Long Sentries Poems
Long Sentries Poems. Below are the most popular long Sentries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sentries poems by poem length and keyword.
A mind inquisitive will find
while looking out upon the world
that myriads of whys unwind
from raveled webs in queries whirled
by skies above and realms below.
There’s always more than we can know.
If contemplating mysteries
of life’s existence here in space
along with astro-histories
within our cosmical embrace,
the awe one feels will surely show.
There’s always more than we can know.
In famous drama by the Bard,
where Ghost is spotted ‘wondrous strange‘
by castle sentries standing guard,
mid ‘sworn to secrecy’ exchange,
says Hamlet to Horatio,
‘There’s more than you can dream to know
‘on earth in heaven, countless things
in your philosophy not taught.’
(And so begin misfortune’s slings.)
To summarize his gist of thought
in passage ever apropos:
There’s always more than we can know.
Some think that memorizing facts,
despite their changing through the years
as seen in how mankind reacts
when ruled by prejudice and fears,
amounts to understanding, though
there’s always more than we can know.
The gladiola in delight
will bloom as forces lure her on.
Bright stars o’er-sprinkle dark of night
but fade from sight with breaking dawn.
Thus Nature’s cycles come and go.
Yet there’s much more that we can know.
Vast marvels may await our gaze
beyond imagination’s ken
by polishing away the haze
to clear enlightened vision, then
shall fountains of deep wisdom flow…
There’s always more than we can know!
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
“The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day.”
~ Albert Einstein ~ ”Old Man’s Advice to Youth: ‘Never Lose a Holy Curiosity’” LIFE Magazine (2 May 1955) p. 64…
The poem is written in verse, having stanzas with refrain…
Inspiration was derived from various passages from The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, by William Shakespeare, in particular the following…
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
~ William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, 159–167
About eleven years ago through a genealogical search I found out that my adopted
father is Salish Indian, thereby making me at least half Salish. I dedicate this poem
to the Salish people:
The sun rises and calls our people to the land
The babies clutched, children taken in hand.
Blanketed, shivering bodies in the spring air
Quickly we assemble for the journey
Voices speak quietly; our people are ready.
Rows of deep blue mountains fading into the sky
Keeping watch over us; sentries from high.
We walk past the spring where the water runs deep
Life blood of our people, quietly blessed
We trek along its path, continuing our quest.
A prairie breeze rushes past, pulling at our clothes,
It whispers in ears and tells of the woes
Of a woman who cried for her starving people
A bird was sent that spoke of bitter tears
Drops that fed a plant, feeding our people for years.
The biting wind was cold and our feet pushed faster
It moans and speaks for every ancestor
The land that we walk upon is our heritage
This earth isn’t ours, just a caretaker
Of this blessed land, the people of our Creator
Our feet stumble over the dry soil and rocks
Tracing trails our tribe still hunts and walks
Searching for wild game and berries for the table
Teaching our young of flowers and fauna
Now focused on the ground, seeking the red diva.
The searchers part, fingers pull on the dewy brush
Pushing away grass, hurrying to rush
And find the small plant, the guardian of our land
The tubular sprout that hides in dry soil
From all hands that seek, regardless of the toil.
Both young and old are searching for the small, slight sprout
Ancient rocks are pulled, then heard is a shout.
A young voice cries, “I found it!” Excited and proud.
Young and old group to see the succulent
Eyeing the pink buds and the roots of the green plant.
Small fingers pass the sprout to a Salish elder
The plant is taken and then held tender
Withered fingers lift it, thanking our Creator
For once again we harvest in tribute
The symbol of our ancestors, the Bitterroot.
What special touches - the eyes, the mouth, his hands.
The brushes illuminate the solid ground - his walk.
Invisible beings painted in, sentries stand by, awaiting
his slightest command. The diablos stands by too,
mocking each mark of Jesus’ path, for he holds on tight
to the wretched and weak beings, the easily tempted,
the hungry beggars, the lame, suffering and sick.
The scorch of Christ’s touch, as he heals Adams and Eves,
the liar does not like this, not one little bit. The release
of light into their eyes, the clearing of their consciences,
bitterness fleeing, wounds sealed up as if they never existed.
