Long Public square Poems
Long Public square Poems. Below are the most popular long Public square by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Public square poems by poem length and keyword.
One's poetic ability, yea willingness, to speak
Truth.
To stand, soul-naked, as it were...
Whilst your poet enemies stone you or avoid
you in the online public square.
To swim with the sharks, though thou
might be their delicious repast.
To be be happily avoided because you
don't follow the crowd.
You won't bow and scrape and sell your
soul nor your country out, no how!
In this battlefield of ideas, the small of
mind will shame you.
Brandish your sword of courage,in full
view!
A stalwart poem with three hundred reads and
comments, but two?
Shows that popularity trumps truth here,
So much so, I want to permanently vanish!
Or have 38,000 poets here to the famed,
"isle of Denial" be heretofore, banished!
~~~~~~
July 13, 2020
10:30 pm PST
What he wrote in a room
got darker,
he could hardly see the static snow
he was printing his mind upon.
He knew
that there would have to be a change, a mind-shift.
His place in his world was becoming precarious.
"Next summer" he thought, "I will take my desk
and laptop out into the public square." He smiled
at the thought of a 'public square'
his mind had gone public years ago
and perfect squares were hard to find.
Yet he knew also he was hiding himself still,
his scribblings were like kites
spinning in a windstorm.
"'I will go and sit outside Walmart,
hand out scraps of paper to the patrons
as they come and go.
When and if they ask me to explain myself
I will be forced into a truth
not seen in dark rooms.
Sometimes one has to be a public curiosity,
a square in a round hole
in order to find out the right question to ask yourself."
Serpentine artisan in Eden
Crafting a second creation
A molten piece of idol
By the dexterity
Of word of mouth.
Tongue lures ear
And then à tongue kiss
To the ear, both soulmates
Titillate the neurons of the body
Stir the impulse of all senses
All segued to Judas kiss.
Telepathist tool
Transmuting visions from pluto
To reality on earth.
Forked-tongue town crier
With cymbal and gong
Improvising a dissonance
Of glossolalic tales
To the age of gullible gullivers!
Ear, O hear!
In that gaping cavity
There lies lie lair
The sword of Damocles
Gliding and Churning honey gobs
From its cavity to founts of lies
In every public square.
Like the big lie of Hitler and Goebbels
To the holocaust.
Let not all thy senses,
Emotion, reason, and conscience
Trust her tongue!
For western civilization, is this our contribution?
The king is staging another public execution.
Even though blood will be shed, it will get plenty of attention.
It will happen in the middle of our summer fair.
The executioner’s block is right in the public square.
They consider capital punishment a deterrent to crime.
I think witnessing this thing will hardly be sublime.
I know the executioner’s name is Max.
He has his black hood on, and he is sharpening his axe.
Another poor fool will be losing his head.
Living in this place, I think he will be better off dead.
in the public square
you are not to be questioned
just admired
for your dark demonstrations
of being
the hanging black spider waves its life at you
perhaps the arachnid lover is demoralized
by your hidden beauty
hard to tell
you cringe under its radiant otherness
in the public museum
take the tour backwards
let the man with the megaphone mouth
spin his webs not from the center out
but outer to inner
inwardness opens windows in closed walls
be kind to the blank eyed watchers
here is a beautiful oil on canvas
there is a spider in the corner
that no one notices
for it has no frame
its eight legs tremble
The man in the bus-driver cap
extols her still not living attractions
the ugliness of the moment
is memorized by the whole gallery
only the Picasso remains free
of the taint of paint
A fat woman sighs into my face
threads exude
multiple silky spinnerets
droop from sticky glands
I want out
the way I came in
but am now too endangered
to weave my way out of this
carry out picture palace
Speech
Free speech,
is the power of one person,
to say, anything they like,
to have an opinion,
and to have it heard,
even if it is bad,
even if it is good,
it is the same.
Every person has a voice,
some speak to much,
some can not speak at all.
The difference,
the price of freedom...
fairly distributed among
the rich, the weak,
the poor,
the downtrodden.
The censored media,
cropping off the parts...
they do not care to address,
in favor of the ploys
they created
to make us believe,
what is not real
anywhere.
Critical thinking...
has been leashed,
and tied to a fire hydrant
in the public square.
He, or it...
is beaten daily,
to make sure
there is no life left
at all,
to fight.
Believe,
be still,
be silent...
Do as you are told.
You will not grow old,
as there are too many
of you.
There is not enough room for us,
those that know where the
food is kept,
underground in caves,
in the north,
in the south,
in the east,
and in the west.
Go hungry,
and starve.
It does not matter,
who...
you
are.
In the land where the eagle soars high and free,
Freedom’s enduring call is bestowed.
From the mountains’ proud peaks to the ocean’s vast span,
Lies the charge of a nation, since its birth began.
