Long Scepter Poems
Long Scepter Poems. Below are the most popular long Scepter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scepter poems by poem length and keyword.
They think, like dolphins or elephants they're so smart,
And like goats they behave rather intelligent;
They think by riches they can get everything bought,
Even the rarest of rare gems of great elegance...
I had once, by error, conceived such a concept,
Started wielding, like kings, the scepter of power;
Over the rules and laws, I could get my conquest,
Even on the state treasury, I could tower...
I walked, talked, smiled, laughed, and as a kangaroo leaped
Ate, drank, made merry, and often celebrated;
Though around my mansions the poor like large rags heaped,
I went as though nothing to be cogitated...
It's then when once like the sun I peeped within me,
I could find vacuums with darkness flirting in;
I eat but feel no strength; my laugh has no true glee,
Like the dark clouds, glooms, within me, have made their inn...
The poor, needy, homeless - all I see so happy,
Like birds of the air and fish of the sea they flow;
It's hence I ask me like a prodigal hippy,
Losing my simplicity how far shall I go?
01 July 2021
He appears at the edge of the room
exactly where the wallpaper forgets
what pattern it meant to keep.
No fanfare.
Just a soft shuffle,
like someone dragging a crown
made of misplaced thoughts.
He isn’t frightening.
He’s simply tall enough
to bump his head on the ceiling
and polite enough
to apologize to the plaster.
Every time he speaks,
a small flock of paper birds
flies out of his mouth
and circles the lamp
as if searching for a reason
to be afraid.
He carries a scepter
that looks suspiciously
like a bent spoon~
claims it holds great power.
Mostly it stirs the air
into odd shapes
that drift toward the door
and forget why they left.
His shadow behaves better than he does~
standing straighter,
listening harder,
trying to look regal
while he fumbles with his cape
and mutters about
how terror used to mean something.
By nightfall,
he sits on the floor,
crown tilted,
birds asleep on the windowsill,
and admits he’s not much of a monarch.
Fear refuses to obey him.
Dreams wander off without permission.
Even the spoon has lost interest.
Still, he stays~
a gentle absurdity
in a world that keeps insisting
it needs a king
for things it can’t explain.
643.
Meditation on the 3rd Sorrowful Mystery:
The Crowning with Thorns
After His bloody flogging, Jesus was brought to the Praetorium
(On went His Passion, His tribulation on momentum)
The soldiers clothed Him with a purple cloak
(To let Him look like a king, but only as a joke)
This is the 3rd Sorrowful Mystery – The Crowning with Thorns
And as a king, they said He must be crowned
(They crowned Him with thorns & knelt on the ground)
They gave Him a reed as if it was His royal scepter
(Then stroke Him with it & mocked Him further)
The fruit of this mystery – Courage
Oh God who had allowed Thy Son to be jeered
(By cruel people, by men so weird)
The God whose authority was derided by authorities
(Whose kingship was ridiculed by brutish entities)
As “The Crowning with Thorns” had shown “Courage”
Lord God, like in “The Crowning with Thorns”, make us courageous
(When we face beings who are malicious & vicious)
Like Jesus Christ who displayed valor amidst malevolence
(We bear our trials with fortitude & patience)
Praise God! We realized “Courage” through the 3rd Sorrowful Mystery.
-04/17/2019 (Holy Wednesday)
*Meditations on the Mysteries of the Holy Rosary
Stay by and explore,
Is there the need for us to be fighting over a phone call?
I'm the sweet scented flower,'forget-me-not',
Since you're the 'Lilly' with law,
Everyone wonders about how you'll rot,
Thinking and pondering over the intensive sunshine on you,
Won't your petals wither?
There is an asset for you from my treasury tube,
Thus,providing you with rainfall wither,
The camels and the caravans are trampling over your beauty,
How do I migrate from this place later,
The answer to this sort of question is far beyond intentions,
Put a stop to it,
A time I suppose to feed you is here now,
Hold on!.....the secret is in the sand,
Before a thunderstorm,a mark will be inscribe on your hand,
The bird of the air feels you,
The gnats like to feed on you,
And many men try to have you around their homes,
Left alone for me,wish we're unified loads,
Open up yourself and let us be rooted together,
Kings and female slaves sometime put on different clothes for their affairs,
Take this scepter and crown,
Its heavy,but fragile,
Only say yes when I demand for your sepal,
A chosen race,royal being and peculiar is unviewed
Dominant clusters arranged for you before the day you were conceived,
My name explains why I shouldn't be forgotten,
Troops are formed against a fountain
All because I'm preserving you with much love,
Six informants work for me,...And they are around you,
Thirst for me,and will fill you till you want no hue,
I mean this,with all diligence and patience,
Terrible days approach,and jealousy blessings from my clarence,
We endeavor vigorously from dull dawn to dusk,
As we fly from bloom to sprout in quest of nectar,
Men stand to amass by swapping honey for bulk,
The hive will be mostly empty and left slightly ajar.
As per rhetoric, our stool can serve to treat cancer,
All ulcer forms respond finely to this therapy,
When ingested, it bears the body solid and denser,
Humans would not contrive osteoporosis misery.
We search the fertile soil at the crack of dawn,
As the visible sun's beams reveal raw floral life,
Fertilization is a side effect the same as a prawn,
The pollen grips our hairy legs, with no strife.
Men, however, are woeful with our free work,
But destroy our beehives to use honey and wax!
Our fiefs of bees are mostly massive and spark,
So we may glimpse the flowery grins and relax.
But people have utterly built microwave stations,
Working on the noble quest for sprouting nectar!
We drudge incredibly firm with little diversion,
And preserve our line going from our scepter.
Our hives are purely mangled by man, too,
And for syrup and paraffin wax, of course!
God who supplied bees in the grandest view,
Humans damage the ecology of the universe.
The clamoring bee has no time for sadness,
The mumble of bees is the garden voice,
Hear to bumblebees and follow their lead,
Some words are golden, and many are dread.
8th Place Contest winner
Written: May 25, 2022
Bee Creative Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
Delicate Luna moth in pale dress of lovely green,
With giant sunshine colored painted orbs rarely seen,
Fairy-like magic, paving the way for butterflies.
Reigning queen of the cattail marsh, in every brownie’s eyes.
Passing nature’s crown and scepter at the end of each day,
Monarch magic soon flits around the pond, showing her play.
Enormous reverent bullfrogs croak their ridiculous song,
Night’s mysticism cloaking us in secrecy, never wrong.
A feeling of calmness permeates throughout the night.
Lingers several hours after day break has taken flight.
Luna moth and monarch butterfly both getting their due.
The marsh is meditatively quiet, thanks to these wonderful two.
Life and Death in two separated clusters, Klimt draws conflicts.
The serenity of his cycle of life is bright in pure color, he depicts.
A modern dance of death, yet he offers pause in what is inevitably set.
Death savoring in anticipation, musing with the decision “Not yet”.
Idly, death looks on, a sinister smile upon the gruesome face.
He has no semblance of human form except a skull in place.
Bones clutch a scepter as he seems to have found something to amuse.
His robe of blue adorned by crosses, is he deciding which one to choose ?
The manifestation of death at a distance from the slumbering cycle of life.
A child to the young women, a muscular male and the old, fear no strife.
Beautiful rounded forms clad with gently patterned clothes,
Seemingly unperturbed by the grim reaper, everyone loathes.
There is an eternal confrontation between death and life.
Depictions of death usually show as dangerous as a knife.
Opposed to the life depicted in a passive sleep like state.
The purposeful asymmetrical balance is to differentiate.
Death lies in wait in his blue robe with many a gaping grave.
And yet hope of a reconciliation, seems that he will save.
