Long Proclaim Poems
Long Proclaim Poems. Below are the most popular long Proclaim by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Proclaim poems by poem length and keyword.
I have this fear that beyond my years
Every word I’ve said or written will be gone,
Like dust in the wind or seas where rivers end
These thoughts of mine will vanish with the dawn.
No money or fame do I proclaim
Nor legacies of great things I have done,
No battle scars or discovered stars
Or a trace of any race I’ve lost or won.
Like most of those whose time now holds
Their words and thoughts erased,
Confetti like into the skies
I fear that wordless fate.
The dying of the poet’s dream
Of living beyond oblivion,
For someone to read these words indeed
Would save this soul from carrion.
Only time will tell if letters spell
The end of all these phrases,
Mere scribbles now that may somehow
Be read on future pages.
© Terrell Martin, 01/05/2025
Reverence heard, a compassionate sound of solemn word,
Resounds mercy of utmost goodwill, aura-divine spurred,
Performing deeds of beneficence, defying malevolence;
An epistle of angels on earth conferring gift of benevolence.
Such holy angels dwelling among us, are gems quite rare,
Purity of their actions proclaim~ how genuinely they care,
For the destitute, the hapless, caught in throes of despair,
Proffering words of prayer, pleading for hope and welfare.
Messengers of peace, hallowed in zeal of virtuous intention,
Supernal is their magnificence, never yearning attention,
Humble in service to others, dedicated to their missions,
Guiding through life’s hurdles, fulfilling human ambitions.
Inner harmony echoes from voice of their altruistic soul,
Righteous are such missives, sentiments endearing cajole,
Rejecting pessimism of fate in bold pursuit of virtuous goal,
Of kindness, of amity and love, teachings spiritual extol.
Featherless angels, mortals alike us, yet they live on and on,
Worshipped for their pious acts, long after they are gone,
For legacies of ideals devout, profound passions of heart,
For reassurance, inspiration of life, memories now impart.
To Spark Interest
More than the
competence
And more than
the form
More than
verbosity
And more than
its charms
More than
acceptance
And more than
the fame
Hoping
to spark interest
Nothing more
— will I claim
********
Surrounding His Heart
In a manner
peculiar
to himself
love was in vain
The standard
that other’s
depended upon
his never to feign
The love of a maiden
the love of a lass
lay broken
to bits
Impaled by the armor
surrounding
his heart
ungiven — remiss
********
But A Memory
Opening
Pandora’s Box
that regret
cannot close
A.I. preys
unchecked
our heads to
our toes
Pandering
to laziness
its gadgets
mislead
And hide
its real purpose
to enslave
and deceive
A little bit
pregnant
the feckless
proclaim
Its baby
a monster
our freedom
to claim
And when it
takes over
to never
depart
Our pasts
but a memory
in a future
— that’s dark
********
Alone & Silent
The water
rushing over the falls
belies its force
A trickle
1000 miles North
contains its source
A poem that’s written
then published
and rewrapped in fame
Hides what moments alone
and silence
— forever sustain
********
A Last Final Act
Using Logic to
explain Divinity ...
a futile endeavor
Love the gift
that keeps on giving
through hate and ill weather
Through spirit alone
we return to the source
of our making
Repledging our souls
in a last final act
— of becoming
(Dreamsleep: June, 2026)
an interlude
of ecstasy
clings&
possesses
the eternal
with love&
inflames
thereby
to enslave
the wonder
of the unknown
helps fathom
faith
&fashion
tnoughts' gown
into
a
truer way
vanity's eyes
quicken
&yet
fleeting
sorrow
aware of the stain
of dishonour
declines
a choice breeze
of mellow
breath
drowns
dull misery
calls
for a response
to douse
the flame&
proclaim
a warning
to the unaware
distress
appears
with unease
to
mutter
a lament
&to mock
the living soul&
adorn
the gloom
vigour
arrives
upon
the flowering tide
on
the shore
of delight
to acquaint&
throng
this sweet place
to
please
&
dream
once more
Don't pay attention to what others say or do.
Focus your thoughts on the Creator of you.
We are all one of His fingerprints, not one is the same.
Everyone's still a loser, without God in the game.
Not a soul God created is better than you.
Whatever one person has, all can have the same too!
God's word says "WE'RE ALL FEARFULLY & WONDERFULLY MADE!
So don't look at somebody and wish you two could trade.
He us each a gift, one only that we can do.
Just walk and spend time with Him and he'll reveal it to you.
Worshipping another human? God said it's a sin.
Instead open your heart to Jesus, ask Him to come in!
Be it Fame, wealth or high status, the ending is the same.
Every knee is guaranteed to bow, and every lip proclaim his name!
You might ask how one know if God exist or any of this is true.
He made Himself known to me and he'll do the same for you Trouble and pain is the path through which you'll come to know.
But we've been fooled into thinking it's the wrong way to go.
If a rug is pulled out from you, and you fall, you look up.
God get's your attention with problems, you're not having bad luck.
