Long Pope Poems
Long Pope Poems. Below are the most popular long Pope by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pope poems by poem length and keyword.
Flame of life flutters, tide wanes sans reason,
Death drops shutters whilst life sinks in a pit,
The day looks dull, dark clouds when hides the sun,
Night gets moonless, cloudy and stars are no more lit.
Life's breathless breasts hide failing heart beneath
As if to mask a universal truth,
Creeping unseen, Death gnaws with gnarling teeth,
And still, the dying life dreams of her days of youth
And returns home carrying no suitcase
And leaves bare hands, all unfinished hopes hemmed,
As loveliest words get frozen on face,
And as some rarest poems may just die un-penned.
As some of life-long goals remain un-scored,
As one-sided love remains mute, wordless,
As life’s set sailed to float across un-oared
Lo, it suffers a new sentence to sail clueless,
Death cometh, two un-dotted times to dot,
To bring together two random journeys,
Sepulchral silence falls, church bells toll not,
As the air thickens and freezes, as doth chilled breeze.
And ye Life, like kids’ paper boats collapse,
Mere puddle it takes to soak it and sink,
Not a great storm to tilt as paper snaps,
Death hassles thee O Life to kiss thy own last brink.
Much maligned Death, thou art no enemy
Of Life— a darling friend of so many,
Ye walk with Life, so light thy levity,
And yet, for such largesse, ye get not a penny!
To thee Death, the morrow’s but next moment,
Thine future tied on a tenuous thread,
Ye live half-shut eyed, instant to instant,
And still, the last goodbye of thine is such a dread!
So, Death, feel thou firm as my fervent friend
Not to forget, we’re a Siamese twain,
Be my morrow till my life’s very end,
Together die shall we as one bound by a chain.
_______________________
Ode (musings) | 03.05.2012 | life, death
Note: the fourth line of each quatrain is two-syllable longer (a hexameter, with apology to Alexander Pope*).
* A needless alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
- from his poem An Essay on Criticism
When I was a girl we had a house near railroad tracks,
And at night I loved the sound of the train whistle blowing;
It was such a haunting sound,
I wondered where it was going.
Mother told me the first words I said were choo choo choo,
I would sit by the window and imagine I was on that train;
The huge diesel locomotive pulling me to far off places,
I would have dreams of Paris.
It was whimsical and fanciful,
The Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame and The Louvre;
And a quick stop in Vienna, home of Mozart and Beethovan,
Oh all the magical places I could go on a whistling train.
And then we would go to Rome,
I wanted to say hello to the Pope.
Then with a clung and a whistle we would go to England,
And I would introduce myself to the Queen and have tea;
In my reverie I was not alone,
My companion was little Odele.
She was just a tiny kitten that I tucked in my pocket,
Then off we would go on our fantastical dreamy train ride.
_________________________
July 29, 2015
Poetry/Verse/Fantastical Dreamy Train Ride
Copyright Protected, ID 15-695-692-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym
For the contest, Trains and Fantasy,
sponsor, Mystic Rose
First Place
What sad fate does all of these celebrities likely have in common?
Aaliyah
Aaron Hernandez
Abraham Lincoln
Amy Winehouse
Anna Nicole Smith
Bob Marley
Brandon Lee
Brittany Murphy
Bruce Lee
Buddy Holly
Christopher Wallace - Notorious B.I.G.
Elvis Presley
Frank Zappa
George Washington
Gianni Versace
Grace Kelly
Heath Ledger
Jeffrey Epstein
Jim Morrison
Jimi Hendrix
Joan Rivers
John F. Kennedy
John F. Kennedy, Jr.
John Lennon
John Todd
King Leopold II of Austria
Kobe Bryant
Kurt Cobain
Lee Harvey Oswald
Lou Reed
Malcolm X
Marilyn Monroe
Martin Luther King Jr
Michael Jackson
Otis Redding
Paul Walker
Pope John Paul I
Prince
Princess Diana
Ritchie Valens
Robert F. Kennedy
Robin Williams
Sam Cooke
Seth Rich
Stanley Kubrick
The Big Bopper
Tupac Shakur
Vince Foster
Whitney Houston
XXXTentacion
Dear the Pope
was supposed to vote
but sat around
just taking notes
Holy Sheesh!
was he asleep!
and so it goes that
a whole in sheets
don't mean two cents
if we miss a beat
it wasn't meant
to be anything less...
then Heaven sent.
so if I must
I did in deed
asked to confess
within my peace
and prayed to a god
I couldn't see and
asked the guides
forgive me please
... I know not what I do.
humble i go to the
apple grove
babbling love as
much as i know
and asking still...
god let me grow.
I sleep not nights
I write in lights
flickering in
a candles glow.
babbling words
i shall not know.
"...see no evil..."
is what I heard.
"...and hear we know..."
is what i learned.
"...live on..."
it was written and
SEWN
Form:
the man had a flat expression and showed no emotion
he seemed disconnected his movements bizarre
and his eyes lost sometimes standing motionless
on the busy street corner
with his little dog I always gave him money
(what's a few bucks to me )
thinking this is someone's child baby
oh he was sloppy his hygiene lacking
the man's memory muddled confused
but he did have a history locked within deep inside
at nineteen he was hearing voices paraniod
thoughts hullucinations bizarre
(like the pope was from outer space) delusional
he had withdraw from society run away
did not want to be a burden no one understood
disorganized and poor judgement
made working impossible they yelled at him
(he threw away his pills)
he wrote in cheap journals from
edge to edge top to bottom words jumbled meaningless
(in a secret language)
he did not show happiness agitation pleasure but
for some reason sadness oh yes sadness
was written all over him I could see feel
that and he did have love a real deep love
for that thin scraggly dog and I thought
some may think he is a drunk
but they are wrong this is
schizophrenia
____________________________
August 4, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/Something Not Quite Right
Copyright Protected, ID 15-697-431-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Mental Illness,
sponsor, Nathan D
Fifth Place
Grandpa was a Bowie.