The howling of a wanderer in this cursed earth. He recalls
those gentle eyes, those wise words, the beauty of the garden.
The horn’d reject can only wind around weeds, thorns, hollowed
branches - something that would make mankind’s skin crawl.
Christ’s see-through hands, reach out and touch, lepers
and lowly woman bereft of freedom. When his mouth moves
the inner universe of each soul either erupts or folds.
The son’s magnificent eyes made of gold, shine as the Father of lights.
Holy Spirit comfort radiates the passion of warmth and O
when he weeps, the impression of Rembrandt’s plates sear.
Multitudes of destitute and growling tummies follow his beat.
When he speaks of eating his flesh and drinking his blood
the murmuring crowd, much like the Israelites in the desert,
turn their backs, with no understanding of the Mannah’s lips.
The dozen choose him. Who else shall we go to. We know you.
Although one is a plant, a weed himself. Should we feel sorry
for the gold digger? He oft shakes the communal bag, opens
and sifts it like sand, retrieving a couple grains. If he only knew
the cost. O the cost! Did he steal the tithe? The ten percent
would be like quicksand. The devil would leave him hanging.
What special touches - the eyes, the mouth, his hands.
The brushes illuminate the solid ground - his walk.
Christ’s frame humble and confident, his mission to save.
2/1/2021
Around that table, picture the scene
Self appointed leaders if you know what I mean
What were the topics on the Agenda that day
The Jewish race is about to pay
Who gave the right for this decision that's made
Who has the right to cleanse and degrade
To decide who lived, to decide who dies
Another chapter, I still wonder why
They came in the day they came in the night
Women and children pulled out of sight
Herded aboard like cattle and sheep
Many a family awoke from their sleep
Dazed and confused as they are taken away
Where will they be at the end of the day
From their warm houses and their warm beds
What must be going through their heads
As they travel through days and through the night
Up ahead, they see lots of lights
They depart the trucks and board the train
Their faces scared under the strain
Asking questions from family and others
Generations, sisters and brothers
Why are we here, where are we going
Windowless carriages with no way of knowing
We come to a stop, soldiers aplenty
Towers and wire, topped with sentries
What can this place be they have taken us to
As we head to large gates as they shuffle us through
Families separated, herded in file
Women and children, not one did smile
Taken to rooms where our heads were shaved
Is this the way humans behaved
Clothes discarded, as we enter the shower
No signs of water no signs of power
Doors slammed as we are all crammed in
History will recall this evil of sins
As we stand in the dark, chanting Jewish faith
Can hear the voices can't see the face
Noises above, do the showers start
The event has begun that tells us Humans apart
Questions and sighs, as walled vents show daylight
Some thing is falling then their slammed tight
A strange aroma starts to fill the air
As all around are screams of despair
Twenty minutes have passed and the quietness is rife
Two thousand people, two thousand lives
Pellets called HCN, or Hydrogen Cyanide
Contribute to this Genocide
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php
*Image of A Universal Star by Private Stock.
A Penitent Soliloquy
It is in junctures like these that I encounter myself
traversing a meadow of spring colors just yon the lea
where purples and pinks contest further
plus blues delivering pursuit for an actual take.
In the completeness of the stretched out rivalry
as its foremost spectator wavered I in gratefulness
for its breathtaking rainbowed exhibition of magnificence
existed through our ambitious custodian in heaven.
Reluctantly, yielded I to my reason for it lay
just round the bend farther than the footing of
lowly chaparrals fronting the forest boundaries
like sentries of some consecrated hearth.
Unexpectedly, a window of circumstance burst
open from the back of me and as slightly revolved I,
beaming rays shot back hosting a flurry of blue jays
landing within the shrubs thrashing about till only a chorale of tweets were heard.
Again, found I a pensive motivation rallied to fruition by song, nonetheless, the journey must I and the pathway didst return me towards shallowed trees until giant redwoods rounded themselves about me.
A laden rock, the purpose of me being at that spot, was a makeshift altar stone where cometh I to pray, amidst the ambiance of consolation, the serenity of solitude and isolation factors in profound deliberative candor.
