Long Reposed Poems
Long Reposed Poems. Below are the most popular long Reposed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reposed poems by poem length and keyword.
On the streets of sin city, on the high roller's main drag,
Known as the Las Vegas Strip, a gentlemen phantom
Does stroll dressed in all black attire, striding forth with his golden Cain,
Flipping a silver chip into the air, and mocking at its power.
The devil's agent of deception is he, retaining a list of names
To collect upon, this gentlemen bandit of the forsaken.
He is here on the dark master’s behalf, ready to claim on
The I.O.U's signed by the greedy, and innocence fallen.
Quietly, moving amongst the crowded venues, he waits
Until his lord calls the name of the unlucky, to be reposed.
Dance do the neon lights, flashing towards pleasure dens of iniquity,
As ladies whom belong unto the night itself, offer their
Tokens of favor, for a working man's paycheck.
Black jacks twenty-one, cut those cards, and pass them out
The first timers dumb luck, will deliver him unto evil,
On this walkers dead man's list tonight.
Against the loaded dice, no soul is left unsanctified,
On the sacred green velvet altar, the wheel of fortune
Spins out of control, then hitting the baccarat tables
Wooden wall, someone screams snake eyes.
Then all is lost, faded are the dreams of illusion, melting away
Into the harsh desert soil, along the road side leading to sin city.
Beneath the arid sandy duns, lies the grave yard
Of the unknown unidentified, a missing persons
Smorgasbord of the rich and infamous, lying right
Beside, the unreported poor man corpse.
This is the Grim Reapers play ground, taunting
And tormenting, those begging for redemptions
Last chance to gain a reprieves pardon.
But when tapped by his golden cain of death,
Your life's essence has wagered it's last bet,
To the winner goes the spoils, and now you
Belong unto the devil.
People say what happens in Vegas stays
There, and rightly so will he agree, with his blackened
Heart and soul, for after all is this not
The capital of hell on earth, known as
Sin City, Las Vegas, Nevada.
The populations of the undead just added
Another’s names tally and the gentlemen
Dressed all in black, is sent a wandering
Again amongst the crowed streets, to claim
Another victim in the dark master’s wrath of
Vengeance.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Be there the bight of a November drain
turned off tattered ruffles blotted feign
a ledged I removed and tender earlobes
waif yonder spectral possession probes
cracked nut overture eighteenth twelve
emptied shells retiring indicative delve
drain feign earlobes probes twelve delve
the hour,
Penchant dragged scrape innard depth
souring blindly binds ruse lids breadth
spar sun astir, causation its wandering
scar bites of frost attend a clouded ring
constant errs my inner chambers abide
pivotal piques tricked darkening inside
depth breadth spar scar abide inside
the hour,
A vast plague of vulture flights accrues
a lowly sill contempt its stay construes
awake dreamt feverishly reposed body
quake aloof save I some valued nobody
unsorted escort disembodied but feats
wonder maroon beheld tethering beats
accrues construes awake quake feats beats
the hour,
Therefore I'd wallowed jousting to free
of peals of laughter trifle trailing spree
feeble villagers thoughtless each share
of riddled backside amidst tabled stare
and counters gossip whispers consume
be their claim graphic God they assume
free spree share stare consume assume
the hour,
Remains of a last supper disrobed hang
amidst bunker migrating seasons pang
yond trained reflect stories trail facials
a negging crowded calls milds a rituals
saved I a memoir cloistered singularity
paved upon silken weaves a familiarity
hang pang facials rituals saved paved
the hour,
Bewitched canons riddled yon the altar
stacking of hymnals liberates Gibraltar
of liquefied gift cascading gratification
love stain pigments of my imagination
hues meld a silencing orchestrate suite
enhance the loyal thunder ne'er retreat
altar Gibraltar of love suite retreat
the hour.
We all have a legacy, which we shall all eventually leave behind
Yet how shall it read, within its epitome or epitaph?
As I beheld these words, their writings
I could tell that they were brought forth from ones soul....
While sitting by this peaceful brooke, of serenities everflow
Wrapped in the warmth of Heavens graceful tide
Contemplating, what remarks I could render
In reposed reply unto it all, from the depths of my heart
To the hopeful sanctum of their own?
Often I have turned, shunning the false perceptions of greatness
Within the eyes of the world....
