Long Scepters Poems
Long Scepters Poems. Below are the most popular long Scepters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scepters poems by poem length and keyword.
I am Nimbus, gathering my black ruffled gown
preparing to race against the whistling wind.
My tears threaten to come tumbling down
and dark tendrils untamed; have come unpinned.
My bereavement wails as thunder hammers the skies.
Twin scepters of lightning flash in my mournful eyes.
I twirl in rhythmic dance upon swiftly swirling winds
Behold the grand majesty of a siren's release!
With a sad heart I say penance for a lifetime of sins.
In deep guttural voice I shall bid the storm to cease,
for I've reached the abysmal depth of my delusive soul.
I am enrapt by the tempest emotions in my control.
May 24, 2021
Personification Poem Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Streams of water
at diurnal disposal,
drip
dolce far niente.*
Lavish fill
of cavernous sink—
flotsam thoughts.
Spring up, O well!
Sing about it,
about the well that the princes dug,
that the nobles of the people sank—
the nobles with scepters and staffs.**
Paradise, O living water!
Songs bursting from pipes.
Wanderings soon over.
Like valleys they spread out,
like gardens beside a river,
like aloes planted by the Lord
like cedars beside the waters.
Water will flow from their buckets;
their seed will have abundant water.***
Water’s free
moving, soothing.
Lovely sprinkler,
O lovely splash!
Dare poet’s eyes
take time
to ponder; her lips
pursue splendor
of fountain paean.
10/11/2021
*pleasant relaxation in carefree idleness
**Numbers 21:17-18 NIV
***Numbers 24:6-7 NIV
You were not born of ivory halls,
nor cradled in the velvet silence of empire.
You were fireborn—
from the coal-scented dusk of a railway station,
where teacups bore the dreams of the underfed.
We remember, because you were once one of us.
Your hands held steam, not scepters—
yet rose to cradle Gujarat like a child.
And lo, from its weary bones
you sculpted factories, towers, and fields of bread.
We watched in awe,
but not without hope.
Modi,
the nation still drinks from broken taps.
The light still dies before midnight
in half our homes.
The poor still kneel to latrines that shame the sun.
Is this our promised India?
Look not West,
for that sun has long since set
behind cold eyes and copper tongues.
The same hands that enslaved us now sell us mirrors.
Beware the praise of merchants
who never bled for soil.
Your brother, China,
though misunderstood,
has mastered the stones—
temples of steel and silk roads of precision.
And we ask, not for surrender,
but for humility.
Is asking weakness?
Then was Gandhi weak when he begged salt from the sea?
Does pride build bridges
or only statues?
O Prime Minister,
remember your father’s wisdom:
“The devil you know…”
Even devils can teach us walls, canals, and stars.
We do not want thrones.
We want toilets that flush.
Trains that do not fail.
Hospitals that do not sigh under the weight of decay.
We want peace in our plate,
and peace across our border.
Let not whispers of conquest distract you—
India and China, once bound in chains,
can rise in tandem.
We are not enemies.
We are echoes of the same wound.
If this century bends eastward,
let it not bend in silence,
but with the chorus of a billion
finally heard,
finally clean,
finally united.
The autumn wind betrays the green facade,
sweeping crisp brown leaves through the air.
They swirl and scatter to fall beneath the feet
of a secret yearning, an iron tree.
Who's trunk is dotted with splashes of rust,
littered with clumps of grime and dust;
its gelid branches devoid of life
like parched scepters.
Nothing lives in the clearing beside.
There is no birdsong nor telltale sound
of leaves crunching underfoot,
only the rustling of distant bushes and trees,
a trail of fading footsteps and a shadow
who lies, sheltering and huddling
at the metallic base. The rain, wind and leaves
may batter it day on day
but it will wait till the iron tree blossoms
then dissolve to join the silhouette of flowering love.
