Long Salvo Poems
Long Salvo Poems. Below are the most popular long Salvo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Salvo poems by poem length and keyword.
(a story in trochaic tetrameter)
Even a Prince must bend his knee
to the lass who has won his heart.
“Please be my bride, stay by my side
forever - tell me we shall wed.”
“My love and affections are yours,
they have never been better fed
- you are surely pleasures master,
with your rough hands and softer lips.”
“Then let us petition the clerk,
we can be wed in a fortnight!”
Sometimes love takes dismaying turns.
There are standards, some are double.
The future princess must be chaste.
The clerk asked, “Are you a virgin?”
“Do you seek to entrap us, sir?”
The prince asked, his hand to dagger.
“We cannot hoodwink the law, sir.
It must be asked and answered.”
And so the clerk asked it again,
“Would you swear on your honor miss?”
“If I had a virgins honor,”
the possible, future princess said.
The high clerk sighed and sheathed his pen.
“Most honest and least virtuous
lady, the marriage cannot be.”
“So, then the law is strictly tied
to something lost in love’s first blush?”
She asked, with no show of dismay.
“My actions follow the law, miss.”
If the clerk sounded bored, he was.
The prince, however, was outraged.
and on the verge of a salvo.
The clerk feared a soliloquy.
To stall the coming storm, the clerk
said, “I believe you KNOW the King?”
“He’s my father!” The prince revealed,
to no one’s shock or great surprise.
“The King, the law - the law, the King?”
The clerk's finger turned like a wheel.
Somewhere deep in princes mind
a dim bulb lit. “To the Castle!”
The clerk smiled wryly at the lass,
who shrugged back. Love would find a way.
In a report published by Air Mail, multiple women accused the 53-year-old star of Fight Club, Requiem For A Dream, Dallas Buyers Club and Suicide Squad of inappropriate behaviour.
Use of force is unstoppable when?
Whence?
Confined parameter of work space exists where?
Justice is will
Justice is and is not blind
Dialogue in Retraction as Retreat, A Study as Space
Are you a registered or speculation of lobbying
This is typified by Sicily in
Testa Di Moro
Sicilian Myths and Folklore videos are a salvo
Jenna, This is How You Remind Me
Peering true
Vanities Spite
Italian actress Claudia Cardinale
Peer into eyes as chant
Recant my verse
Impotent mascaras eye, lining your defeat
Instead of hours own
Though my mind has clearly gone,
my hollowed vessel sails on and on.
Tattered memories clatter through,
dried leaves in search of their limbs,
desperate to seek the plumpness of youth.
Their only hope; give up the fight,
to death magnetic earth,
once more, rebirth.
Yet far and wide they stride,
the empty vastness of my tumbleweed state.
My world weary gait,
my lucid lament,
only serve to further propound confusion.
Scents send senses searching relentless.
Optical deficits, no acoustic solution.
Solution beyond reach,
beyond my touch,
and I want it so much.
For King and for country,
for valour not treason.
I search for The Season,
the peace I believe in.
For peace eternal,
for posthumous pardon.
Hay quienes llegan a mi vida
como si mi corazón fuera un hogar abierto.
Se sientan en mis silencios,
descansan sobre mi valentía,
se abrigan con la paz que intento regalar.
Toman mi tiempo,
mi calma,
mi fe,
como quien enciende una lámpara
sin preguntarse quién la mantuvo viva.
Yo sonrío.
Escucho.
Sostengo tormentas que no me pertenecen.
Y mientras todos encuentran refugio en mí,
nadie nota que mi propio techo se está derrumbando.
Después vuelvo a casa.
Y la puerta se cierra.
No hay voces.
No hay abrazos.
Solo el eco de mis pasos
y el ruido interminable de mi cabeza,
recordándome que di demasiado.
Qué extraño es tener un corazón tan grande
que alcanza para salvar a otros,
pero no encuentra la manera
de salvarse a sí mismo.
Quizá no me rompieron de un solo golpe.
Quizá fueron pequeñas ausencias,
manos que solo sabían tomar,
miradas que confundieron mi bondad con un recurso infinito.
Y aquí sigo,
aprendiendo que la luz también se agota,
que hasta las almas más valientes
merecen descansar.
Porque nadie ve que quien ilumina el camino de los demás
muchas veces regresa a casa
para abrazar únicamente
la oscuridad.
Me consumen lentamente
mientras los salvo del incendio.
Nadie nota
que la luz que les entrego
es la misma que me falta al volver a casa.
Y aun así,
si alguien grita pidiendo ayuda,
mi corazón roto
siempre responde primero.
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
It greets its own kind with an expectant wail
They may well converse and they may form a pack
But what do they keep in that very small sack
There’s others that come bearing more heads and limbs
And some that appear when the light of day dims
Its plans for a peaceful encounter can fail
Often the culprit has foreshortened tail
Quite unlike what might occur on the X-files
It doesn't spit fire but does hurl projectiles
It then splits in two, it knows where each one lands
And rushes them back to its other halve’s hands
It’s salvo continues ’til someone cries ‘ouch!’