All that I've seen and heard this day, truly believe I to bear witness of your awesome omnipotence, your overwhelming omnipresence, and your omniscient being overall, I come humbly before you in supplication.
On penitent knees, I beseech you oh heavenly father as I look upon thy countenance I pray, forgive me of the iniquities that shamefully bore I and give me the strength to shed off the wiles of evil so that I may be your good and faithful servant, unto you, Lord the Father, Lord the Son, and Lord the Holy Spirit, I pray, Amen and Amen!
2022 January 29
*10th Place*
Repent and Believe
~~Regina McIntosh: Judged 2022 January 30
Snow is falling, covering everything in town
with a shimmering,light, fluffy, white thick blanket of snow
Tall, bare, maple trees are lined up on the side of the road
like sentries standing guard
The lamp posts are lighting the streets
and the clock tower bells are ringing,
letting everyone know the time
A horse with a wool blanket,
harnessed with a wood hames,
and blinders keep him focused on what is up ahead,
pulling a farm wagon, being lead my his owner,
carrying supplies, is trotting down the road
It’s evening, and big brother is pulling a sleigh
with his baby sister and brother all dressed in their warmest clothes,
heavy wool coats, hand knitted hats, gloves,
and scarfs around their necks,
wrapped in a warm blanket in the sleigh
A stray dog in tow
He stops in front of a window that is decorated with garland, pine-cones,
and gold and red Christmas tree ornaments displaying a variety of toys
They all stare in wonderment wishing
Santa would bring them some wonderful toys
A Lionel train set for me,
A red Raido Flyer wagon for my little brother,
And a doll and doll house for my baby sister.
By Eve Roper 11/25/2014
The Dark Side of October
Late October moon is waking, through this cemetery shaking,
shaking as the cold wind breaking, walking ‘neath an old oak tree.
Stones like sentries undertaking, guarding graves as hearts are aching,
aching for the still ones staking, such an eerie sight to see –
dark and dreary, I’m so leery, such an eerie sight to see –
is this but a reverie?
In the graveyard shadows shimmer, dark of night is growing dimmer,
dimmer still without a glimmer, shadows ‘round the old oak tree.
Shadows dancing ever nearer, nearer still and getting clearer,
clearer like distorted mirror, twisting ghastly sight to see –
growing vastly, looming lastly, such a ghastly sight to see –
certainly a reverie?
Piercing sounds are penetrating, ear drums deafening pulsating,
ringing louder, devastating, echoes off the old oak tree.
Echoes bouncing screeching grating, ever louder agitating,
instigating, fears creating, from this ghoulish sight to see –
Am I mulish, maybe foolish, such a ghoulish sight to see –
surely just a reverie?
In the dark my head is spinning, round and round these sights imprinting,
fusing on my brain beginning, questioning my sanity.
All these sights and sounds are weighing, weighing as the ghouls are playing
playing as they do their preying, preying on my vanity –
I am praying, ghouls are swaying, preying on my vanity –
have I lost my sanity?
Eerie night just seems persisting, lasting as my mind is twisting,
waiting for daylight’s assisting, lighting up the old oak tree.
Eerie sights and sounds now fading, dark of night for daylight trading,
light of day is now invading, leaving me to clearly see –
seeing nearly, life so dearly, oh so clearly now I see –
must have been a reverie…..
or have I lost my sanity?
July 26, 2018
Let me tell you a story of Nature
and my early morning walks in the
desert. The fragrance of cactus blossoms
and the starkness of its beauty beckon.
Or, is it the silence, like no other, interrupted
only by the hum of bees and tiny species
who materialize when you draw a handful
of sand to your eyes, viewing them as equals.
This is the playground of coyotes and jackrabbits,
sure to practice social distancing, at least the jacks!
Where desert rats dig shelters far beneath the earth,
safe and cool--and even squirrels abide.
It is shared by rattlesnakes seeking shade under tall
mesquites, causing travelers to choose where their
next step goes. In the near distance are the
mountains, given birth by volcanos in centuries past.