It’s not just the soil, the flag, or the song,
But the spirit of justice, where all belong.
To uphold the ideals that the founders wrote,
And keep freedom’s lamp burning, eternally bright.
Duty’s a promise, a vow to the brave,
Who fought on the battlefields, their lives they all gave.
For the right to speak freely, to worship, to dream,
To flow with democracy’s strong, steady stream.
It’s to stand up for truth in the public square,
To lift the voiceless, to show that care is given.
To build a community, united and strong,
Where no one is silenced or feels they don’t belong.
In the ballot box’s power, voices are raised,
To guide a shared future through nights and through days.
To serve with integrity, to strive for the good,
To honor the bond of a great neighborhood.
So let hearts swell with a fire and a grace,
As you answer the call of this hallowed place.
For the land of the free and the home of the brave,
It’s a duty, a privilege, a legacy to save.
Here we are in the village of Morristown, New Jersey.
It is September the sixth in the year of our Lord, 1833.
French immigrant Antoine LeBlanc went on a killing spree.
He took the lives of two rather prominent citizenry.
Antoine murdered Mr. and Mrs. Sayre, and their servant Phoebe.
The citizens of the town considered the deed so dastardly.
It only took twenty minutes for the decision of the jury.
With overwhelming evidence, the defendant was found guilty.
LeBlanc was afforded all the formalities of a fair hearing.
Judge Gabriel Ford handed down the sentence of death by hanging.
A crowd of about ten thousand are gathered in the public square.
Witnesses have come to see the execution from everywhere.
A rope around LeBlanc’s neck will propel him into the air.
Until he is dead, Antoine will be hanging in despair.
“That’s not enough”, cried some of the witnesses in their fears.
They wanted LeBlanc’s skin tanned and made into souvenirs.
Wallets, purses, lampshades, and book jackets were fashioned from his hide.
That is a gruesome fate that certainly cannot be denied.
Here is something else that I have to say:
Some of those relics of the infamous criminal still survive today.
I thank both wikipedia.org online encyclopedia and the website of Weird N.J. for information I obtained to write this poem.
The sacred lily of antiquity;
vital, that centuries have not defied.
Treasures, luminaries of Italy;
a preserved cultured city, dignified.
Basilica on the mount arises;
"The Gate of Heaven" takes my breath away.
The dome cap nestles above the city;
A vista opens to new horizons,
Cathedral bells ring, calling me to pray;
outside, minstrels in song, bold and witty.
On the old bridge, wares for sale are displayed.
A passage, above the River Arno;
self- portraits, don the walls; masters portrayed.
Bronzed doors, a journey to The Inferno;
afficionados of art come to praise.
Sculptures come alive in the public square;
Uffizi's galleries, patrons are drawn
to the genius of masters, are amazed.
The passion of "bel canto" fills the air;
night falls, your cobbled streets, dim, until dawn.
In marbled tombs lay national heroes;
maestros who impart the gifts of sages.
The Sacred Crucifix hangs in sorrow,
over consecrated ground, it graces.
A tapestry of life's virtues you share.
To the titans of art, we owe a debt.
Saints and prophets, their relics you enshrine;
devoted in faith we kneel in prayer.
David's majestic strength, Goliath met.
Florence's gifts, a legacy, divine!
May 4, 2022
For: Form O-Ode-New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes verified on Rhymezone.com
Syllables verified on Howmanysyllables.com
Theme: Place
Placed 3rd in contest
In the labyrinth of our existence, where echoes of voices clash,
We are but wanderers, lost in a cacophony of senseless chatter,
Radio waves and television screens, spreading the spirit of noise,
We are filled with pointless expressions, endless streams of words and images.
Stupidity, never blind nor mute, dances freely in the public square,
It’s not about making people speak, but finding the spaces,
Those precious gaps of solitude and silence,
Where one might stumble upon a thought worth sharing.
Repressive forces do not stifle our voices,
Instead, they compel us to speak, to fill the void with sounds,
What a relief it would be, to have nothing to say,
To embrace the right to silence, for within that silence,
Lies the chance to frame something rare, something valuable.
In these times, it’s not the blockage of communication that affects us,
But the flood of pointless statements, noise without substance,
For what we call meaning is the point of a statement,
Its novelty, its relevance—these are the true measures of value.
You can listen for hours, but what’s the point?
Arguments strain our spirits, for it rarely makes sense to argue,
You can’t just tell someone their words are pointless,
So you tell them they are wrong, but wrongness isn’t the issue,
The problem lies in irrelevance, in redundancy,
In things said a thousand times before.
Relevance, necessity, the point of something,
These notions are a thousand times more significant than simple truth,
Not as substitutes for truth, but as true measures of its essence,
In the quiet spaces, in the silence between words,
May we find the rare gems, the statements that truly matter.