Long Sirs Poems
Long Sirs Poems. Below are the most popular long Sirs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sirs poems by poem length and keyword.
After: "Letter of Mithridates to Phraates, King of Parthia"
Historiae VI by Sallust
*****************************
I am a man more poisoned against than poisoning.
That’s my version anyhow, and I’m sticking to it.
Don’t blame me for having survived a few meals
Which others, less fortunate, could not.
All that doesn’t help me now with Pompey at my throat.
Pompey, plunderer and bully, who has enough wit
Only to command a Materialschlacht,
But that is child’s play with Rome’s support.
Rome! Scourge of cities, tribes, peoples, nations, all mankind,
Were not the Pillars of Hercules, the western shores
Sufficient for your ravenous appetite
That your eagle eyes scan my realm?
O Phraates, King of Parthia still unvanquished,
Had you but lent your ear to me when together we
Might have rid the East of this ill-begotten son
Of Mars. Small the credit, so great the loss!
For Rome, unchallenged, bestrides the Great Sea. Eastwards
He surveys my mountains and your rivers, groves and plains,
No doubt beyond. Remember Alexander,
Who sacked glorious Persepolis.
You vainly sue for peace, like credulous Philipp once
When fondly strung along with Rome’s promises of “pax”.
And what of Carthage? Where now her wealth of gold
And purple? Barren her poisoned lands!
Mind you, I’m not well-placed on a high moral pedestal
When it comes to poisoning, but limits I respect.
A few enemies now and then, I admit,
Died at my table. The ham was off!
But the earth is sacrosanct. I never salted fields,
For Rome’s venom is stronger than aught I ever brewed.
Where shall this end? Shall Rome vanquish all nations?
Shall all cower to his bloody sword?
But Rome! With surfeiting the eaten, not the eater,
Prevails. The whole world is, even for iron digestions,
Strong meat. It is the sun, not Romulus, whom
East and West obey. Helios rules.
With Rome to east and Rome to west, then two Romes are there,
And I do fear for man and earth. The approach of death
Lends men insight. I fought, I won, I lost in war.
My spirit is still king. Sirs, your health.
The last round! Like Carthage we lose to Rome the third round.
Once more is the Gordian knot in twain. Quirites,
The gods look down. Remember Alexander,
Who died of fever in Babylon!
Confronted by a towering wall
spanning miles above me..
..I..
Get a grip! says one of my men.
it shan't be long now-
attach the hooks and wires,
and climb-!
As I stumble towards the wall
something arches fourth
from my stomach
some kind of muck or mire
comes rushing forward
and my mind disappears
Awakened by the foul stench
of burning sulfur and coal
I open my eyes, groggily
and though blurry and strained
I perceive small little hooven feet
dancing about me
Yet no fear is within me
my aversions long gone
for this sight is one
I have grown accustomed to
I live among them
pray among them
I search my soul
which is littered with
legions of these horned monsters
each having various faces
are they me?
are we you?
are we sane?
I hardly care anymore
the clutter strewn about
is what remains of my
sanity
the cobwebs attest
to just how long
I've treaded hereabouts
I'm tired...
I say good Sirs, and Madams
I am so very tired.
Shall we fetch you a cup of tea, sir?
No, get me that bottle over yonder
Yes, Sir-!
Mam, the bottle appears to be empty
Empty you say-?!
I swat away the pest
and hunt for something by which
I can use to dim the light of my vision
stampedes of friends bring me many more gifts
illusions, fantasies, various pains, and love letters
each smiling with crooked menacing teeth
they appear gifts in hand, and up to evil no doubt
Sir, shan't you take your morning brew?
Madam, I have taken it, and I am indeed due for more
With cup in hand, I ask of my friends
to lay me down and help me to sleep
using their tiny hands and arms
they pull shut my eyelids,
and as I begin to lose my vision
I perceive in the distant clouds
the saddened face of someone I once knew
frowning
as the face disappears into the moisturous clouds
I faintly remember I had something to do
or maybe somewhere to be?
However for now
I think I shall enjoy various brews and cups laden with
miseries
and I shall share them with my horned and bedeviled friends
because my body, mind, and soul
has come to very much resemble them
or perhaps they me?
Cheers.
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need
to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus
grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans
first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).
Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical
churlish beastial animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums
harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft
to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused
respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the Screw and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret
as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,
and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps
of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.
***A Parenting Tale***
He must’ve been
Just barely fourteen, but still off as
A ninja filling a pillowcase
with chocolate on Halloween.
Although through all other days
his ken was an avocado green,
That is actually a deep
nubby, buttery green.
The older teens, always girls,
Stood leaning on the fenders of their parent’s cars,
Twirling their lemon curls around
Still child-small index fingers
While foot tapping to some unknown
Time until night cloaked our court.
Then, with a wave of the girl’s arms,
our son collapsed to fit out through
Keyholes or go with the autumn mice
Under the garage door, to slink
From one girl’s car to three, where
Not one pair of pink lips cou answer
me if her parents knew her where?
Hardly a surprise then one night
near ten p.m.,
When authority alarmed, fist-knocking
on our front door. Police?
What is the, aaa, problem, sirs?”
“You’ve a son we’ve gotten word of.
Is he home?” Yes. Well, yes.
Certainly, yes. It’s bedtime…
He comes down, cool from his room to
Join us in the hall, looking face to face,
so sliced-olive green.
The officers, wasted not a second.
“We’ve a warrant for a missing girl,
A friend of yours said you knew.
Have you seen Anna Joe today?” No.
“Have you had company tonight?” No.
“Have friends up there with you?” No.
Then to us, “We’d like to go up to look.”
I was mother-so-proud assuring, “He
doesn’t lie. I’d’ve heard company.”
Within a minute, the parade came down
The stairs: handcuffed girl, officers
with son between them and coming to
Stand by me, supposing it was safe.
I screamed, “You lied! To the police!
To us!” Then, I swung my arm back
And forward again with force from
Knowing how he’d dealt us into danger.
I smacked him hard and loud
in front of the police in that
Scrapbook moment of parenting the idiot
Events of a bean-green teen, which also
ended musical car nights on our
court.
————————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 2/6/22
BAZAAR
Can you call it a bazaar
Where only one vendor
Her face strained
'Looks' pale, apprehensive
As if caught in a snakes' chamber
Yet searching for a potential customer
Desperate to sell products unheard of
Of human species, bizarre more bizarre
The seller in her early thirties
Skinny as an empty nylon bag
Frail as a TB patient
Seemingly double her age and malnourished
Sat at the small town's big square
Shrilling in the loudest of her voice
'On sale' 'on sale'
One is my son another daughter
The female child is only three sirs
Please don't turn your faces I request
Don't think that she's worth not sale
Within two years she can show her conquest
I guarantee at five
She can lay your table
At seven wash dishes
Two years later can take your kids to school
Then with a jolt in her throat
In one hand raising the three years' face
The other pointed towards the sky
The seller laboured to utter some words
I swear you can run a brothel
Oh! profit-loss Madams and Sirs
With lot much profit and market demand
Can't you see how glamorous her face!
Two drops of tear evaporated
In the scorching and cruel sun
Just after they inadvertently fell
In spite of emotion being tried to shun
Like her alcoholic and savage husband
Her hopes were torn into pieces of waste
Dreams shattered trusts broken
Rifts not repairable by a paste
It made the seller again cautious
She thought the tear might act as mace
Thinking to sell and engaging her saree's pallu
Furtively wiped the wet eyes and face
What it takes for a living
Mobile phones internet
Or just face book likes
Surely not for me
Because I don't have food, clothes
And a house as basic needs
Take this boy
I don't expect from you
Any exemplary parenthood
By your kindness sirs
At least we can get some food
We may not call this square a bazaar
As a hawker, there's only a single seller
But what if we combine altogether
The squares of poverty, immiseration
Deprivation destitution and major calamities
The brunt who bear.
October 26 Relationship to God Bible Meditations Based on Acts 27-28
Key Verse – Acts 27:25 Wherefore, sirs, be of good cheer: for I believe God, that it shall be even as it was told me.
LORD GOD, YOU ARE MY GREAT CHEERER
Lord God, You are my great Cheerer and Deliverer
from horrible sin-imprisonment
Thank You for Your faith-launching establishment
As You fill me with Your refreshing replenishment
Toward joyous ministry involvement.