Life here is testing grounds to see what we believe.
Our belief and behavior will determine what we'll receive!
Right now the "Rich & Famous" strut around feeling tall.
But, the higher your ego, the greater the fall!
There is only "One Book" that truly should be read.
It explains WHO's and what we are and what happens when dead.
God did say "In this world ,we all will surely have strife!
That means people will be trouble for the rest of our life.
My lady wife does strange things with the lavatory brush
She stands it in the loo and then she activates the flush
But she’s my girl and not someone that I would want to chasten
Except she leaves the brush there like it’s Guardian of the Basin
I know she pours in loads of bleach in which the brush can soak
I don’t know why she does this for alas I'm just a bloke
So when I walk into the loo that brush is standing proud
Protruding from the lavvy pan as I proclaim out loud…
My darling, I’m so happy that you keep our home hygienic
But that there plastic poker in our loo is hardly scenic
So I don’t have a Labrador but what if I were blind…
You’d find me running out of here while clutching my behind
My Father and my friend,
I love not to live by pretense,
Nor love I your sacrosanct decrees to bend;
I repent every transgression hence,
And pray that you may your mercies lend.
Feed me my Father and my friend,
And put raiment upon my skin;
Upon my poetry I pray you send
Your benediction and endorsement unseen.
Fine-tune the timbre and pitch of my oration,
My Father and my friend of all creation;
And speak on me the benefits of fame,
And cause my tongue to proclaim thy name.
My Father and my friend unchanging,
Full of love and care unflinching,
Be my comforter in times of cry and sorrow,
And hide from me the uncertainties of tomorrow.
Hear me my Father and my friend,
For I'm candid and dare not pretend!
Yes in deed thank God on each and every single day
Some find that odd, ridiculousness in every word I say
But when Friday comes along they proclaim it loud
To me that's like a song one that makes me so proud
Oh they don't recognize it even as they speak
But on something they have hit in so acting as meek
For shall you become as such by saying this one little phrase
As within this He could touch as the Lord works in mysterious ways
And once a week it was repeated in such a simple way
Not one single word deleted or any inkling to betray
And every week after week and every year after year
These words he would speak and speak so loud and clear
But once retirement came no longer needing this refrain
He didn't speak of His Name but only out of utter disdain
I miss hearing that sound as trite as it may seem to be
I know he wasn't found but he was starting to see
Thank God it's Friday!
—A Remembrance of the Hidden Flame—
Before the tongue divided silence into names,
Before the first hand carved a sign upon the stone,
There moved a warmth through marrow, dust, and flames,
A light that knew the heart before it was known.
No temple held it, no crowned voice proclaimed—
Yet every soul had carried it unnamed.
I saw an old man mend a broken wooden gate,
His fingers stained with rain and winter's clay;
He left one hinge imperfect, left one nail awry,
As though he knew some things must bend to stay.
Inside, a child had drawn upon the wall
A yellow sun that scarcely shone at all.
The mother kept that drawing years beyond its time,
Though storms had taken colour from the room;
She touched the faded circle in the morning light,
As if a garden still survived the gloom.
And no one watching could have told what moved—
Whether the child had drawn the sun, or love had proved.
For what are we, but echoes learning how to sing?
What are our dreams, but seeds beneath the stone?
The river does not ask the mountain why it flows,
Nor does the root demand the sky its own.
Some mysteries are not to be understood—
They are the forests where the soul once stood.
One night, when all the village lamps were gone,
The moon descended into a well of rain;
A woman looking down saw not her face below,
But every face she had ever lost to pain.
The water spoke no word, revealed no sign—
Yet something in the dark became divine.
Then came a morning no historian shall record,
No trumpet sounded from the vaulted height;
A stranger lifted another stranger from the road,
And carried him beyond the falling night.
Two hands, unknown, beneath a silent sun—
And something ancient whispered they were one.
Perhaps the heavens are not above our sight,
Perhaps they wait within the things we mend;
Perhaps the universe has always leaned toward love,
And only asks our hearts to comprehend.
Perhaps the prayer we seek across the years
Was born before our first remembered tears.
And when the last great walls of separation fall,
When every grief finds mercy's answering flame,
When all the scattered voices of the earth
Return at last to one forgotten name—
No angel shall descend, no star shall proclaim;
The earth itself shall breathe:
Amen.
In case of article fourteen
Quite a problem could have been
Solved completely, setting free
All from tribal pedigree
No prejudice would take place
Based on nation or the race
No one meets with deprivation
Well protected by convention
Be it truth, we could have been
Living in most fairiest dream
Ever dreamt about, or heard
Magic of the written word
Would reach out the moral height
For the sake of human rights
But of course it’s just a joke
Article fourteen evokes
Well known habit to proclaim
Vaguely written rules of game
That’s not law, but just convention
Paving hell with good intention
Fence the road, and change some slabs
Re-elect old fags and hags
No one reads conventions, man
Wishful thinking is a damn
That’s innate with human race
I would really be amazed
If the article fourteen
Meant to be a real thing.