Not the evil lurking death, tempting them from their bed,
Time to tell with the circle of life, will he allow them to live on instead?
Suddenly we appear
On a land with tinctured atmosphere
The cross, the moon and star
A sovereign state more ethnical than wazobia
A smooth and broad path before us
Hungry for our feet to break the hush
Alas the road becomes starved
With thorns and thistles upwardly breaking its soil
Like the ape, bigotry evolves
Extremist in every nook and cranny
Untamed by the scepter and khaki
Callously murdering people in cold blood
Enemies of peace lurking around
Refusing to walk in the path of love
Killing people with façade of hide and skin
The unpunished traitors of love and nationalism
Dedicated to those who lost their lives in Southern Kaduna massacre
YEMI AFO (2017)
Your Elysian Killing Fields-
Your soul, my Love,
is the pristine gilded white,
that cascades down from Heaven's summit.
A river that fills me, a dry riverbed,
with your milk and honey.
Your current carrying me along,
to your eternity.
Eternally, flowing along,
your emotional streams,
towards your heart's tributary.
A maelstrom of passion,
pulling me down into your pools,
solitary actions.
In solitary enormity, destiny-adjoining.
You are my clandestine pulse-
that regulates my being,
with sacred verse.
You are the specter in my blood.
The scepter of my throne,
With you I can believe, in anything,
except for being alone.
Anything, everything you do.
Winds around me as a grapevine, entertwining.
The seduction to drink from your cup.
The ambrosial wine, your overflowing,
flowing into me.
Your passionate canvas calls to me,
to sculpt in its delicate flowering.
In hungered heaves,
when your rib cage expands.
Anticipating,
your Dove's-wanting to be freed.
Only, by my hand.
Free as the flame's flare,
the burning, consuming.
As I stare into you,
feeling your Crimson Fires, there.
Feeling as though, stalked prey.
In your Elysian Killing Fields.
Euphoria in sway,
atop your succubant meal.
My fate's threshold, crossed and sealed.
Helpless to your Impish ways.
I remain held, by your captivating allure.
The intoxicating poison of your capture.
Poison of your angelic tainting,
that runs through me,
clouding evermore.
The Conductor of the chemicals within me.
You entrench, your surrounding,
that abounds around me.
The Ballerina of the Little Death.
In sourcery, comes,
seduction's breath-The dance- of the seven veils.
Perpetual, into hunger's ballet,
which permeates, the skin,
burroughing its ethereal entrails.
You're always a puzzle,
a timeless wonder,
always to be.
The first of my needs.
If you turned to be the Devil's Daughter.
I fear he would have me, indeed.
My Love, the other part of me.
With this dream-
I pledge my Love to thee.
Yes, you are the ghost within my wings.
I am a phoenix rising from the sea.
Bring me out into your spring.
where I will drown,
in your farthest reaches.
Life to me, you will endlessly be instrumental in, as the Lords revival brings.
The Elite warrioress from Elysia to
Elate me, inflate me to Life from my dreams.
Long Live The Queen
She enters the room in elegance
Youthfulness is evident
Her eyes hold excitement gleaming
Her heart filled with fears streaming
Into the Canterbury she walks with gliding strides
As the Archbishop receives her at her side
Her Coronation has begun
In the early morning sun
Four symbols of authority are her commitment
The orb, scepter, rod of mercy, all are her fulfillment
Sapphire and rubies the ring of royalty
Placed upon her finger in loyalty
St. Edward’s Crown will forever rest
Glimmering upon her darkened hair blest
A vigorous heart beat within her breast
Her people await her first formal address
A song of “God Save the Queen” throughout England hearing
As gun salutes are fired to the sound of crowds cheering
With her emergence on the balcony of Buckingham Palace
Her words of sincerity sweet as wine in a chalice
“Throughout all my life and with all my heart
I shall strive to be worthy of your trust”
Stored into the journals of time her speech shall always be just
By Margaret Franceschini - June 2, 2015