Lord God, You are my great Cheerer and Deliverer
from terrible guilt-tempest
Thank You for Your pardon that aids against iniquities' unrest
As You enclose me within forgiveness-best
Toward empowered victory during trial and test.
Lord God, You are my great Cheerer and Deliverer
from fatal eternity-losses
Thank You for Your exhortation that always blesses
As You stand by me to vanquish fears' curses
Toward steadfast service in carrying burdensome crosses.
Lord God, You are my great Cheerer and Deliverer
from everlasting soul-condemnation
Thank You for Your grace, enabling my regeneration
As You secure me by Your assured salvation
Toward holy living along my sanctification.
Lord God, You are my great Cheerer and Deliverer
from attacking spirituality-coldness
Thank You for Your Scriptures bringing me revival zealousness
As You transform me by Your imputed righteousness
Toward prayerful devotion along stewardship's faithfulness.
Lord God, You are my great Cheerer and Deliverer
from vain carnality-suffering
Thank You for Your truth, constantly nursing and nurturing
As You teach me Your ways worth desiring
Toward dedicated servanthood by Your exemplified gearing.
Lord God, You are my great Cheerer and Deliverer
from grievous unbelief-torture
Thank You for Your counsel that protects me against worldly culture
As You guide me by Your compassion and mercy's gesture
Toward sincere commitment to lead others to Your blessings' pasture.
October 26, 2024
Who is Edgar Rice Cakes? What does HE have to do with John Burroughs. Jesus Crisis. a
google search What is this? A novella nuevo bye charlaxandroidoneseven. CA17. Short for
Para Cayce. I have read the DeadSeaScrolling. On the PDF machine. Let me inform on my
brothers in the LORD there is seldom any evidenced. These fragments of Aromaic Archaic
would cause language EXPERTS in the field years of Formatting on a Word Processing
machine. Butt Doctor Caycey has Decided it somehow pertains to Jesus.? Oye Vey. I
admitted in a Court Room of lawyers I have not studied all his problems yet I must admit I
cannot read those fragments of isometric triangular wordage. You must admit these people
did preserve it as iff it were a GOSPEL message. crisischronicles dot com A cave a bunch of
yearns placed near the Monestary Remains to find considering the way Climatic Changes
occur the evelation of the Earth is never level Seas rise where desert climes once failed to
thrive. Perhaps a sub culture of Future Post Apolyptic Snow Men; all white and hairy like the
Yeti. Abominable in every way with patches of glowing purple hair where the radiation has
burned some of the fur away to reveal faults underneath no clothing there. They find a
pristene City walk into the Revolving Door and fall back out until Discovering when to exit
one. What fun. The lobby generator comes on. The Computor Hums. One Yeti moves the
mouse Experimentally they gape at Windows song. Not one of them Yeti can get the
Computor to do anything they are all just too old. A Robot walks up to the terminal. May I
help you SIRS? and /or Madames? They step back agape at this hairless ape a tinsel steel
replica of charlaxandroidoneseven. He types in poetrypoem dot com charlax7 Let me show
you my website boys? Do you like poetry as prose? As they fall about the place guffawing
they come out rolling the first time I ever saw a bunch of Yeti lawghing. So here we pause.
As DeadSeaScrollingbyeCharlaX grows cold.
Who is Edgar Rice Cakes? What does HE have to do with John Burroughs. Jesus Crisis. a
google search What is this? A novella nuevo bye charlaxandroidoneseven. CA17. Short for
Para Cayce. I have read the DeadSeaScrolling. On the PDF machine. Let me inform on my
brothers in the LORD there is seldom any evidenced. These fragments of Aromaic Archaic
would cause language EXPERTS in the field years of Formatting on a Word Processing
machine. Butt Doctor Caycey has Decided it somehow pertains to Jesus.? Oye Vey. I
admitted in a Court Room of lawyers I have not studied all his problems yet I must admit I
cannot read those fragments of isometric triangular wordage. You must admit these people
did preserve it as iff it were a GOSPEL message. crisischronicles dot com A cave a bunch of
yearns placed near the Monestary Remains to find considering the way Climatic Changes
occur the evelation of the Earth is never level Seas rise where desert climes once failed to
thrive. Perhaps a sub culture of Future Post Apolyptic Snow Men; all white and hairy like the
Yeti. Abominable in every way with patches of glowing purple hair where the radiation has
burned some of the fur away to reveal faults underneath no clothing there. They find a
pristene City walk into the Revolving Door and fall back out until Discovering when to exit
one. What fun. The lobby generator comes on. The Computor Hums. One Yeti moves the
mouse Experimentally they gape at Windows song. Not one of them Yeti can get the
Computor to do anything they are all just too old. A Robot walks up to the terminal. May I
help you SIRS? and /or Madames? They step back agape at this hairless ape a tinsel steel
replica of charlaxandroidoneseven. He types in poetrypoem dot com charlax7 Let me show
you my website boys? Do you like poetry as prose? As they fall about the place guffawing
they come out rolling the first time I ever saw a bunch of Yeti lawghing. So here we pause.
