Long Royalty Poems
Long Royalty Poems. Below are the most popular long Royalty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Royalty poems by poem length and keyword.
She said that this man, my grandfather,
held her head under the black pool water,
while up above, a German man leaned
out of his window, against the moss and brick
to scream violently: "Don't hurt that woman!
She is the most beautiful woman in the world!"
The tone of the man's voice, authoritative, cold
broke my grandfather's concentration and he
let her bob up to the surface, coughing, sputtering
in an almost drowned manner, while still maintaining a beauty uncommon to humans, as she stole a quick glance
to the heavens of heavens to acknowledge the saving
power of a stranger.
This is her story today, as she sits on three moth-eaten,
velvet pillows to make her tall enough to reach the kitchen table.
She has shrunk in her old age and is no longer "the most beautiful woman
in the world".
She sips her black coffee out of Russian demitasse cups with diamond emblems
until she reaches the grinds which have slept in warmth on the bottom,
to fool her, she thinks.
She nibbles her white toast with butter and honey and shivers in the air conditioning as royalty should.
When she has filled the remaining ten percent of her stomach (the other ninety percent was removed from the worry
of ulcers when technology was in it's infant stage), she continues her story.
It lasts all afternoon and twists and winds around the basic sub-plot that, somehow, her beauty and dignity was
acknowledged in the worst circumstances, and, with her infinite wisdom, the world was made a better place.
Her voice soaks into the wooden cabinets, and will remind me forever of strong, fresh-brewed coffee, and I think,
right at that moment as I look at my hands (which I know will resemble hers one day), that I miss my grandfather.
The most gentle man in the world, whose thoughts never amounted to more than wanting to garden well, or shape
the perfect pizza in his pizza shop.
This man, who set chairs on tables to clear the floor before he danced in pure Zorba the Greek manner, with a glint in
his innocent eyes.
This man, who looked at this woman, this fabricating, self-absorbed, once beautiful woman, with an adoration never
deserved.
I clean up the dishes, while still listening, and kiss her good bye on her forehead.
Jittery from stories caffeinated and old, I chose to walk the long way home, lightening my mood and shedding her
words along the way.
How long will this suffrage last?
Painting the dark picture of a darkened past.
My people are supposed to be blessed,
But we are cursed in this foreign land.
My people are supposed to be royalty,
Yet we are slaves.
The seed is supposed to grow higher and higher,
But yet it withers away like a dry flower.
Just accept it, that the curse is with us,
How long will this suffrage last?
If only God’s commandments were kept,
There would be no ignorance or plague,
No death or lost identities,
No religion or slaves.
There wouldn’t be another Egypt
that would take us far away from the motherland.
How long can we survive the curse?
Will it be forever and ever?
Will our beautiful queens continue to receive pain
While baby daddies are the ones to blame?
How about the separation of our families
causing broken homes?
Is it the curse of our ancestor’s blame?
How long will we rely on this oppressive nation?
The king over us that has no regard of our struggle.
Their nation became unstoppable,
They rose higher and higher.
But my people plundered lower and lower
since the days of old, from slavery to civil rights,
And all them stories untold.
We are the tail but not the head,
We fought for our rights but we still are not equals.
How long will this curse last?
When will the shouts cry, “Free at last!”
This is the curse,
A curse where God has shamed us,
From generation to generation,
Leaving our enemies blameless,
While they steal everything we own
And make it their possession.
Our people are the creators,
Yet it is unknown.
Almost four hundred years
the plagues has risen like a swarm of locusts
Devouring the blessing because of our scattered nation.
We were like the stars in the sky shining,
Until our numbers dwindled
from the slaughter of the beast’s wrath.
If only the ancestors stayed obedient and humble,
Maybe our lives would be a blessing.
We would be living with silver and gold,
But instead we were uprooted
from the land that was promised.
My brothers and sisters wake up!
We are living in a curse.
From poverty to persecution,
Watching death catch more bodies.
Repent and renew your mind and spirit,
Follow His commandments until you reach further,
Back to the motherland that is soon to be promised.
Get out of your ways and you will be covered.
If not, you will continue living the curse.
