Long Swords Poems
Long Swords Poems. Below are the most popular long Swords by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swords poems by poem length and keyword.
Have No Fear
When I was girl, in Catholic primary school,
I dared not question a thing, I thought how uncool!
But as I grew, I met immensely brilliant, guiding folk.
They gave my mind, atomic, gigantic welcome, jolts!
Those jolts still live and shine brightly in me today.
I never reverted again to create things in others’ ways.
And,,,so i no longer go sniffing like a pup for approval.
No pats on my head, no~ it is all outer drivel!
I feel like a bird, freed from a rusty, old cage..
I learned self-acknowledgement is truly God’s page!
Stand up for yourself, I am not kidding.
Writing to please others is a false and dull bidding.
Poets may avoid you, do count that as a huge win!
You were not created to be another’s poetry twin.
Make a difference with your valuable words…
Sometimes, they may have to be used as swords.
Stand up, be brave, we only go around life once
Stand for good, may your words,fill the air with a punch!
9/9/2025
The shield riders heading over the Dunlaven bridge,
They ride as swift as the wind,
already their weapons were ready,
they did glint, not, in the deepening shadow.
Ride to your fate Valkyrie,
shield maidens of the red,
shield riders of the city,
bring glory to your mighty Alahsar.
Four hundred and fifty Valkyrie,
they stream forth from golden gates,
turning to the left and right,
three hundred onto Badicha.
three hundred to Dunlaven bridge,
the final stroke from Alahsar,
death is streaming forth,
hateful screams fill the air.
One hundred and fifty shield riders,
they leave the four hundred and fifty,
heading for the Raven bridge,
Speed is now of the essence.
The hundred and fifty, they head to the right,
onto the plain of Badicha,
Alahsar's forces, taken by surprise there,
To glory or death.
Shield riders, three hundred,
they stream across Dunlaven bridge,
so close this bridge to the walls of Alahsar,
Go, fiery warriors.
Across the river, they stream,
the waters coming through a large culvert in the wall,
cool, refreshing waters, from the great white mountain,
ride on Valkyrie.
In the final stage,
the battle rages on,
dark forces never seem to reduce,
They die and yet their numbers seem to be the same.
What sorcery is this?
Bodies so tightly packed,
hardly room to move sword or spear, or axe,
the strength soon to lessen more.
The ground is being given once more,
stride by stride ground seems to be given,
the struggle for life is truly on,
the posture seems to be more of defencive.
Is this a lure for the enemy?
could it be that strength is truly depleting?
only time shall tell,
the posture changes from moment to moment.
One hundred and fifty shield riders,
they smash into the flank of the enemy,
swords and spears striking home,
HALT!
the retreat stops,
a final push,
the Arlagh's are halted,
"Walk In The Light!"
the dark man cries as the dice is rolled.
"Walk In The Light!"
the battle cry is taken up.
Now, my lords and ladies,
it is time for our tale to take a rest,
I must lubricate my throat,
we shall return to Alahsar soon.
We shall then see the outcome of the battle,
the bloody rain of Badicha's plain,
raise your horns to Alahsar's glory,
the song of Alahsar, the glory of a dream.
To Be Continued.
In Days of Robin Hood
In days of yore,
In the days of Robin Hood,
A merry band of outlaws
Rambled throughout Sherwood Forest
(Home of the Major Oak,
North of Windsor Castle,
And south of Hadrian’s Wall).
They dressed in Lincoln green
And whistled in the greenwood glades,
Arming themselves with daggers and swords,
Cudgels, quarterstaves, and longbows,
With which they used to rob from the rich
(Who took from the commoners, peasants, and serfs)
And then cheerfully gave to the poor.
Prince John of England was furious
That they would usurp his authority
And demanded that the Sheriff of Nottingham
Quell the adventurous company.
But to no avail could the Sheriff prevail
Against Robin Hood’s strength and guile,
Who traipsed merrily upon the King’s trails.
The yeomen knew they needed social structure,
Or they wouldn’t be able to live together.
To whom would they turn for judgment
When someone committed mischief?
