Long Sterner Poems
Long Sterner Poems. Below are the most popular long Sterner by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sterner poems by poem length and keyword.
In the beginning this boat was bare,
Greenest with infant's sinless stare;
Before soles more selfish than sane
Had trodden its dreary derelict main.
First to blacken its still-tiptop form
Were kith and kin as is sin's norm;
For if brother Cain won't Abel kill,
Which other bloodier maniac will?
Then hopped wild neighbors' feet
Onto this boat's floor sterile neat;
And like schythes thrust to the hilts,
Hurt this bud that yet writhing wilts.
Nor were classmates' limbs and toes
Any kinder to this vessel's prior woes;
Hasty to sprain its ingenuous naiveté,
Sterner kilning did than fire dealt clay.
There finally was that first-ever flame,
Wooled to the wrist like a mild dame;
Which vulpine swill in flannels guised
Took I, and at last this boat capsized!
" Long be his journey to death! ", someone hollered
as he dragged his feet into the rising dust hotter than sand;
only a defeated and tormented soul would have admitted
looking ahead," Much innocent blood I have shed! "
Gazing sterner than a warrior or merciless king,
he was fearless of what was prophesied by twilight
to him in a temple veiled in crimson and white...
although he claimed his usurped power with a ring.
His palace adorned with ionic, glittering columns
of pure gold stripped off Troy's temples...they were carved by the hands
of slaves, but their phantoms pitifully stared at him begging for their return
to the sun-gilded murals so that they would breath once again.
" Alexander the Great is coming from the North
with a mighty army, even the stones make away
for his conquest as he holds up up his victorious sword...
let him in your city, open the gate and obey! "
A few days passed, then the young conqueror appeared
wearing a shining, silver armor as he gloriously towered
over fortified Athens, the city that later will be conquered by mighty Rome,
and resuming his gallop, he hailed," Long be his journey to death, let him roam! "
"Fall seven times and stand up eight." — Old Proverb
"You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore." — Christopher Columbus
There dawn full oft an undiscerning hour
When every charter yieldeth unto mist,
And Confidence, relinquishing her power,
Must sue to Faith where Reason doth desist.
Yet Providence, whose counsels never sleep,
Keeps hidden harvests for the souls that keep.
Then from antiquity there soundeth clear
The ancient benison no years abate:
"Fall seven times and stand up eight."
Not as a charm to banish grief or fear,
But as the covenant whereby we prove
That steadfast hearts outlive the wounds they move.
For overthrow is but the sterner school
Wherein the unconquered spirit learns her art;
Adversity, though tyrannous in rule,
Refines the adamant within the heart.
The oak's dominion, vast against the sky,
Was once a hope no eye could descry.
Thereafter comes another sovereign word,
Whose summons biddeth timid spirits soar:
"You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore."
No mariner hath any kingdom won
Who hugged the haven fear had sanctified;
New continents await the faithful tide.
For every noble vocation asketh this:
Some cherished certainty must be resigned;
No higher benediction comes amiss
Unto the soul still fettered in the mind.
The eagle claimeth not empyreal air
Until it trust the currents hidden there.
Thus have these venerable sayings wrought
A jurisprudence graven on my breast:
That every trial beareth secret thought,
And every tempest laboureth our best.
The darkest vigil, faithfully endured,
Leaves inward realms for evermore secured.
Therefore I leave one sentence of mine own,
Not born of ease, but long affliction's fire:
"Whoso keepeth faith with the highest good, though every visible warrant perish, shall discover that Providence hath already builded the bridge whereunto his steadfast feet were called."