Form:
By Lora Colon and Brian Johnston
Original Poem: Lord, How Hard Could It Be? by Lora Colon of PoemHunter.com
Lord, if you're the Essence of Love,
Why do you find such difficulty
In answering my simple prayer
To send a love with whom to share
Each new day of life you grant to me?
You leave me baffled by this mystery,
Tell me, Lord, how hard could it be?
Your sunsets, Lord, are breathtaking,
A small measure of your grand design,
Splendor painted across the skies,
Healing chrism for pain-filled eyes,
Proof of a Creator most Divine;
But why has no love been designed for me?
Tell me, Lord, how hard could it be?
The night crowns the mountains with stars,
No royalty could claim such rare gems,
Reaching upward though they may try
To snatch Heaven's jewels from the sky,
Earth's stones must adorn their diadems;
Can you not forge a crown of love for me?
Tell me, Lord, how hard could it be?
Trees proudly raise their brawny arms,
Designed by your mercy and your might,
Where weary birds find peace and rest,
A secure venue for their nest,
A stage for their anthems at twilight;
Am I not worthy of such charity?
Tell me, Lord, how hard could it be?
You tend to Earth's necessities,
Yet, you're blind to the needs of your child,
Returning tides embrace the shore,
Winds uplift the birds as they soar,
Yet, from Eden I remain exiled;
Do my needs transcend your ability?
Tell me, Lord, how hard could it be?
December 29, 2016
Echo Poem: In Praise of Praise by Brian Johnston
All your poetry documents longing and loss
And your words spin us all in a heavenly daze,
For they seem to attract many souls who agree,
It seems misery’s message does have special charm.
Makes me smile on occasion, as my poetry
Struggles mostly alone in desire to sing praise,
Is it strange I’m not nursing a love/hate for sauce,
Or that I am not ready to give up the farm?
My concern here’s that misery causes a freeze,
Causes focus that limits your world view to “you!”
Might not “unanswered prayer” be an answer that’s kind?
Where’s your empathy showing God’s love is remiss?
Is the presence of pain “lack of love” in your mind,
Does He mean it to punish or make us review?
Are you missing the forest by looking at trees?
Can “Love” be more than this: World that “leads” you to bliss?
March 23, 2017
You can't imagine what its like to march on a sacred city,
to plunder and pulverize a Peoples' promise to Deity,
demolishing centuries of lavish labor, wasting offspring of ancient heredity,
destroying flesh, scriptures and stone with a savage Roman military synergy,
a discipline determined in it's destruction of dissention, inspired by ancestral victory,
politics was not our purview, methodical punishment was our specialty,
We were War's royalty, we were Legio XV Apollonaris,
monsters of Mars, messengers of Apollo, the juggernaut of Jupiter,
along with 11 other Legions led by General Titus, 60, 000 cuts of glory we stood,
for 3 and a half years we fought through Jewish guerilla ambush
asymetrical urban warfare welting our progress like a pirate pestilence
district after district, hell spell after hell spell we bled with chilled maneuver,
the Zealots were pyromaniacs, burnt sacraficers, their zeal and our bodies zesty wood,
in the Kidron Valley they flooded the streets " knee high " with oiled water
as the Cohorts waded through the lanes leery, a torch was tossed, flames rose in rush
240 men perished like spazing stars trapped in a box, our grief agape with a horrified crush,
as reprimand, Titus made the Legate sit in a tent with his chopped off ring finger
smoldering like hot sand in the hand of a marooned man aware of error in his plan,
the insurgents had men we called Fox Tails, desperate demons who knew how Hell began,
as a skirmish succumbed to our skill and number they would run into apartments,
dragging the fury of our blades into rooms of Hades revenge, these were fire entrapments,
the buildings would blaze like windowed volcanos, screams salting us with panic linger,
It was not uncommon to discover a missing Brother Legionary
castrated, and decapitated with a headedless eagle carved upon his chest,
don't speak to me about morals and mercy for I have seen and dealt the damage of rude death
hate becomes your Father, vengence your Mother, aggravated murder your cause
when everything you revere and fear merge to make a leviathen of life,
the " Chosen People " of God became the chosen target of annihilation,
Mount Moriah, mansion of Yahweh the Pariah would become capital of Divine crucifixion,
J.A.B.
