Long Siege Poems
Long Siege Poems. Below are the most popular long Siege by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Siege poems by poem length and keyword.
In the age of the 4IR, they say,
"You will own nothing and be happy,"
Cryptos, NFTs, shares, and memecoins, the array.
We chase dreams of wealth, oh so snappy.
But hope is what keeps us alive,
Believing in the promise of a golden tide.
Bitcoin soaring, dreams to thrive,
Past gains, future, we can't abide.
Regulations tighten, wallets under siege,
Our tokens held, a false reprieve.
One day we'll wake, portfolio's gone, no intrigue,
Laws protect, leaving us to grieve.
Who are they, you ask?
Those as greedy as we,
Same vision, same task,
Platforms profit, while we plea.
Central banks, remember them well,
Fractional reserves, their tale to tell.
Crisis caused, they cast their spell,
Forcing servitude, in their cartel.
R350 for SASSA, a pittance indeed,
Maize meal and fleeting need.
In the 4IR, it's a dire deed,
Using what we have, our only creed.
Young girls to OnlyFans, a somber plight,
Selling souls for a bite.
Survival's grip, oh so tight,
In this harsh, relentless fight.
MLMs promise, dreams unfulfilled,
Dog-eat-dog, hopes distilled.
Hard work, simply billed,
For survival, hearts chilled.
One day, we'll own nothing, it's true,
And maybe, just maybe, find happiness anew.
But today, in this relentless view,
Stay woke, lest they ensnare you.
Stay woke they will catch you sleeping
You will own nothing and be happy
accursed creepily haunting
Phantasmagoria wraiths
vandalize residents psyches
within their sleep induced state
Sublimation shunts
slumbering souls
unknowingly held hostage
successfully sacrificing
Semi-smothered silent species
snoring simians steadfastly succumb
subsequent sibilant sounds
woo woebegone wicked transmogrification
dilapidated divested bodies deposited
wizard waves wand
watching whirling wretched lovely bones
whipsawing (in toto) within abyss
whooshing whistling wheezing
whets warlocks appetite wakening
brutish nasty nightmare
sinister hulking spirits
steal assorted corporeal essence
monstrous mashing somnambulant
mephistophelian shadowy satanic satyrs
supremely swallow senior citizen bankers
deep within catacombs
of Highland Manor,
deadened defeated Delphic Oracle
relegates human husks,
viz spent embodiments
to the under world lay siege
sinisterly seeding, via sinister spirits
one pure evil particularly wicked
witch thy capering
sickening ghastly plot against
unsuspecting spouse snatched
parch trey gnarled warty claws.
Hello America. I still have high and lofty hopes and dreams of you. Your ideals and principles of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are still highly favored and deeply intact. The vision of the founders sometimes seems under siege, but remains so vividly in place. Perhaps presently, their vision is even more real than the signers of 'the compact' on the Mayflower ever dreamed possible.
You, America, like the Mayflower, must keep your sails set and never give way to high winds and storms at sea. You, America, like our founders, must not be so naive as to think there would not be fights. Like them, you must forge ahead with all your might through multiplied fears in the darkness of seemingly innumerable nights.
Their losses were great both at sea and at the shore, but they fought through the fog of a million teardrops as brave ones who rose above their fears and continued to roar as lions and soar the heights like eagles.
Through the evils and greed that gave rise to Native American slaughters and African American slavery. Through more than 40 years of the silent cries of 60 million unborn babies. O great and beloved one, in spite of atrocities gone unheard and the pleas of rationality and reason unheeded, your entrenched goodness retains your greatness. O great and beloved one, your greatness often comes under attack but always bounces back. Your greatness is often taken for granted but remains on track. It's because your greatness lies not in your perfection, but in your noble pursuits in spite of your imperfections.
242 years; through battle scares and tempest-tossed; through bloody wars and constitutional crises, you live on to wave 'Old Glory". May your future be ever bright and shining forth the light. Happy birthday America. July 4, 1776-
06282017PSContest, Summer Soltice, Brain Strain
When breaks this siege so fierce and strong
that knows not length of day, now long;
a constant press this tyrant be,
when comes the blessed new?
An endless bearing on and on—
no hiding place, no hopeful song
or rest, it seems but then instead:
the storm, unceasing, roars again.
The moments drag as fury blooms—
each one a vast and troubled room,
that wears away the me I was
before this nightmare come.
But minutes...more, are lost and then
an hour gone (though time's no friend,
as hellish fight still steady be,
yet still, I hold my ground).