Balcony moods
Morning offering;
Song of bird duo
By the yard edge
Bird frolic twitter;
A cheery quartet
Song fills dawn
Sunlight slants;
Window view sparkles
Last night's rain
Wet grounds betray;
Uneven footsteps traced
Joy after sorrow
Traces of old grief;
Ushered out abruptly
Old sepia memories
Silver nitrate etchings;
Old time photography
Haunting faces preside
Mother and father;
Yesterday's courtesy
Today flings
Doors wide open;
Strangers in paradise
Prayers on altars
Everywhere we go;
Living burying the dead
Can you hear
Sounds of old strains;
Voices calling in echoes
This life we live
Takes sterner stuff;
Hope feeds effort
Do you notice
A common melody;
Swirling time after time
Mundane routines
Calls time for after shocks;
Trauma feeds norm
When I listen
Do I hear
Sounds in the silence
Trip to market
Buy and sell;
Barter for things
Hate is fear exposed
Let love attend trade;
Poverty lives painful hatred
Look up and see
Dawn in a flash;
Insight reveals truth
Leon Enriquez
15 July 2014
Singapore
Fallen heroes
By Michelle Morris
02/10/2021
It's so sad, the fallen heroes;
Those we once looked up to, so high;
From pedestals, they topple down
To the hell created storms...
No use trying to justify
Political gains and greed fulfilled;
Until we remove the blinkers,
All we see is smoke and mirrors...
From frosty glances to subpoenas;
Empty rooms filled with promises;
Society idolised weapons,
Against our ignorance held...
It's so sad, the fallen heroes,
But we realise that they never were;
Imagination all figment,
Of wishes turned to stone...
Liars and cheaters run for office,
Why could it not be the decent ones?
Vying for control and power,
These dark forms in lofty seats...
Common people don't come together;
Never learning from the past;
History on repeat obsessions,
Until humanity defeats itself...
Money is good on paper,
If backed by worthy pillars;
You can't eat it at the table,
When you're choking on your meal...
Water and air is precious to us,
Limited within our sphere;
Until we can work together,
We'll be our biggest threat...
What we need is new minted heroes,
Made from sterner stuff than fluff;
Prepared to tackle all the challenges,
That mankind has to face...
Until we reset our values,
Honour that which is foundation based;
We'll continue to be thwarted,
Because we learn the lessons too late...
© Michelle Morris, 2021
He, a seeker after Truth, set out
on an audacious journey
to see his old master
with a handful of blooms
he paused before the open door.
from deep meditation
the squatted figure, looked up.
in a trance, he saw the silhouette of a man.
on gazing intent, emerged distinct
his former disciple, left long ago
seeing his hands laden with flowers,
the master smiled a recognizing smile.
in close surveillance, the penetrating eyes
gauged him through and through.
the master’s pursed lips opened ajar.
from him, arose a single word-
‘’ Drop”
gentle but firm was its timbre.
he dropped the flowers, one by one.
in sterner voice, the master said,
‘’ Drop”
all at once, he let the remaining blooms
go off his clasp
and down they fell around his feet.
folding empty hands, he stood,
waiting for the master’s behest
after an eerie silence,
once more came the hefty command--
‘’ Drop”
stupified, the disciple queried-
‘’ what more should I drop? “
eyes emitted sparks!
‘’ not the flowers, but your ego”-
instant was his reply.
a spear stuck deep into his self.
as by a whirl wind, his body tottered.
he felt a deep twirl inside.
unfastening the hinges
of the imperious shutters,
a boulder rolled down,
dropping to the ground with a thud.
back home, the disciple gleefully walked,
the clogged fog clearing from his head
ego shorn, here now reborn
in a state of divine transcendence
feeling as weightless as a feather
~Placed First~
8. Jan. 2022
This or That.Vol.9. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
~Placed Fifth~
In 'Ego Shorn, Here Now Reborn' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by-Unseeking Seeker
Before the cedar learn'd the speech of steel,
Or heartwood yielded to the carpenter,
Its argent rings kept covenant with the weal
Of thawing springs and every pilgrim star.
No bough begrudged the tempest what it took;
Each wound became another living book.
Then came the hands that quarried trunk from loam.
One sought a boundary where lambs might rest;
One sought a crossing, calling strangers home
Across the torrent's vehement unrest.
