Long Relics Poems
Long Relics Poems. Below are the most popular long Relics by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Relics poems by poem length and keyword.
Unbelievable- Paris stopped breathing and even the world,
the cathedral spire shuddered, clung, trembling;
then, plunged burning and the crowd and the world itself,
wept, for the beautiful Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.
Construction of the cathedral began in 1160 to 1260,
a wonderful example of Romanesque French Gothic architecture;
I recall the vaulted ceiling and the awing flying buttresses,
the colorful rose windows and the medieval sculptured decorations.
I watched the news with the world as it burned for fifteen hours,
five hundred firefighters managed to save the facade and towers;
the buttresses, organ, and many precious relics and art works,
before the wooden ceiling gave way, falling in flames.
Oh yes, the whole world stopped spinning on its axis in shock,
every bird on earth fell silent and all the oceans went still;
and the world was left weeping and waiting and praying,
for the destruction of something so glorious is- unbelievable.
____________________________
April 20, 2019
Poetry/Verse/Our Lady of Paris
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1136-107-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Notre Dame In The News
sponsor, Kim Rodrigues
First Place
Here I stand-
in front of a forsaken farmhouse;
Reminiscing how it used to be
a once warm abode
Goats and chickens cheered in unison
When grandmom yelled for munchies
While lost at play grandchildren-
filled the now deserted haven;
Memories echo- like a long lost melody
in the silent sanctuary;
Now, as I gaze upon the relics
of this forgotten farmland
I feel the warmth once again
Remembering my grandfather
how he labored...
To raise us~
what we are today.
Honouring my grandfather who raised me since I was 20 days old on this
(Happy) Fathers' Day - June 2020. I am grateful.
8/13/16
Just being honest
Following through on what I promise
I'm on it
In desert, snow, forest, and anything else including the tropics
Lifeforms some of which are aquatic
Living below occasional flying comets
So many topics and conflicts
Amid losses and profits
Be cautious around materials that are toxic
Don't be foolish and thoughtless
Is anything in this solar system flawless?
Considering that the size of it is colossus
How many relics and objects remain forgotten
Or unfound at the very bottom?
Many put their belief into prophets
Or a god and goddess
Houses and areas that are called haunted
Some events that occurred there were some of oddest
To this day who know's what many really wanted
Once a loved one is gone, is there ever any kind of true solace?
In any areas and quadrants
Be strong and solid
Use your knowledge
The way can be found by correctly using the mosses
I've always thought this (it)
You look beautiful like pocahontas
Now excuse me, while I pay my homage
By: Dalton Ogletree
Our Nordic God run roughshod by the cynics
Mimics all those skeptics & pundits in pulpits
Sod odd bod critics clinics their unfair optics
Hysterics but Bazball clerics are not yet relics
Despite batting lapse alright collapse specifics
The insult not horrific result of cult’s gimmicks
Got it wrong will still sing same mesmeric song lyrics
Twits witticisms & criticisms taken a toll…troll gits
Shaken has Bazball forsaken its soul..drole misfits
No more stealth or self control just abysmal skits
Dismal death roll rigmarole gambits whole Bazball in bits?
On the dole or run rate wealth in rude health call it quits
Flits their way to play their flair hits as prole media spits
Grandstand Baz Ben stable fable big band brand label fits
Aussies canned.. gawking Larrikin ti*s balking..its the pits
Goal corking victory at the Gabba hoodoo fortress venue
Folks blabber talking of Stokes blokes stalking voodoo
Oz jibber jabber fibber distress as we made history..phew
Yes JuJu mystery temptress played express Yabba Dabba Doo!
Form:
In the museum, you will find amazing history regarding
the relics of our past. Gruesome and grim in their telling,
a dark prelude to everything seen by the moon.
But hold it delightful that these days are behind. That the
awful atrocities of times gone by, are not a monolith towering
and looming over our future.
Know then, that we need not be frightened by the opening of
the book and the turning of the page. Take pride in the light
we shine on our darker moments, a reminding of who we should
never be, the vicious and vindictive tyrants of yesteryear.
Let history bare truth in its will to patronise us over prior mistakes.
We are fortunate to have the opaque plaques of reference to the
crimes of time, and what is lost to the wind.