This poem has been entered into the Roman Legion Contest
to honor Ancient Rome and the Poet who sponsored this historical subject.
Ronald Rump reasonably roasted
Remarkable – recourse retaining rickety
rambling reverence regarding “r.”
Ronald Rump
repugnant racist republican reviled -
rickettsia re:itch ruler.
Rapaciously ravaged
revered reverential rubric.
Radical ruthless renegade
rapidly riotously ripped rigged ramparts.
Refrained retaining remnant
redolent regal, resplendent rafters.
Riches rudely ruptured rooted rectified rights.
Ruckus ricocheted revenant reign.
Ratified rattlebrained rules roil reductionism.
Rambunctious rapscallions rollicked;
rendered ruinous ramifications.
Rusty razor razing revenge rented reprisal.
Rabid rectal rictus rotten
rebranded re-calibrated redoubt.
Rambunctious revolutionaries rejoiced.
Ruffians rode roughshod
routing reigning royalty.
Reiterated revetting robust recidivist rationality.
Rode Rolls Royce relentlessly
rendering rock ribbing.
Riffraff raconteur raised reactionary response.
Revisited rancorous restrictive
redlined realigned rightward rivets.
Robocop ridiculously
rubber-stamped reorganization.
Recalcitrant reactors released rapture.
Rash Russian roulette
reconnaissance raconteurs racked rubles.
Red room reflected Republican RNA.
Rap risible rheumy ratiocinated rug-rats
revoked righteous refulgent repertory.
Rapier robed robbers ransacked
reliquary resounding retaliation.
Retaliatory redcoat regnum
reformation remembered.
Rudy robotically recoiled rapprochement
raison d'être rosily revered
rifled relics raffled.
Rookie raves ripe rackful
rubenesque reliably ranked.
Refulgent rotundity requisite
requirement re: reappointment.
Road-tested, roadworthy
redeem reapportion routed role.
Reprehensible reassignment
rapidly recognizes response.
Rife rampage removed respectability – respect.
Responsible roused restitution refuted.
Risky resultant reconnoitering
runaway railroad reverberated rivalry.
Reflexive ramrod reaction reconfirmed
redoubling ridding revitalization.
Reconfiguration realpolitik reinstated repudiation
rebooting Roosevelt regime reconsidered.
Requisition required resilient reseeding republic.
Regrettable riley roars remorseless ribbing.
Rare recount restoring recondite
renown reprobate Rapunzel.
Republican representatives
rejoice reclaiming reins.
Love Aligns
Of names given at birth, one blooms special.
Mary seems to me a popular name.
Common folks and royalty likewise called.
But no two named Mary are quite the same.
A young girl named Mary lived righteously.
By God she was favored, is history.
She willingly bore God's begotten son.
Obscure to man…virgin birth mystery.
Infant queen, Mary of Scotland, betrothed,
Had escaped Henry the Viii rough wooing.
Life's whirlwinds, deaths and romance havocked her life.
Politics sent beheading ensuing.
Mary Read of Devon County, England
Surrounded by death, raised as a boy.
Captured by pirates of the Caribbean Sea,
Became a pirate herself, lived wild joy.
Mother and Daughter, writers named Mary,
Mary Wollstonecraft, swayed by T. Paine, wrote
"A Vindication of the Rights of Woman," (1792)
The thoughts of a mother, by death made remote.
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, sweet sixteen,
Strong spirited, influenced by her mom
Left home to be Percy's mistress…outcast.
Sorrows in life are Frankenstein's where-from.
Mary Anning, a woman paleontologist,
Prepared fossils from Jurassic era beds.
Well-known by geologists, financially poor,
Put new ideas in scientific thinkers heads.
Famous women named Mary nowadays abound.
From Mary Anne on Gilligan's Island
To Mary Poppins flying through the air.
Each Mary, in her own way has some life brightened.
All of the women I have presented herein.
Have one thing in common: strength and chagrin.
But, there is not one Mary I read about or met.
Whose loves like my grandmother's was fashioned.
She, was a woman of strength, strong will, and *****.
But, tenderly, she comforted many a tear.