Then 'midst the grey the faintest glow,
as dawn begins her splendor'd show
and swelling heart where fear had been
doth fill my chest with hope again.
Shaped now by strife, and sweat, and tide—
the thieves of loftiness and pride
have done their duty (sore it be)
that I might better, stronger, be.
So blow ye winds, come storm of storms
and wrest the weakness from this form
that from it rise a creature hewn
to ever face life’s frightful blooms.
'Till final call, a melody—
above the storm is heard, so sweet:
'tis time to rest now, finally.
Then come, the blessed new.
In seventeen seventy-seven,
amidst the deep summer’s August heat,
Barry St. Leger, loyalist milita,
and the Iroquois walked on sore feet.
Their mission was clear: move down the Mohawk,
meet Burgoyne and split the rebel states,
except the Americans in Fort Stanwix
were effectively blocking their way.
To advance the fort had to be reduced,
but St. Leger’s force had few big guns,
so he settled into a siege of the fort,
with a mind to hold strong 'til he’d won.
But the patriots knew of the British plans,
and were not content to just sit and wait,
Tyrion County called up its militia
to save Stanwix from a bloody fate.
Eight hundred of them marched for the fort,
under the command of Nick Herkimer,
a palatine German of the Mohawk vale,
an able and determined fighter.
They stopped to camp not far from Stanwix,
and Herkimer counseled that they should hold,
to await a signal from inside the fort
and launch a two-front attack bold.
But the militia saw this as cowardice,
and said,”What else could we expect?
His own brother fights with St. Leger,
we can’t expect him to take the next step.”
Herkimer darkened at his men’s words,
and would not idly receive their scorn,
he ordered the men to be on the ready,
they would advance the following morn.
But the British knew of their approach,
and prepared to put them to the test,
near five hundred set out to intercept,
mostly Iroquois with some Loyalists.
The next day the Americans, on the move,
found themselves passing through a ravine,
unaware that eyes stared upon them
as they drank from a cool, tiny stream.
The British had planned to wait until
the patriots were all stretched out,
but some Indians opened fire too early,
a roar of muskets and loud piercing shouts.
The first volleys hit hard, stunned the militia,
a good many brave soldiers went down,
Herkimer took a ball in the leg,
and from a dying horse pitched to the ground.
So fierce was that first surprise attack,
so many patriotic souls shot dead,
that all sides involved said the tiny stream
was stained by the blood until red.
Some tried to move wounded Herkimer,
but he was still in no mood for retreat,
he took out a pipe, leaned on a tree trunk,
and said,”I will meet the enemy...”
CONCLUDES IN PART II
...In the capital a great feast was thrown
to welcome Larren back from the frontier.
Minstrels sang songs of his victories,
while they ate venison and drank beer,
the whole city thronged with good cheer.
But Larren was subdued in the feasting hall,
his betrothed sat across from him, haughty and tall.
Her name was Berice, a princess of the south,
quiet pretty but not the kindest around.
Her tongue was sharp, her manner aloof,
both in bed chambers and tournament grounds,
Sse saw this marriage as a great step down.
But Larren had a duty, and they were wed,
and went, cold and distant, to the marital bed.
Though the king praised this noble pairing,
and so did his great heir, the crown prince,
Larren found his wife a drain on his soul,
and hard to bear, ever for short stints,
of true affection, she showed not a hint.
She took to his bed only at fertile times,
to bear him an heir, with no love in her eyes.
To make matters worse, by the first month’s end
Great King Rael was beginning to flag.
A fever set in, yellow came to his eyes,
and his breath in great rasps did drag,
Larren spent weeks by the bedside of his dad.
When he passed on, Crown Prince Duhran rose,
he made Larren chief general, the bane of his foes.
Five months passed, and Larren’s misery grew,
no accolades or awards could assuage
the loneliness he felt, the true lack of love
sometimes drove him quite close to rage,
he began to look older than his age.
His brother, the king, said,”Take a mistress,”
Larren couldn’t say he’d already had the best…
Then a new foe arose in the far west,
encouraged by the death of King Rael.
They besieged the citadel Larren had held,
and committed crimes that were beyond the pale,
rape and slavery were their grisly tales.
Duhran sent Larren with all of the troops
to smash the heathen invaders for good.
Larren arrived, somewhat glad to be gone,
back doing something he knew quite well.
Gladder still was her to be free of his wife,
Though to others this truth would not tell,
not when battle raged at the citadel.