May we never travel the same road twice. Finding ourselves victorious
only by being continuously retold in annoying fashion that this is where
we've come from. Looking on with oval, hope-filled eyes, believing we
now have the light to overcome the dark.
~Make a poem *2 Contest~ Hosted by: Shadow Hamilton
make a poem about light vs dark using the following words:
Awful, amazing, annoying.
grim, gruesome, delightful.
frightened, fortunate, finding.
monolith, moon, museum.
oval, opaque, opening.
patronise, pride, prelude.
vicious, vindictive, victorious.
Beyond the relics stance tainted feigned glory,
the achievers had gifted us their puzzles,
speckled based best in their field of theory,
like Baia hot baths, can't stomach its guzzles,
aloft or cavernous, or in a quarry,
like those Pyramid guys fuss up their fuzzles,
as rock piles escape while history depicts,
the bookshelves leave those green stains with those quick picks.
Millenniums, centuries, decades, plus years,
anthropologists helped by benefactors,
busy in their research before disasters,
like Baia downed in Naples Bay, off its shores,
letters for funding by their alma maters,
reach prosperous grads where old money outpours,
and achievers will have their dribblings published,
skilled wins the Nobel Prize as greatly cherished.
Cornish pumps
were topic
they stayed on topic till
completion
the eyes of the world are
on me to perform
one spoke
it inspires me to be more
eager to sugceed
we have frustrated our needs
to the enviroment
those times are these times
and mans need to be
see's fit for us to
to look at those antiques not as
relics or obstacles
but as guides to
reconstruct now
that we must be
in these times
our time
we must succeed and
be coraters of the next
eternal beganning
frustration and doubt
must not enter
into these talks
as they are now
a means to completion
our construction
shall be teacher
to our new tommorrow
these are the beganning of
that tommorrow
with the works of yesteryear
as our guide
6.30901964x 10-5 M5?s
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The toolbox lid screeched~
a rusted complaint
against my insistence.
Inside: not wrenches,
but sepia toned photos~
Granny laughing in her kitchen, 1953;
a grocery list “milk, bread, forgiveness”
a psalm fragment glued to bent tin—
“though weeping tarries…”
words bleeding into rust.
Underneath the tray, coiled like a promise~
Uncle Frank’s fishing line, still knotted
to a hook
that snagged nothing
but river ghosts
for thirty years.
Wedged in the corner—
a lottery ticket, expired,
numbers smudged
by thumbprints
that pressed
too hard.
Uncle Frank never won.
But every Tuesday, he’d unfold
that flimsy paper at the diner counter,
coffee steaming~
“Hope’s a stubborn stain,” he’d rasp,
tapping the numbers.
Tonight, rain needles the roof.
I lay the relics on his workbench~
the brittle psalm,
the lost fish,
the ticket dreaming of jackpots
in landfill silence.
No miracles here~
only the quiet hum
of what endures:
the unpegged certainty
that dawns keep coming,
that love stitches its repair
in the dark,
with thread unseen.
You’re supposed to be a poet, Gershon
Pen something romantic for once, C’mon
Where lovers pledge their troth
while villains stir the broth
Where gallant knights in shining armor
rescue fair maidens, born to farmers
Where kings and queens prance ‘cross the stage
relics of a long-lost gilded age
Where tragedy and comedy co-mingle
and the audience’s collective spine tingles…
Alas, my dear friends, I need disappoint you
Your anointment I must eschew
Far greater things await me
Escaping your cage ~ I now am free
The Hunter for PD
Yesterday, I visited
the timeless monastery
where the Buddhist monks dwell,
the place a sublime testament
to their simplicity, perception
and peace.
With delight,
I viewed the fragment of skull
and the skeletal fingers:
repellent to some,
yet exquisite to me, my fascination
with the enigma ravenous.
I listened to the monk’s story,
fantastical, but not filled
with excessive intensification.
He looked into my eyes,
his own moist,
steady but not defiant,
as he recounted the epic tale.
As the minutes ticked by,
I was filled with ecstasy:
this wasn’t a nefarious conman,
his story was not tainted
with planning and motives,
and, as I thanked him for his time,
I believed he really had seen
Meh-Teh, the yeti,
the abominable snowman –
call it what you will -
on a glacier, and, again,
in the snowy valley;
he had heard gunshots ricochet
and had later retrieved
the gruesome relics.
I would never quit searching…