Teaching young children from her sewing machine,
She consistently worked to keep family near.
She offered fresh fruit from the family tree.
I know her sweetness from Heaven shines.
Without her love, I wonder where I would be.
When I hear the name Mary, love aligns.
© July 17, 2010
REFERENCES:
1. Mary Queen of Scots: http://www.rampantscotland.com/famous/blfammqos.htm
2. Famous Pirate: Mary Read: http://www.thewayofthepirates.com/famous-pirates/mary-read.php
3. Mary Wollstonecraft & Mary Shelley: http://classiclit.about.com/od/wollstonecraftmary/a/
aa_famousmother.htm
4. Mary Anning: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Anning
Sire she's been sighted
two miles south of Sinai,
our sentinels say she has brought a river,
her baggage train stretches into the ancient sands,
the envoys of her retinue spoke of marvelous gifts,
beasts and creatures of the Orient
gems that glitter like the eyes of children
summer baskets of gold bullion
and satchels of spice from Siam,
our men said they could smell the barrels of balsam Sire...
To travel with such unmistakable wealth
the Queen must have brought a war machine along,
have desert brigands been spotted near the route...
No my King, no raider encampments have been observed,
just the regular rabble and agape villagers,
it's been confirmed that her associates
are passing to the people pouches of cinnamon...
I don't trust the Egyptians,
they may try to incite the Bedouins to foolhardy thievery,
our Nation's honor demands
that not even the dust of the devil's danger
deign to dry upon the clothes of her most distant servants,
if the House of Zion can secure a partnership
with the trading powerhouse of Sheba
our supremacy over the Babylonians will be indomitable...
I pledge my life, and that of my family's
to her caravan's safety Sire...
So mote it be General,
your loyalty is my blessing,
may it be as strong as the staff of Moses,
dispatch 333 of the Lion's Legion
to reinforce the Queen's guard
and send a circuit of 15 water wagons...
What does a Queen dream of
in the calm desert nights...
I dream of roses melting
into snake bitten hearts,
I've dreamt of citadels broken
by the grips of greed,
I've seen a child walking out of a tomb,
what does a King dream of
in the shadow of paradise...
I dream of thorned stars,
the division of labor and wages,
of priests and Judges
whom wish to rule quietly without blame...
Do you know what thrilled me the most
about the Court reception...
Tell me, my cinnamon Queen...
The seduction of your Servants' silence
as I entered your meticulous throne room...
I understood their awe,
you moved so gracefully,
your body like an ancient lust
your face a flame of royalty...
I think I fell in love with your eyes,
there is something rough about you Solomon,
but your eyes and lips
relay a sweet mercy to me...
Mercy is never free Veronica...
I will pay the price...
We will pay the love cost together...
J.A.B.
Deliberately inching its way toward break of day,
The morning sun begins to emblazon the barley field.
Relaxing and watching the orb find its way,
The lady of the house waits for night to yield.
Like every morning, she is seated there,
Enjoying the dew scented breeze on her veranda.
Feeling its coolness on her scalp while combing her hair,
And the warmth of the rising sun becoming grander.
Her mind wanders back to the city of her birth,
Just over the rise, beyond the barley field’s treasure,
Lies the city with the most famous name on earth,
Where, in her youth, she was a lady of pleasure.
To Rachab went all of Jericho’s possession,
By decree of God, for which Achan was stoned.
For this soldier could not control his obsession,
Though aware the city’s riches were God’s own.
With God’s grace, Rachab’s wisdom grew,
And she made the city’s outskirts her spread.
Her land into a field of grain did accrue,
A breadbasket from which hordes were fed.
Her hires were the finest laborers in the land
And were busy harvesting barley all spring.
She paid the very best wage to every man,
Cause her crop was the best early rains could bring.
The fields and glades, that gave her pasture form,
Seemed sensuous in every contour and rise.
At daybreak, contrasting tones were the norm,
Painted artfully by the brightening skies.
Mounds appeared convexly round breasts,
Lovingly sculpted over a span of human girth,
Whose beauty was able to put the heart to a test,
As the machinery of memory rotates the earth.
