Long Puissance Poems
Long Puissance Poems. Below are the most popular long Puissance by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Puissance poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: August 14, 2025, for Contest Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
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I writhed in the womb of a necrotic hush,
a stygian silence where barghests lurk—
My slack-jawed soul, sodden with oblivion lull,
clanged against the obelisk of despair.
The wound, a molten mouth of aurora,
sizzled with sacred suction—
a fipple of fire, ineffable and fecund,
where pestilence pirouetted with puissance.
I danced—yes, I danced—
in the desiccation of my demise,
a gavotte of soulfulness,
My blood is a rubicund aria of rapture.
Alabaster bones bore the torque of truth,
Each fracture is a triptych of ephemera and flame.
I was a poltergeist of my former self,
grappling through the noosphere multivocal maze.
The stench of bygone hexes clung to lava rock,
But I, stalwart and sinewed with mettle.
careened past the clamor of puerile pabulum,
past the gossamer glamor of grief.
I was broken—yes—
but bold enough to resuscitate,
to regale the necromancy of my rebirth,
to supplant sorrow with the sacred sizzle of self.
Now I stand, an empyrean echo,
a veridical vestige of velvet versatility—
my heart, a burnished niche of noble hope,
My spirit resembles a smooth, celestial sunset.
Let the world scrutinize my scars,
They are not grotesque—they are garrulous.
They speak in tongues of alchemy and amaranthine ache,
a quixotic quiddity, a quintessence of comeback.
In the late, sleepless hours of night, a meandering takes up form.
Whilst in the distance thunders peal and clear skies
Relent to storm—
Giving backdrop to fervent feelings
That much is not of goodly norm,
Nor the seeping reelings
Of a kingdom falling
With the entirety of its soul,
As those e'er trusted
Play a vile and ruthless role—
Shattering with ruinous deeds—
Its cornerstones.
When the eye tenderly looks away,
The head bow'd in shy disgrace,
Like the budding flower downturn'd;
The petals red, like the blushing face—
Evil will have learned,
Which beguiling smile may prevail,
Which pretty words lend thee sweep
Thy locks aside
And rest thee asleep,
Thy head in the soft down of cushion'd pride;
Thy alarms wrapt and silenc'd
In purposed arms,
As soft whispers fall
In lulls and lullaby-songs.
Where, when thou art rous'd awake,
Thou join'st the countless throngs;
Unabiding of the council of reason,
Thou wouldst become a tool of treason,
Blinded by the flattering colours shone before thy vanity
And the wrathful power of
A wielded disparity.
Thou lisp'st among the high,
Thou watch'st the lowly try to climb,
But with beauteous, graceful foot
And an armored heel
Push'st them down
And give'st up thy soul to feel
Forever a cruel power wound—
Within a frail frame
That but yesterday
Champion'd the poor,
The forsaken,
And held down
With rallying voice
That once won them choice,
And a voice to be heard
And deem'd worthy
And abiding in untarnish'd honor,
Where now thine is lost
At the cost of thy ruined
Family name and a withering fame,
Now known'st only well for naught
But shame.
Beware the attentive,
timely, charming stranger's smile.
Friends are more than sweet looks
And courtesies—free yet costly;
Comely with a dubiety earn'd,
Seen clear through the puissance of self
And a wise, unerring vigilance.
Written: August 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Mark Toney
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Corset of steel tightens—ratified pain,
Vestigial breath trapped in ischemia thrall.
The ductile hope failed to placate
This Pyrrhic ache, this woebegone gall.
A sojourn in the squalor of soul,
Where sylphlike dreams maunder, downcast.
Ogle the embers of the miraculous nexus—
A seraphic visage lost, quickly.
Vivacious once, now virile with woe,
Panacea tastes of pabulum, slipshod, and cold.
Tinkling memories coruscate as zeugma—
Bright, yet untoward, they never hold.
Quixotic penchant for connection,
Grasping too late the nebula beneath.
What puissance is this—this throe, this tumult—
When tulle-wrapped love meets a gyre of grief?
Ululation beneath pavonine skies,
Adumbrate every glance, every sigh.
Crimson weave keeps a skirt in place,
Valuable, stained, adorned, and slain.
Africa's land, shadows of colonialism still linger
Leaders rise, with hearts aflame, resisting the fetters
Of Western dominance, a legacy of dolor
Their courage, a luminary, in the dark of night's refrain
Kwame Nkrumah's vision, a guiding radiance
Pan-Africanism's fervor, burning bright
Unity and self-determination, his battle cry
Ghana's freedom, his legacy, forever exalted
Julius Nyerere's Ujamaa, a path less trod
Self-reliance's puissance, Tanzania's nod
Non-Aligned Movement, his noble quest
Distance from West, and do what's salubrious
Patrice Lumumba's heart, untold stories bear
Congo's freedom, his legacy, beyond compare
Assassinated young, his spirit remains
A symbol of resistance, against foreign chains
Thomas Sankara's fire, a revolutionary's conflagration
Burkina Faso's self-sufficiency, his people's encomium
Anti-imperialist, with a people's cry
Empowering Burkinabés, until his final valediction
Gamal Abdel Nasser's stand, Suez's mighty tumult
Nationalized the canal, with an iron hand, forever more
Arab nationalism, his passionate plea
Reducing Western influence, his legacy
Other leaders, with stories untold
Nelson Mandela's fight, apartheid's fold
Samora Machel's valor, Mozambique's beacon
Haile Selassie's legacy, Ethiopia's guiding luminescence
Ellen Johnson Sirleaf's path, a trailblazer's stride
Liberia's economic growth, her careful guide
Navigating West, with a nation's pride
A female leader, with a story to abide
These African leaders, with hearts of aurum
Resisted West, with stories to be told
Their legacies live, in history's page
An evidence fortitude, in a continent's stage
Where have we gone awry? Who do we offend?
What are they searching for, in Africa's land, again and again?
Now, they pursue Traore, Burkina Faso's president true
May they not succeed, in their Machiavellian pursuit, anew
Many mistakes I've made; yet always seeking You in that place, our place.
This old soul is not worthy; Your Mercy is most forgiven.
Battles, I fight, forgetting that YOU have won them all.
In all ways, YOU take my hand, but at times I slip through.
I feel Your never-ending puissance; but my fears are known to me.
Knowing that YOU will forever guide me, my battles are still within me.
Worries are few yet quickly remembered.
Praying that I will never question YOU, I know that I am weak.
Your Strength, a gentle breeze that blows into me, I need.
I stumble but never fall out of your sight.
Your Eyes are on me, I know they are, I try to hide, but
You know me, your mercy comes once again as it finds me
as I seek that place, our place.
Catherine Johnson Broussard
Morning brews sunrise colors-
yolk yellow seeping over
edges; light sterling silver
strung; rubbed linens ironed
across the rim. The creatural
world-a lime olive, sea blue
cup- has a view from space:
mottled tints- mud grey, green. Deep.
Sienna red flames bedewed.
Aged worn cotton tinctures-
the crumpled fabrics' wrinkles
are mountains, hills, cliffs ingrained.
Threads netted- the indigenous
lives captive-evolution.
They tat the stretched skies, royal.
From beats the animus- birth;
sprouting; feathery gardens
open to the sun. Roots plow.
Volcanic lands thrust- beryl
hues are the telluric gloss
of... diamonds. Hope. Pearl flushes-
scents of the wash of Summers.
Peach -brown malts- inebriation
of puissance. Grains reaped, ablaze
in Autumn afternoons. Stoked,
ground into mealy givings.
Marl nectare, fertility.
Corollas of heaven- O'Keefe.
Inspired by the Bridal painting of the Empress Elisabeth of the 19th century Austro-Hungarian Empire -
Elegance, strength as elegance,
elegance of spirit personified as if this extraordinary elegance
was born to be, beyond the devestation of mortals,
so far outside the boundries of the base & banal ravishings
prevelant within peoples' passions and purposes,
escaping expectations of equality,
graciousness was alive within her
like a landscape loved & leavened by a monogamous moonlight,
ebony overcome by the invigoration of ivory,
realising that genuine grace is a monument
of courage confronting chaos, crystallised composure,
she being a template and temple for hopefuls,
in all my experience I have witnessed no woman more ready for power,
more savoring for sacrafice, more able to abate avarice & acrimony,
Elisabeth, the emerald of an Empire,
Mother to minions, mistress of the misery & magnificence of the multitudes,
Master of the stout & savant,
such precocious puissance of personality, regal resilience,
my imagination renders eagles delivering sustenance to her,
bees bringing heavenscent -
J.A.B.