Always pointing away from the created, to 'The Creator'
To lift this candle of truth, unto, the fountain of praise deserved
Wherefore do I find these gifts of others, which I have professed!
But first, I must turn unto my very own soul....
Beholding them beyond the stagnant mirrors of conception
Wherein the clouds of vague, do they often reside?
Kneeling atop this bank, and dipping my hands beneath the shallow waters
Exhuming therefrom what treasures, which these my open palms may find....
As I ponder what breath do we take that is lasting, in this our world?
And what impacts upon others, if any, will this their write leave behind?
This story, the ultimate question, to the honest answer, that I shall hold!
For to live only unto thyself, I have often considered, believed
Is but to slowly bleed, the inevitable death, of ones very own life....
Yet to offer it unto others, while you walk, you breathe, you live
Is, truly wealth beyond any measure~crossing the barriers of trident time
So what do I say in response, to these words which I have read?
As I turn to the purest source of truth, now standing before my eyes!
Let me speak not, before this reflection of thought reflected
Has been brushed by this glow of reason, these reasons that I find
Searching for, within their writings, this response unto....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Legacy of Light ~
Form:
“A famous work dating from 1885 by Russian realist painter Ilya Repin, Ivan the Terrible and his son Ivan. The painting depicts Ivan the Terrible mortally wounding his son Ivan in a fit of rage, and it is considered the most psychologically intense of Repin’s paintings -- an expression of the artist's revolt against violence and bloodshed, yet within the painting of oils on canvas, the eyes painted by Repin depict Horror, an intense feeling of fear, shock and disgust.
However, it seems Violence begets violence because the painting was vandalized twice.” ~~ ALEXANDRA GUZEVA~~
“Art is not always beautiful, but if it makes you feel something, it is art”
~~The Poet~
Repin’s brush depicted actions that could only disharmonize.
Terror haunted the Tsar’s pain ridden eyes.
Ivan The Terrible’s eyes stare with remorse and panic.
Violent actions were frequent, his emotion was manic.
He and his son argued, in impulsive rage, father struck his son.
Father’s eyes silently scream “What have I done?”
Tightly grips his son and tries to stop the bleeding with the other hand.
Blood streams from his son’s head, he regrets this, it is so unplanned.
Ivan the Terrible’s spear, such a lethal weapon, lays on the ground.
There is a pool of his son’s blood there too, spilled all around.
Ivan his son, his head reposed, has the face of a betrayed son.
He will die from the inflicted wound, he sheds a solitary tear, just one.
He shows sadness and loathing of the deed that’s been done.
1st Tsar of Russia Ivan the Terrible administered many bloodthirsty deeds.
Yet for slaying his own son, he regrets, a mistake as his son bleeds.
He realizes his actions are irreversible. His eyes truly haunt when you scan
Ilya Repin has done the impossible making us pity this merciless man.
HARK, whilst thee singeth melody,
gauged labyrinths midst harmony,
ransom subconscious, placed thee free,
persuade possessed, heed thy purged glee,
beg reposed heart thy beating plea.
Themes prune labor to a degree,
song finesse thine assent of thee,
music quell sorts of thine decree
tune thy hearts, minds, souls let agree,
sensed voiced symphonic guarantee.
BEHOLD, tis fortes air, breathes content,
weighed thy heartbeats, tempos augment
impressed moods, thy amour be sent
meant lovers twain souls gleam, assent
thy course treats fair, thy issue spent.
Serendipitous time errant,
thine art grand resolve thy arms bent,
caressing untouched hearts invent
distant tests and trials, relent
thine lips, intimate kiss advent.
FORSAKE thine naught our past mistakes,
indulgence sought hearts for our sakes,
soften tones merged spirits partakes,
resumed innate instinct awakes,
forming trust fusion overtakes.
Suffer our ascent, farther takes
gift deeply, frothed measure inflates
ardor ties revive, blissful fates
balanced fragile hearts insulates,
assured embraced love gravitates.
HAIL youthful thoughts in elder heads,
man tests, steads boy within, joy spreads,
astir thee dreamers from their beds,
recite poems of their misreads,
dawn assails starred twilights to shreds.
Unspool thy sunrise; rays shone threads
day, strings purpled veins thy night's steads,
pump life ballads, hymnal bloodsheds
squander blues, swapping sparkled reds,
gloom bides thy shift whilst clung gold treads.