A tight-lipped protestant Ulsterman
who drifted into the Poblacht na hÉireann
in search of a cure for his cold heart.
His thin lips wed a soft Catholic girl.
He joined the Garda Síochána settling down
to breed Kerry Blue’s. After he retired, he still
wore his uniform, his neck as stiff as ever.
Grandma wrote letters to the Pope
begging for Papal forgiveness
for her heathen husband.
I have not been to Hidalgo County,
but if I were one day to go, I might try
to convince the Daughters of the Alamo
of my credentials to be worshiped
in a mild, concessionary way.
A complimentary burger, a free pass
to the museum, a photograph
of myself brandishing a big knife
at a picture of Generalissimo Santa Anna
that would suffice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Poblacht na hÉireann" = Republic of Ireland (Éire).
"Ulster' (Northern Ireland).
"Garda Síochána" Is the Police Force of the Republic of Ireland.
Growing up with the personalities like the Pope and the Queen, was interesting.
One wanted the house perfect, with no words spoken, only duty to perform the women chores as a wife.
A wife in her duty to her husband and family, no other issue could come before. The Queen always wanted her freedom, to do works of charity, to work outside the house, to look beautiful and to have fun and to join groups of interest.
The Pope only wanted prayer and domination over the women and the house. Not allowing for work or anything else. The Queen rebelled and took her liberty, causing a break in the household.
The Queen wanted all the things that were around her, like having fun and making herself feel good.
The Pope had no patience for fun or games, only a serious face, that made us all feel afraid.
The Queen took her time but made her way, to live the life that she had always dreamed.
The Pope was greedy sometimes, because he failed to let the Queen grow. Causing the family to suffer a blow. The blow was felt by the whole group leaving a trajectory that set a path for all to see.
The Pope and the Queen set a tone, for many years would be felt, like the scar on skin, the past always leaves a mark.
The Pope and the Queen, could have made better choices, leaving others with brighter memories.
So, when you think, remember you could be like them, so make a mark with your life, that will led to brighter paths for all of us.
Life is a path, we make the path, light it with our choices, love and forgive and correct when we can, this may make a better tomorrow for all.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
It was the worst thing that I've ever seen.
It happened in my town last Halloween.
A horrible monster attacked and it was undead.
It disembowled people and bit off their heads.
It made Michael Myers look like the Pope.
If you're wondering if it was easily destroyed, the answer is nope.
It killed four hundred people, including every cop.
I knew that this freak of nature had to be stopped.
It didn't hurt that thing when I drove a stake through its heart.
But it did destroy it when I used a bazooka to blow it apart.
Nothing can bring back those four hundred unfortunate women and men.
But people can rest easy because they'll never see that foul monster again.
(THIS IS A FICTIONAL POEM.)
What are critics but the thing to be?
To save you from all those who not
Only stay to help you judge the
Sins of those who were the first?
For the story is never told by
All of those who came before. Whom
Wish a dream just to clear the
Actions of this plane away, new
Time in which that nightmare plagued is
What they so desperately tried.
Please wish not to be a critic, nor
One of those who came before, yet
House empathy for both parties the
Courts had ruled to be the last.
The wish to be a bystander is to
Wish to fall on ancient ground, to lay
Upon the graves of ancestors, the
Ones who brought around this curse
Standing with the gift of old
Time. We shall learn to not stand aside.
"Be not the first by whom the new is tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside."
'An Essay On Criticism' Alexander Pope
There are hungry mouths
in every country of this planet,
and everyone should help with little or much;
how can we stand see them suffer, and helpelessly die on their beds?
North America the wealthiest nation, which God bountifully blessed,
has its poor living in drug-infested and run-down neighborhoods,
faces that are never seen by the unsuspecting visitors;
these unfortunate people have known hunger, not savored a delicious banquet!
Whose fault is it the Government's or the uncaring parents'
who have neglected them, and is it their permanent plagues:
rugs, indifference and lovelessness that have reduced them to this awful and shameful state?
They should blame themselves, not those governing and giving them handouts!
Africa is the worst continent hit by a lack of food caused by corruption,
everywhere the eyes turn: they witness the fate of those dying without a word of consolation;
mothers clutching their little ones and their daily laments are still unheard...
seeking water, while all beasts have become the skeletons of their devastated land!
The Vatican always sends missionaries to the African people to proclaim Christ, the Savior;
and it has vehemently invoked the pity of the wealthy and the kind to ease their misery;
and Pope Benedict XVI prays on his feeble knees, asking for their generosity!
Why can't He relinquish His guarded treasures and feed them a hundred times over?
I am not a KIng or President and slabs of gold, locked in volts, I have not;
and with the little I have...I will share with them and keep my conscience intact!
Reach out, world, and eradicate this disease that's killing millions of unlucky folks;
leave your seas and deserts, your cities and towns and be among them to end this curse!
There are hungry mouths in each corner of our earth so marvelously blue,
mouths with lips that are cracked and dry; bodies writhing in undeserved pain!
Find them in Africa, in South America, or anywhere you'll be traveling to:
unattended perishing souls....dying without dignity and so alone!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci