
Whose torn all apart
Love is like life
There's joy and there's pain
And there's winning and losing
And you caught my flame.
I'm the volcano's lava,
You're the Pompeii next door!
You're the mallet of rubber,
I'm the hammer of thor!
I'm a powerful hydra,
Mightier than death!
I create necks of steel,
One for each you behead!
You thought I'd be broken--
Mister, you were wrong.
You let go for another,
And want me to hold on?
When you call my name,
And write poems to sing,
Don't expect the same,
You are nothing.
I'm the coral of oceans,
I grow in waters clear.
You're the cactus of desserts,
You are pricked with your tears!
I'm the admin of armies!
You're my captured spy.
You're the man in the coffin,
I'm the dove that flies high!
You thought I'd be broken--
Mister, you were wrong.
You let go for another,
And want me to hold on?
When you call my name,
And write poems to sing,
Don't expect the same,
You are nothing.
We are born into this time, ensnared by the woven webs of destiny,
And on the path of fate, without fear, we step toward the determined end.
There is no other way, only the duty to hold onto our lost position,
Without hope, without salvation, like that Roman soldier, found among the ruins,
His bones before the door in Pompeii, a silent testament to his devotion.
Vesuvius erupted, and the sky darkened with ash,
But he, in silence, fulfilled his duty, forgotten by all,
This is greatness, true nobility, to stand firm,
In the face of the storm that swallows you, without wavering, without surrendering.
To be of pure breed means to face the inevitable with your head held high,
To accept that honor is the only thing that cannot be taken from a man,
That in the face of the end, only dignity remains, like an everlasting light,
A beacon in the deep night of existence, an unyielding symbol.
In the flow of my consciousness, the image of a forgotten world is drawn,
Where each step is an echo of the past, every breath, a testament.
We are born into this time, with the burden of history on our shoulders,
And on the path of fate, we step without fear, toward the determined end.
There is no other way, only the duty to hold the flag high,
Without hope, without salvation, but with hearts full of courage,
Like that Roman soldier, guarded by the silence of eternity,
His bones, a testament to a life lived with dignity.
And thus, in the face of the end, we find our strength,
In the honor that cannot be taken, in the greatness of a life lived without regrets,
For to be of pure breed means to face the inevitable,
With your head held high, with a pure heart, leaving behind only light.
Desert shrines were canonical
before the Deluge.
The bamboo and fronds of their mouths
waved well in the sun,
and the strength of their arms shunned
the devilish romances of swift gales.
Oh, the heaths of the shrines
warmed the heart of the ancient world,
who brought the Rainbow as a gift! ...
And the shrines were holy
and kept the peace;
befriended the skies; flirted
with the blessings of furry, velvet clouds
and slept and rose with the vagaries of
a wild world.
But one day
the sun went suddenly wild;
the clouds in flamebursts tore off
their rain garments...
Deluge!
A watershed in the history of
Desert and her shrines.
Cannons boomed in the Deluge,
shook the roots of Desert
with the perdition of Pompeii
lying in one stretch of sleep...
And the shrines came crumbling!