Babbling brooks flowed from shady nooks,
Giving refreshment to denizens of land and sky,
Producing a scene of green worthy of picture books,
That not one skilled artist would dare deny.
Gingerly she rose the doorway torch to quench,
Watching the shrinking darkness become shadows.
Rachab calmly returns to her veranda bench,
To observe butterflies dance above the meadows.
In her dreams, she envisions a more golden age,
When royalty would be attributed to her seed.
A zephyr flows over her mind turning the page,
But she still aspires the prospect of the throne to accede.
What a lovely story to behold just beginning to dawn,
Rising out yonder, just beyond the horizon of time.
How we yearn to see that age return, now long forgone,
So our hearts may once again be joyous and sublime.
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
You walk on to me you pair me with your eyes startled
Dilated spectrum rationalize beautiful window your pain
Eye gate windowsill is splintered crest
The message of the view I see everest
And I realize that the glass is smudge tears fall like rain
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
But it's clear to me now love
You need agape love
As you stand before me innocent blood
I want to embrace you in your millennial space
As I hold you there's this grace
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
Empathy titans spun in dirty lace
There's no lust found nor sour icing found on your cake
These the holdings that I bear of you
Until you is heavenly sound royalty blue
The beating of your hearts rings sad on rebound
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
And there's your light lit it's not in the dark
Don't want to let go of you because this not a lark
It would be a fleeting thought
If I could pray I would pray for blessedness
Completeness because you're worthy caress
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
Far more worthy than the hurt that you express be
Healings of the broken pottery that stands before me
Feelings of empathy of the wantings the need be peace
And the spectrum of the glass I see your reflection talking
It's so fragile yet strong as a diamond back sparkling
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
You're jewel you're the Father's daughter and above
Stand so tall Queen of Israel
In awe for all so tall you walk on void materials
As you walk tall straight your head above the waters passionate fruit
Glee you strive humanity you deny for your broken vessel earthen suit
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEARTED
You bruised vessel stands so glitters
As so those clothes you wear radiant heather
Having those you're worth more than rubies and gold
So I let go of my embrace, I look into your face so cold
And as you withdraw your body In cadence
So loved you turn around and walk away
And all I can see is the beauty surreal at bay
Assured of your essence your soul walks away
Leaving me in part pupils still dilated spark
You walk away with the swollen heart
UPRIGHT CASCADING BEAUTY BROKEN-HEART
7/12/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023
Take me back to the days
Where the feel of texture and distinguishing colors among Africans didn't matter
Where the only word was black, and not pale or darker
Where the only weapon was loyalty upto royalty actually smarter
Where mother toung superiority excelled the rest was after.
Where rituals and ceremonies were significant in culture
Where oral traditions activities was a preservation of history.
Where inclusivity wasn't done based on tribe, status or age
Where inspiration and education was passed from generation to generation through storytelling.
Where people performed rather than spoke
Where the media was the speaker's tone, volume, and cadence
Take me back to the days
Where people did not blame nationality, ethnicity,
culture, economics and education
Where there was no colonial domination
Where there was no concept of slavery, racism or discrimination.
Where Africa was rich in culture and not the fallacy of primitive and a backward jungle
Where Africa was peaceful and not a race with guns and violent.
Where shouting am black and proud wasn't important because color didn't matter.
Where respect for elders remained an unbroken cornerstone in african culture
Where birth, marriage and burial rites was honored.
Welcome to the days
Where exporting and importing of cultures have become the trend
Where cultures travel through deserts, cross trade routes and through immigration borders
Where exchange disregards our notions of geography and race.
Where virtues such as hospitality, empathy, courtesy and respect is long gone
Where the only thing left are byproducts of culture.
Where multiculturalism has faded and everone hails on becoming one
The richness is not in Africa looking like Europe
What makes the world beautiful is in the diverse contributions
Welcome to the days
Where culture is paraded on an image of drum beating
Where media's notion is dancing naked or eating bush meat
Where in the midst of it all culture lost its definition
Where there is no importance in defending a territory with no boundaries.
Where technology dominated our land and mind
The struggle lies in reclaiming what is rightfully ours
I refuse to fall and cramble because I'm for the idea of sameness.
In the mind is where it all starts
I put no blame on culture, not my affliction.