2. Aria
Twain kindred souls start slow and reunite,
Same as lovers who split and then made up,
Though, twas a mere slow dance, a Pavane,
Taming a dance floor with their passive feet,
As Faure's piece fades, delayed music mix,
Next, a minuet by Beethoven in G Major, No 2,
Couples one hand clasped together both leads,
Men's other handheld scepters extend outward,
While the ladies other handholds to their dresses,
As the tipsy tune plays like a Lawrence Welk Show.
Now a livelier pace quickens hearts and dancers alike,
For it is a waltz by Johann Strauss' Acceleration Waltz,
Stimulates even barstool occupant whose head swoon,
An ever do-nothing lethargic will enable them to move,
One-step two-step then turn and bow to your partners.
Lovers exchange worshipping lips more than small kisses,
As the orchestra prepares for their tune, rather off-tuned,
Nonetheless, a number by Puccini's Nessum Dorma sung,
Magically, breaths held, as his name was just announced,
The virtuoso, Luciano Pavarotti will sing that famous aria.
2020 January 11
An evening stroll, on Midsummer Night's Eve ,
under the silver light of the horizon moon.
Life that burst among a small acreage,
of old-growth forests, flourished.
A delightful flurry of fireflies, drifting,
twinkle among the foliage, an amazing sight.
Echoing sounds moan through bough
and leaves disturbed the night grew cold and grim.
A sudden quiet came, not a whisper,
of leaf or waving bough, not a breath of wind.
The forest was swathed in gloomy shadow.
As I come upon an old museum adorned
with monolith standing stones.
Dim shadows obscured the eerie dark opening,
which formed a prelude to rivalries between evil and light.
Curiosity reeled me in, as my freighted body trembles.
What horrors wait inside? Annoying pride!
Please! Don't patronize me.", I told myself.
And awful, clenching nauseous feeling came over me,
with every step into the dark gruesome cavernous hall.
I didn't' want to walk any farther.
The moonlight sunk in casting shadows onto the walls.
Hideous, vicious grins sneered from carvings against the walls.
A sanctuary once filled with strange world treasures, gold and jade idols,
scepters, swords and masks embellished in jewels.
Finding, on a marble pedestal sat a crystal oval jar ,
with a picturesque opaque lid with a two inch statue of the goddess Athena,
in a long flowing gown, she held a spear on her right,
and a golden shield on the left .
An alcove on the far end of the wall sat a fiery red hair maiden,
wearing a flowing emerald green gown plucking the strings on a harp.
The musical sounds capturing the attention of whimsical creatures,
as a shimmering white Unicorn sat by her side.
Aromatic fragrance drifted within the room
with scent of blossoms and the cool sea filled the air.
I found it beautiful, warm, and embracing.
Not vindictive, but a smitten angel from heaven subduing nature.
An exciting victorious and fortunate feeling
flowed through my body, as I stared at her angelic sight.
7/17/2016
Athena is the goddess of wisdom, courage, inspiration, civilization, law and justice, mathematics, strength, war strategy, the arts, crafts, and skill in ancient Greek religion and mythology.
Soupers as lovers unite, with spoons and bowls held high,
All soups from broths to chunky chowders, they'll try.
Making steamy affairs in poems that burn and delight,
To fill the world with soup, that's their plight!
With spoons like scepters, ladles toppled full for the fight,
They struggle as wordsmiths with all their might!
Adding chillies, spices and herbs, to en-flame the brew,
They take aim with stakes to drive into apathy's stew.
So here’s to all soupers, lovers of muse, noble and true,
As they dish up their broths, lost souls, to bring to,
With their bouillon and bisque, mulligatawny and minestrone.
Let's say bon aperitif to them all, with a hoot, yippee and whoopee!
In twilight bowers where honeyed whispers fade,
wayward women weave their nagging nets of thorn,
demanding scepters none but tyrants crave,
and crown themselves where gentle virtues mourn.
They bloom as living scars upon their parents’ name,
a fractured glass that proves the root ran weak;
the watching world beholds their tainted flame,
and murmurs low: “Behold, the line that could not speak.”