Once on the scene her surveyed the siege,
then lined up his troops, and charged to their relief…
CONTINUES IN PART III
Unlike the days of old when cities were built with walls. Unlike the streets of my rearing, the place where my story began. And unlike a lone sparrow that I once rescued from a busy parking lot. When I walked alone and afraid
on a dark and dangerous street, no one came to my aid because I was
never seen, never heard. Walled cities had built-in defenses without which they were open targets with little hope of defeating their enemies. They
also had watchmen on the walls to sound alarms if they were threatened.
The locals knew better and limited their movements after dark. But I was new and failed to respond adequately to the smell of attack that fumigated
the atmosphere. I was a defenseless lamb among two wolves on the prowl.
I was the selected prey by the lurkers of the night, ever ready for the feast. They were armed and I was not. They were two and I walked home,
foreboding and alone. Unlike the Romans against the Jews at Masada,
no siege-works was required; no resistance was offered; no cry of alarm. Without a plan, I was the victim of that dark and silent night. Defenseless,
I did not run nor did I speak, and the two of them were armed, robbing me without a sound, leaving me defenseless, penniless and filled with wonder about my next move in the asphalt jungle. The innocence was gone, grave
damage had been done, and a new day had arrived. Like the good locals, I did not whine over spilled milk. Rather, I wiped up the spilled milk, built survival walls around myself and became a better watchman on the wall.
021320PoSpCtest, Pick-A-Title, Vol 14 - Tristich -, Edward Ibeh. Title picked-Defenseless
Lost am I here, in this shrouded mist. Silent as it engulfs and consumes wholly all things. A devourer... devouring, unbridled destruction layed siege to all things. All that ever was sacred, all that ever will be, itself offered these offerings. Be ever still and silent, try not to breathe, let this reaper pass now over me. Screams of pain so silent, taste of pain so sweet. Like a fool falls for his own foolery. Storm in the distance, though it's rains come swift, bruiding and building inside this cold dark rift. A fleeting gleam of the now fading light, as darkness gives birth to an eternal night. Hold now my breath, close now my eyes. Futile my efforts to struggle or fight. I shudder at the thought, wriggle in pain. My resistance mocked, no ground do I gain. Just as the sands forever erased by the sea's... remains only traces of echo's and agony.
The mind, when cornered by unbearable truth,
Builds walls from silence and locks from sleep.
It learns the art of leaving itself
While the body remains behind to suffer.
There are wounds no language can dress,
No reason can bind.
So the psyche invents distance—
A thin veil between terror and breath.
It begins in childhood,
When love becomes danger
And memory becomes poison.
The soul, desperate to survive,
Steps sideways out of pain.
This is not madness.
It is architecture.
The self fractures not from weakness,
But from necessity.
The mind, like a nation under siege,
Burns its bridges to keep the enemy out.
How bad can it become?
So complete that one no longer knows
Which voice belongs to whom.
So quiet that life feels like watching oneself drown
From the shore of one’s own body.
So distant that joy feels like a rumor
Heard through thick walls.
The person survives,
But the witness disappears.
Yet know this:
Dissociation is not the illness—
It is the scar.
Proof that something once threatened
To destroy the soul entirely
And failed.
For even in retreat,
The mind chooses life.
Harken...those hollowing drums
Over cold vales so beat,
Exhorting a multitude of glistening
Star-tipped spears,
As marching over shattered landscapes
In shinning replete:
Crunch Artumes eternal legions
Across the snow bound years.
Casting down from the mauve
And cloudless heights
The pale witch broods upon her dark
runes;
Chilled breath steaming mutterings
Of meddling spite,
Uttered under Luna risings
Of half waxen moons.
Repulsed from the presence
Of the holy alters sacred glow,
That cuts like a torch
Across Yules Feast of Lights,
She incants of harsh Boreas
To relent his fierce blowes:
Raising high her crystal towers
To breach the walls of stilled night.
Tis now, away from cheery hearths
And the warm fires they keep,
That warring frost tightens
Upon this hardened land;
Happily sated people
Turn in contented sleep;
Motionless vapours are crushed
In the grip of an iron clad hand.
For as the siege heightens
In relentless might
Heavens wheeling sentinels
Begin to slowly withdraw:
Retreating upon spiraling orbits
Fading from diminishing sight;
Ghostly armies embarking
For far frozen shores.
Loosen now the silver longships,
Afloat on tides of drawing moonlight,
For the Red Goddess slumbers
In deep canyons to the west;
Artumes armies sailing
Into grey dawns fleeting respite...
Awaken... Oh Glorious Aurora...
Scattering your foes -
Before Sunrises conquest!!