Qu'est-ce que nous sommes, sinon des larmes tombant dans les villes,
Tu es moi, et je suis toi, et ensemble nous pleurons,
Écrivant de la poésie au milieu de la nuit,
Fuyant la politique, les nouvelles et les mensonges.
"Nous sommes la tête perdue à l'intérieur de nos crânes,"
Cris de désespoir, nos cœurs se sentent fragiles.
Une simple équation, pour pousser et glisser de côté,
Pouce sur les hommes-œufs, comme un morse par la marée,
Dans les jardins psychédéliques de fleurs mangeuses de chair,
Nous mangeons des fous souriants, alors que les porcs grognent en costumes bleus de pouvoir.
Edgar Allan Poe sait que je suis le poète,
Je me suis assis sur un rocher en attendant que le groupe mort arrive,
"Nous sommes les hommes-œufs", nous crions en défiance,
Tandis que Lucy court avec Alice dans le profond terrier de la conformité.
"J'ai dit prêtre comme culotte baissée,"
Et les politiciens font des règles entre les cuisses tendres des adolescents,
Comme s'ils étaient des ours pédophiles comme des porcs expert-text-pert,
Volant dans la nuit, leur obscurité déguisée.
Un futur simulé au sommet de la tour Eiffel,
Et leur leader assailli par la puissance des gens en colère.
Comme nous détestons ceux qui nous détestent et cherchent à nous diviser,
Mais tout va bien, nous traverserons ensemble cela.
Car nous avons déjà vu cela, il y a des siècles,
Et nous nous élevons toujours pour affronter un autre jour inconnu.
Her hair, blonde, is twisted in the wind.
The whipping strands are the colors
of the shinning cropland
by which she is standing. She is alone
by this golden feed that is bounteous; wholesome as breast milk, as youth.
Her young face is turned away,
though her face is radiant like the Sun,
her tresses the flames..
(Perhaps her locks are more like the hue
of the gold sought by the pioneers of the 1800's Gold Rush. Then again, no..)
Her face has freckles that are sorrel-dusky
sun-spots as the star roasts the "spires"
of the semolina(wheat).
The schoolgirl is poised,
the saffron spelt(wheat) is erect
under the royalty of the thermic Summer
empyrean(sky)-wherein a solitary cloud
is a blossom, full of grace,
yet a cloud is never delicate like the flower-
and the girl's tale is morbid..
as is the cancer caused by the sunshine.
The future Harvest is burned as the Sun
kills the land..the young lady
reaps an unquenchable lust 'til the cessation
of zoetic puissance.
Yet the flowerly nebula
becomes a cloudburst..
the sunlight shimmers;
her cilium(hair)
metamorphoses into gilt lavaliere(jewelry)-
a gleaming tiara.
And the ignited pedicle(stalks)
bend as the rain-drops sparkle. And yet
a maiden crown of light-
her fair-haired halo-travails a genesis,
within which the roots of the Earth
glaciate,
within which her strameneous mane
becomes like straw, easily snapped;
and is now shivery split ends.
'
When you wake up from your slumber,
And the problems place at your front;
They are truly tough to resolve,
As they are like a typhoon's brunt.
When the darkness is tenacious,
Choosing to spread on your ambient;
Close your both eyes and pray to God,
Asking to have no strength descent.
When your puissance comes from the Lord,
He's your refuge during distress;
God will answer your earnest cry,
Turning your tears into success.
The peace of mind and redemption
Erase the woes, anguish, and fret;
Let the Father clean up your hands,
You're God's servant so fortunate.
Translated by Bernard F.
Asuncion from Jez Rico Cuenta's
MAPALAD