VIEW love gifts thee thy lamps, soft coats
pure sought breeze, mild trace, handful floats,
tis thy time spreads trend, loom moon draws
waft breeding told claims, thy hour thaws,
cares borne thy primes spills yon be culled.
Crowns thy verse brushed lobes set are lulled,
rouge mouths favor Cupid's pierced aim,
Cherubs lyre naught burnt Rome, thou blame
flamed trails, lust swells lovers tender
tinged warmed hearts, goeth thee, their splendor.
Aye, Spanish Needles, far from native shore
We the Diaspora exult to meet
Though our station, not what we dreamt of yore
Is battered by grimy dust and slimed sleet
Aye, Spanish Needles, still unbowed you stand
A dazzling prince in a far foreign land.
Dreaming gold reposed on ivory stars
Where evening's chill draws near the weary night
Shining still despite dusty mannered cars
Aloof in their suburban hedge from blight
I see you huddled in mass fore my eyes
Aching through El Dorado's balmy sighs
Extreme doubt supposed in old poet's tale
Of woodland springs and love's certain patience
Your hardy forms admit a desert gale
Thrashing grim your tropic resilience,
Beside beaten edges, and brackish yards
Still hold time's beauty against fate's crude cards.
Aye, Spanish Needles, resident aliens
From another shore, what long age brought you
From the ocean's salt milk, and fresh grievance
To stake your claim to Conquistadors' clue
This Florida had breast to fountain new youth?
Will you now tell islands this empty truth?
Juan Ponce De Leon took back nothing too
Except the joy of the great river here
But I have seen gold softened by silk dew
On regal petals protesting time's wear
And I have kept better company than
Ribault, Jackson, or the old Cowford clan.
Aye, Spanish Needles, brother of the earth
With me, dare my heart now its hope to green
Like you from this rustic place telling mirth
In golden gold and whitest white yet seen
Something in your character is changed here
Something common is now a beauty rare.
It is the mettle of our birth for each pain
To mirth, and wear love's beauty like the stars
Singing redemption songs with tears for rain
And count for medals our battles bright scars
Aye, Spanish Needles, bright golden and white
My heart like a ship rejoice you hold the light.
Beside the beaten edge in full abandon
There prolific in your numbers, a car
Of rubbery resilience, in my
Open Letter to Thomas Jefferson
You sir, destination unknown, I dare
To address. A son of worthy causes
For land vast in majesty and vast as
Vast can be in matters of liberty;
With ideals so prim and suffused with
Philosophical forethought derived from
Your bumper harvest of keen knowledge from
Poetry to paleontology;
You the offspring of music and science,
Master of the whims of public forum,
Framer of destiny of the nation,
Bearer of the conscience of masses and
Winning hurdler of political kinks.
Now, the moldering public discourse is
Unbearable. One can no more cover
One’s nose. Nowhere is a silent shelter
From megaphone of ubiquitous din.
Where is a refuge? Simply, know not I.
I beseech you, sir, for learned counsel.
As thundering wildebeest migration
Clouds the slopes of national horizon:
Tulip of your acclaimed Law of Nature
Lies in the path of a roaring rampage.
I beg to ask, why uncanny tactile
Projections of your mind failed to measure
And forecast proneness to such afflictions.
Sir, you did not proscribe such maladies,
Or provide cautionary bells, at least.
Where have all the magistrates gone, I ask?
As I flip pages of your Summary View:
Prefaced by a motto of Cicero:
“It is the indispensable duty
Of supreme magistrate to consider
Himself as acting for community,
And obliged to support its dignity,
And assign to the people, with justice,
Their various rights, as he would remain
Faithful to the great trust reposed on him.”
Your pristine flora of the applied skills
In statesmanship and proper decorum
Is being supplanted by scurrilous
Scions of egocentric rhetoric.
Pails of justice are perceived as empty
By the parched sectors of land of plenty–
Await quenching rain of tenderness, but
Clouds of compassion remain unseeded.
Please forgive the outburst of my verses.
To rein my pen is to muzzle my soul.
Tooth Brush
Tender bristles plenty in number
Against the shiny enamel
Like ears of millet plantation
Tossing heads
Against perfumed brush of swooning breeze
Allure tongues not lesser
Than vehement kisses
O! Tooth Brush!