The timber neither gloried nor complain'd:
It served the purpose into which 'twas grain'd.
Long years I honour'd bridges for their grace,
And deem'd all fences born of timid fear,
Till autumn, in a lichen-haunted place,
Unveil'd a quieter arithmetic there.
An ancient rail, half-vestured now in moss,
Kept not one flower, yet shelter'd all from loss.
Beyond the hill a broken arch was thrown,
Its patient span relinquish'd to the stream.
The river mourn'd no less, yet journey'd on;
It would not counterfeit a perish'd dream.
Some crossings, once unfaithful to their end,
Grow holier by refusing to pretend.
Then first I saw the oak had held no will
To part the meadow or unite the plain.
No fibre cherish'd malice, good, or ill;
No grain distinguish'd blessing, loss, or gain.
The tree gave only what its nature could;
The hand alone interpreted the wood.
I search'd my heart and found, with inward shame,
How many fences I had call'd a scar,
Though they preserv'd what tenderness became;
How many bridges bore me from my star.
For every road I should have left untrod
Had ask'd my feet to wander out of God.
There are estrangements mercy ought to heal—
Proud silences no sunrise should forgive.
There are departures only fire can seal,
Lest dying falsehood counterfeit the live.
Discernment is the rarer, sterner art:
To know which timber waits within the heart.
So now I bless neither the flame nor nail,
Nor praise the wall, nor crown the spanning frame;
I ask but this when love and judgement fail:
What keeps another soul more true to flame?
For wood remembers only how to give.
It is the hand that teaches it
whether to divide—
or let another live.
Steve works in a call center
to earn an honest bob
but some days he can't believe
the words that flow from some folks gob
They cus and curse
Then eff and blind -
you'd not believe your ears
and if he wasn't made of sterner stuff
he'd leave the room in tears!
I said to him when folks are rude
to remember the golden rule
Just imagine them sitting in the nude
that way you'll keep your cool!
So when they rant and scream and shout
He thinks of his meager pay
but still tries his best to sort them out
and ends the call with 'have a nice day'!
Posted with the kind permission of Stephen Pennell
10~16~16
The lush fishing village of Kaloo-Nong
Rich with folklore, dance, and song
Natives thrive in work and play
Through joy and sorrow, day by day
When young Tahina feels lost, tense, and blue
The villagers know just what to do
In the sacred woods they sing tales of yore
Soon Tahina is as happy as she was before
In New York, young Mandy feels anxious, and blue
Her parents know exactly just what to do
An emergency room doctor, sterner than kind
writes a prescription to calm her mind
Months, then years pass, as friends fall away
In a well of despair, Mandy dreads every day
Abandoned and lost with tormenting sensations
Doctors continue to change and adjust medications
Before the first siren tore the sky, there was the stone,
Cool and patient, holding the sun's old memory of warmth.
Before the tracer's arc, the river's constant drone,
A hymn for roots, not for the crumbling of a home.
We poets have filled our pages with the human cry,
With righteous rage, with elegies for shattered bone.
But what of the olive tree that watched the children die,
Whose gnarled bark now cradles shrapnel, all alone?
Listen. Beneath the thrum of drones, a deeper sound:
The soil's slow breath, the patient turn of seasons underground.
It is not peace—peace is a human, fragile art—
But an older, sterner silence, ready to restart.
This is the poem I bring you: do not write of guns,
But of the single seed that splits the tank's cold treads.
Do not just mourn the smoke that blots out fathers, sons,
But chart the stubborn green that threads the riverbeds.
For when the last report has echoed into space,
The argument of vines will still reclaim this place.
They will not speak of victory, or draw a line,
But simply, quietly, design a different vine.
And we must learn from this—to be not just a voice
That shouts an endless protest to the deafened air,
But to be like water, wearing down the noise,
And like the silent, growing things that choose to still be there.
So let our verses be the root, not just the rose.
The quiet, after, that a shattered world someday will know.