Divorce, their silken banner dipped in gall,
unlocks the gate to rivers red with sin;
they cast the sacred vow like withered shawl,
and plunge into the storm of flesh untamed within.
They bend no knee, yet feast upon the man they scorn,
draining his veins through courts of gilded chain;
child support becomes their secret horn,
poured lavishly on self while hunger gnaws in vain.
They clutch the child they swore the stars had sent,
yet bar the father from his blood’s embrace;
they globe-trot swift on wings of discontent,
seeking new hearts to trap in their restless chase.
Good women guard the hearth with quiet grace,
knowing the home a temple, pure and whole.
But wayward women reckon marriage’s lace
a merchant’s scale, a ledger for the soul.
Thus spins the wheel beneath a hollow throne,
where nag and greed devour what love has sown.
I have waded through the rivers of eternity
I have sailed ships on the seas of time
For the exquisite pleasure of pressing my lips to your ear
So that you could finally hear…
The ROARING of my soul
I have hitched rides on meteor showers
Stolen milliseconds during dreary hours
Laid bare bottomed on blackened words
Just for that one passing moment when you joyfully heard…
My HEART
Yell, tell, expel, ProPEL
My every breath belongs to you
Your eyes…only your eyes, that have no color or hue
They are open scepters of fine wine
Flowing freely from all that is you
I drink every last drop, even the splash upon my lip
Anticipating the next happenstance glance
Where I can lazily tip and joyfully sip
The savory substance of your longing for me
Run with me, my love
Let us leave behind wind and all constraints of time
Flow with me and flick off the frames
That prevent you from being mine
Feel the rich, bold, paint running ahead
Showing us what living and loving has said
Experience the gush of your soul
Rushing to express what it’s come to know
Be still, my beloved, let me know you
Let me view you in the purity of light
I haven’t eyes to judge
Only the perspective of faith in the darkest night
What is this? Fear and Shame…
That gathers the curtain around your soul
Who has left you unopened and unexplored?
Who dares to tempt your longing
Bind your revealing
To know you …no…more….
In the cathedral of time, where seconds drip like holy myrrh on the altar of eternity,
We stand, creatures of light draped in mantles of shadow and doubt,
With golden hands weaving the veil of reality, yet eyes covered by scales of ignorance,
While the Great Weaver watches silently from behind the cosmic curtain.
Our ship of destiny sails on the ocean of infinity, with sails made of unwoven dreams,
Blind helmsmen, crowned with thorns and wielding scepters of smoke, lead us to illusory horizons,
While deep in the hold, pearls of wisdom and diamonds of knowledge wait to be discovered,
Guarded by sirens of doubt and hydras of fear, fed by the tears of our lost hopes.
In the garden of souls, where trees of knowledge stretch their branches towards the sky of consciousness,
We dance a frenzied waltz with shadows of our own unfulfilled selves,
As angels with wax wings and demons with crystal hearts whisper the secrets of creation,
And we, blind and deaf, continue to weave the tapestry of destiny with threads of regret and nostalgia.
The full moon of enlightenment pours its silver light over the temple of humanity,
But the ignored priestesses of intuition and exiled prophets of vision stand in the shadows,
While on the altar, clay idols of mediocrity receive offerings of unfulfilled dreams,
And the smoke of our futile sacrifices rises to the indifferent sky of history.
Yet in the depths of the collective soul's cave, a sacred flame still flickers,
Fed by droplets of hope and the divine breath of our boundless potential,
For we are incarnate stars, carriers of the cosmic code in every cell,
Awaiting the sacred moment when we will pierce the veil of illusion and step into the light of eternal truth.
In the cosmic dance of creation, we are both dancers and music, both stage and audience,
Caught in a mystical hora of becoming, our steps measured by the heartbeat of the universe,
And one day, perhaps, we will remember the primordial song of our divine soul,
And weave anew the tapestry of reality, this time with threads of pure light and unconditional love.