Charmed equally
Miners and milliners
You are simply a principle
A scientific proposition
Easy to understand and easy to follow
You’ve traversed all the barriers
Whether caste, creed, faith or genders
Shaped the humanity
By taking out of suicidal tendency
Green twigs with candid smile on their
Countenance often whisper
Words of gratitude
And thankfulness chirruped around
O! Tooth Brush!
Unpredictable behavior of men
Berserk nature
And distressing time have left us
Rattled to the core.
New era of uncertainty
Has befallen on humanity
We no longer behave social
Neither have we believed in equality
When our branded outfit fails to work
We resort to verbal dominance.
We reposed to coughing like
Cart-harnessed horses.
For myriad reasons
Ranging from evolution to culture
Life taken to extremes
Are but common sights.
Wellness is being traded in the colonies
Where regular vegetable venders even don’t
Find it conducive to sit in.
Some of us are confined in comma
For more than a decade now.
We have requested our lawmakers
To formulate a statute
On rights to death
To plausibly justify the supremacy
Of faith upon humanity.
Our problems are grave
And time grim.
Poets must be excused.
It is modern world rendering
The poetry this difficult,
O! Tooth brush!
Time is also not ripe to doubt our pedagogy.
When it is felt necessary
We would need your proposition
Of universal acceptance
And anti suicidal instinct
Further reduced
To simple mathematical form,
So that it can be included in curriculum
For coming generations
To prepare psychologically
For radical surprises
O! Tooth Brush!
A Different Thought About the
Penn State Scandal
By Elton Camp
The deplorable scandal at Penn State
Threatens to bring unreasonable hate
A graduate STUDENT some now condemn
With even death threats against him
Because he saw a child under attack
Many want to put him on the wrack
Because he failed then to intervene
To stop an act so blatantly obscene
It is easy to condemn him with spite
“Not to call the police wasn’t right.
He should’ve done a whole lot more
Like knock the old coach to the floor.”
Please try to see it through his eyes
Just imagine his horror and surprise
That he didn’t act isn’t quite so odd
Since the coach was almost like a god
Football worshipers share the blame
And might have even done the same
It would have been easy to walk away
And not single word ever come to say
If he had, none ever would have known
His reputation and job wouldn’t be gone
Give him some credit and take a look
At the action this young student took
To the head coach he reported next day
Imagine how hard were the words to say
Because, really what could he ever do
If the coach declared his account untrue
The point is, don’t be so quick to condemn
What if it had been you instead of him?
With hindsight, his decisions he must rue
But about the past there’s naught he can do
(Note: I deleted and reposed this to eliminate an extremely foolish comment by a reader who obviously hadn’t read the poem carefully at all. In a university setting, a graduate student has zero power. I’m sure that the young man wishes he had done more, but he did report what he saw to the proper official when he COULD have merely walked away and said nothing. There have been a number of death threats from the super righteous people who weren’t there at the time and now want to condemn him.)
The force of the righteous is full of the misguided, a forsaken realm to which we're never invited. The gullible minds of weakness, led by their own obliqueness. "Take your children (Psalms) and thrash them about the sharp edged rocks"...Thus is one of the many reasons that I continually put forward these endless mocks. I can't believe that an all loving, all forgiving gOD cast down the suicide self, As well as the innocent smited children are molested, accused and abused torturers women, and those with mental health. Justified in disguise the light is not as holy as it seems. Consider them monstrous like the most horrific of dreams. They need to pay for their mistakes and quit using our souls as the stakes. Stop the infection, expel falsehood's, refuse the lie, accept it's contradiction and reject the reposed. Religions built on scriptures, with words that are 96% fictitious and written by man then juxtaposed. Fu*k me! I will not believe that the victims of the depressed and self-sufferers are to be condemned. All the while the predators and the profaned are running around free and 'forgiven', no I refuse to pretend. I will not lend a hand nor accept this malevolence as benevolence. Mine eyes cannot live inside this disbelief or believe and accept a King James version full on pretense. I could never have my own faith in this creation gOD, who is more evil than that of those so called "Satanist". When you lay down the holy and unholy bibles... The laws, the sins, the rules side by side. You to will be aghast that the supposed wicked have true morality, character, and pride in which to abide. Devastated that our lives are denied by dreams and disillusions, Some where in time we were misled straight into misinterpreted confusions.