In early evening, the mountains don cloaks of violet
as the glorious sunset turns desert plants ablaze in
reds and golds--nature's gift to us. Turning indigo,
the mountains stand like sentries in the night.
Soon, thunder clouds gather and rain begins its journey
to the thirsty mouths of plants and soil. Animals scurry for
shelter, to appear when midget lakes take form and they can
bathe and frolic. The scent of desert rain is a rare perfume.
The desert isn't meant for those who need forests and lakes,
or city dwellers lost among tall buildings, basking in its noise.
No, they would not survive the loneliness, where one's thoughts
are steadfast companions, and music the songs of coyotes.
Early morning, when enjoying the walk, I sometimes surprise a
fox, or find a nest of hummingbirds, so tiny, mouths open waiting
for breakfast. I see nature in its truest light, unfiltered by the
haze of progress. How lucky I am to call the desert my friend.
NATURE THEME
April 15, 2022
for Form N - Narrative New Poetry Contest
by Constance La France
A Second
Arm to arm, sinews clutch
One another, makes friend and crutch;
One crimson call, which guidance brought
The feeble, stern: the working lot
To stand much greater, taller, strong
Filled with hope, in lines long,
That stretch from pain, from glum, from slum
To the halls of white where nations clump
In the deadest form of gathered hoards
Of finance and shares, secluded boards
Who array the work, who shackle in loans
Whose empty plots tempt the sleeping droves
In tent and rag, in cough and drag,
From hand to mouth, to work and back.
Yet in contempt that line is struck,
Still the routine is mute, no more this work
That builds the villa, never the mason’s,
Unthanked which blooms the fields all season,
The folks split off by plastic partition
Giving wealth immense, yet maimed cognition
Had kept whom bound to desk and ground
Their eyes have met and their fists now pound
Against steel ribbed doors, but why such fear
Thee lords of land in prim kept highest tiers?
Arisen so, on the claim of wealth,
At the cost of Earth, of hearth and health;
How much more flight, behind guarded holds,
Behind sentries and dictates so cold
Even in scorch of war, where poor kills poor;
So the wealth of nations in tons can pour
Onto odd few hands, to hold all us chained
To the will of profit, for profit’s sake.
But in queues, we’ve come, tools shucked
Your batons brooked, your shots shrugged
By the calloused bossom, by tried spine,
That props all of it up, runs it all in time.
And without us many, your wealth is rust,
Without our trust it’s all a fleeting gust
Of paper slips and accords of force
And we see dawn, from these dues divorced.
And the sun to snatch, the sickle drives,
And the barricades the hammer tries,
While the quill writes, not fearing death,
A push for renewal, for a gasp of breath.
I don't want to wander those places where our footsteps have long since passed,
Down shaded alleys where our memories whisper and stand guard like stone sentries,
I no longer wish to hear those songs, symphonies of the past, nor let them steal my thought.
To wrap myself in your now absent shawl of longing and your kisses, as though they never were.
Echo of laughter, tightrope walker on the heart's string, I won't let you spin me around,
To recall your face, a bastion of joy, which I would have painted in the most playful hues.
I no longer desire to search for you among fragments of memory, to see you in every little detail,
To excavate your visages from the neglected corners of time's dusty albums.
I miss 'us,' but I don't want to rewrite our story, each page bearing our joint signature.
To no longer yearn for what's been lost, for the echoes of your footsteps that resonated in my chest.
I don't want to cry again, to let the tears of missing you wash over my face.
To let the pain sink into the abyss, no longer feeling each caress that brought solace.
Noon when I no longer summon your laughter, thunderous waves crashing over my soul,
Nor how your face, once an island of happiness lost, could be my guiding light.
I don't want to make you cry or to hurt you, to break the wings of your dreams with my inadequacy,
Please, do not inflict heart scratches anymore, in this ongoing war to remain standing.
I don't want to hear you say you miss me, words like arrows into the vulnerable veins of 'us.'
Nor to utter, even in a whisper, that I miss you, for longing burns like a brand that is not there.
To no longer feel the red-hot iron of love trouble me again,
I'm afraid... To not fall into your net once more, into the weavings of your heart. I don't want to… I don't want to…