As DeadSeaScrollingbyeCharlaX grows cold.
BIRDS I JUST COULDN’T BE
I couldn’t be a pigeon walking and prancing,
Like black American dancing -
Neck thrusting back and forth quickly
Gives me a headache and makes me sickly
Or a sparrow hopping so much -
Me, troubled with joints and such ? -
With my bad arthritic knees? –
Well, not for me, please.
A canary who sniffs in mines for smells
And stays there for quite long spells
Enjoying the perfume of methane ?
Oh, those yellow fliers - insane !
I would never be a pterodactyl, no sirs !
Never in a million years !
Flying in the Cretaceous
Would be stupid, though audacious
My mum would surely scold
And forbid me to be a duck
(The wet-feet danger of catching cold
And I can’t swim very well – worse luck)
‘A turkey with a restaurant career?!’
She’d frown on my ambition.
She’d say, ‘It’s a silly notion -
for a temp job it’s very *****,
advertised in Christmas Food Review.
There’s no future in it.’ She’d stress,
‘And don’t be so easy to impress,
at having a country named for you.’
‘You? - flying geometrically with geese?’
she’d say, ‘Always in V – why not S or F?
You’re one of those rebel kind of guys.
You should think for yourself !’
Yes, I would consider being for a day
A parrot with exotic plumage, but how
Tiring being always made to say
Oh, who’s a pretty boy now?
The real nightmare would be if I
Was an ostrich, ( that cannot fly).
The guys sit around chugging bird-beer
Boasting of chicks they’ve held dear
And tales of diving and soaring -
But my earthbound tail is boring.
They exclude me because I’m absurd -
I’m not a real bird…..a bird’s bird.
No if there is reincarnation later,
I want to be a penguin, a wearer
Of a smart suit like a posh waiter,
With a kick-ass name like Emperor.
Even mum would find the idea bold:
A story for other birds to be told.
Yes, my bird-cred card would be gold,
Enjoying the Antarctic cold.
Two Silly Fools (at the coffee shop)
The shop was full
Only one seat to spare
Excuse me sirs, can I have a chair?
Why yes they said, smiles filled the air
They happened to be poets the same as me
Politely I asked, may I read a verse of thee?
They both rather meekly said
"If you really insist"
One said to me in such a small whisper
My poetry is not at all very good
As much as I wish it could and should
The other chimed in, is the same with me
I stared in surprise
Have I just met two of the dumbest fools?
I exclaimed in a manner rather short and abrupt
"You are the greatest fools I ever did see"
Rather shocked, they pushed back their chairs
I shouted sit; I am not done with my airs
You two fools better be quiet and listen
Cause I will say this but once, so I have written
Your poetry is of the highest caliber you see
You have the flow and the creative imagery
Darren and Rick need I say more?
Your hearts bleed poetry, is deep in your pores
Your poetry wakens the spirit in us all
If you want more you sure have some gall
Now writing as this, I wish it was me
For I look up to poets of such high degree
Now if I must tell you a truth to be told
Is me the fool, for being so bold
So now let’s sit and make if coffee for three
Of the happiest fools and great poets that be!
Notes: This was inspired by a chat I had with both Darren and White Wolf who for some bizarre and strange reason both doubted their talents and abilities as Poets. Needless to say, I gave them a word or two on getting those silly thoughts out of their heads! I find both of their poems to be diversified, well written, inspiring, contemplative and at times just plain fun to read. After all, it’s the read who is the final judge. I sincerely hope I have made them both smile!