One half then watches the other half crouch
It scans its surroundings to feed the small sack
Wherever it’s from it’s then time to go back
But first it must visit the red hi-vis bin
The small sack, now loaded, deposited in
Its travels may take it up hill or down dale
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
*
If you don’t get this, your minds full of fog
Or your brain just went south on a train
It’s only the tale of one man and his dog
So why don’t you read it again?
Last night the Alder so deeply rooted in the hedgerow
was shot through by a bolt of climatic vulnerability.
I heard the smoking gun,
heard the clangorous salvo, the snap and break,
heard the unflexed crook of it pivot and shear,
timber dislocate, break, and crumble.
There was a fibrous unclasping,
then the unfolding thunder of impact.
This morning, thigh deep in its wreckage,
maneuvering through the downed foliage,
the strew of crumbled catkins,
I listen to its death throes
of leafage curling into whorl and lacuna,
the rustling whispers of a dwindling aftershock.
Splinters and twigs tremble, lumber creaks on
as a sotto voce rattle of demise
as if the tree was still collapsing beneath its fall,
as if this murmuring requiem
were a way to explain what the moment did.
This late morning's high noon scaling, steeply-ascending, ragged herald
Hauls himself upwards into the roaring expanse of the dizzying sky
To chance upon this, might though his very soul should be imperiled,
When lording over which is constrained within a dispassionate, encompassing eye.
From the feathered throat abruptly pours such Mellifluous harmony
As, lifting higher and higher, he negotiates a ledge inside a wisp of
broken cloud;
Those rich, dulcet notes, more decidedly sweeter than any liquid honey,
Irresistibly flowing Earthwards... a continuous symphony of unparalleled sound.
His alone the rushing glory! His alone this almost unattainable niche!
For up here, rarified and raw, the air is breathless and sparse where thins.
Then the song fully enveloping the shrunken patchwork of fields beneath...
Whereon, delivering forth from bursting lungs, that final triumphant salvo
he heroically flings.
A thundering spacecraft arriving out of nowhere,
a crashing, crushing presence
hurled downward until lamps blink, doors tremble
and roof shudders.
I count seconds into an electric darkness.
The next boom is distant, miles away,
just weather, not the menace
of an alien attack.
Then the next mighty boom
sounds like a salvo from a battleship.
A fizzing pause, a weak flapping, a scrabble,
as if a stricken angel had been downed.
Will a rescue mission be mounted,
some frontline extraction?
No wait...just a thunderstorm.
In the daylight will I find a few wing feathers
some mangled pigeon parts,
relics that must be ferried to the trashcan
under the watchful eyes of mourning doves?
In Praise of Buddy Bolden
by Lucien Q. Senna
1. You have shown me dissipation, the tome, rhythm, and cool sonorous blue…
2. The right consciousness is always dream, it wakes in us ideology and topos.
3. Not only the blues like melic, like persimmon and soda
4 Not anything, just blonde sorrow.
5. I can’t wait to choose my own fall, the bass and pica.
6. Did you taste the drug, the white world of sound…
7. Nothing will prepare me, not even drums and delusion. I wander in their halls, their tantrums. But mine was regression and rebellion. The plumb edifice of transgression.
8. When we play, nothing else matters, not the placards on the train, not the yet and the how. We find plums and pendulums.
9. I told them this was not enough. No horses, no shoulders, no fields to drown, only blank cotton testimony and confession.
10. When we leave, we leave the pipe and the parts of the body. You whistle like a factory. Me, like an empty room.
11. I would like to test myself, and remove these old tunings and feathers, these tulips.
12. Do it then. Leave for the salty tincture of the city, the North.
13. The leaves were all cankered when I returned. Like a salvo I burned. Not for them. Not for this place. But for this rotten reflection. The only true rejection of process.
14. You meant to leave the phonetic terror moon, the New Orleans horn of sand and distraction.
15. Leave me to fall. For this is all that I know. I accept, I accept this black stone of mine, mine own three lives, my crime.
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Middle of the crossroads, I’ve found myself in
To my left stand the poets, holding their pens
On my right are religions, kneeling behind a cross
In front sit the atheists, debating who’s boss
Behind me an army of agnostics, look totally lost.
Let the dual begin, they all fight for my soul
Bards throw the first salvo, a stanza to behold
But god’s people retaliate, Bibles are held high
Non believers point to a rocket, above in the sky
Ones behind me, sit on fences doing nothing at all,
Meanwhile the debate rages, almost to a brawl.
Poets bring out big guns, Poe, Yates, winning me over
Religious read their gospel, drawing me in closer
Atheists go all out, with Darwin and natural selection,
Agnostics still looking blank, without any direction
I’m been torn asunder, on life’s meridian intersection.
Bards say without poetry, I’ll never be truly free
God’s people counter, embrace Christ and find eternity
Non believers tell me look at facts, in human technology
I go join the ranks, of recused zombies behind me.
By
David Kavanagh