Each to his or her own, God willing,
And so they were willing to pay the taxes
For some semblance of law and order.
But it was the king who grew too greedy
And demanded more than they could give
That threw the system out of kilter
And caused tempers to boil over,
Leading to bedlam, mayhem, and disorder.
But thanks to Robin Hood and his merry men,
And the barons of jolly old England,
They brought the tyrant King John to his knees
To seal the Magna Carta.
***
Note:
The “Magna Carta” was sealed at Runnymede (located twenty miles west of London, England) on June 15, 1215. The document was the first instance where the King of England agreed to be subject to the laws of the land.
“No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions…except by the lawful judgment of his peers. To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right of justice…”
Sometimes love just isn’t enough
Art is our way home to finding ourselves
We were blindfolded ballerinas. Swaying to the rhythm of our hearts breaking. We tippy
toed across a tight rope, looking for some sort of answer from dangerous lovers, like hope.
She the tigress and I the poetess brought together by similar circumstance
Oxycontin madness
With men who constantly chased after their addiction.
Placing importance over their next fix over our happiness.
We were resilient, goddesses of patience
Two ships, headed towards the rocky shore, we ignored the guidance of the lighthouse. We
used our hearts as and emotions to navigate blindly Feeling through the darkness.
Your mind will always be illuminating, when it is the darkest.
Wearied travellers....
Of Love.... and Life. Let the wind carry you through the pain like a kite.
Grab onto your easels like a lifeline. Your paintbrush will be your escape, with each
brush stroke. Simple little joy, a hug when you need it for your ego
Art is the essence of self love......so love yourrrrrrrrr self.
Let your soul take a walk,
Your mind will be your deliverance to freedom, unlocking the key to your eternal kingdom.
Press the paint between your palms, become one with the medium.
Our poetry is the closet thing to Touching god.
Allah, Buddha, Jesus Christ, Ishvara, Yahweh, and all the Hindu dieties
I worship thee on my KNEES for enlightening me, granting the gift of this serenity
We are the Irises that still flourish after the avalanche
Diamond thick skin Heroines
we write...........................
To set off a bouquet of explosively delicious fireworks, in the creation of our thoughts
Exploding magnificent technicolours into the deep recesses of our minds
Completely liberated from our insecurities
We press our pens together like swords , all for one and one for all
An everlasting oath to protect what we lost
Our artistic Souls
Form:
There was a bale of hay! given
Realizing deals were made in Heaven
Ensuring the Love was spread over Even
Everlasting Life became four Seasons
A ;Pale Donkey smiled with eYes of reason…
Sun poured out in all directions as a
;Precious sWord became intentions
Ensuring Love in all dimensions and
Nearing the Light, this Writer mentions…
Color tHere in what’s re.Written…
A Loving ;DOn. called a Write. SenseiTion
Never fear, tHere come Elation…
...
When the Lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say,
“Come!” I looked and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and
Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to
kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.
sWords, … Mistaken….. — Revelation 6:7-8 NIV
Form:
(“Shangri-La Merit Badge”, 2011, original oil
"Kalachakra Mandala", from Enlightenment Thangka, Nepal)
Today I got a letter from Shambhala
But it wasn’t the letter I expected
For being from the magical kingdom
It required a bit of translating
To read between the lines
To see what the king really had to say.
Shambhala may seem a bit exotic
But it’s a place I like to keep a pulse on
Having been introduced in youth
One Three Dog Night long ago,
Then as chance would have it years later
First on a trip in Boulder it reached out to me
From its turquoise blue portal poster
Then later still, Dalai Lama’s empowerment
Bade me enter again the hidden kingdom’s
All encompassing Wheel of Time
To commit to become a reserve
In the army of the Lord
In a future when the forces of evil storm
The gates of what is in essence purely spiritual,
Beyond the grasp of the physical,
Yet apparently still vulnerable
To the forces of materialism in all its forms.
After all what happens when you enter the gates
Of Heaven with a bit of evil still in your heart?
I suppose you become a fallen angel
And join the ranks of all the rest of us on Earth
Fallen, but fired up with a lingering vision
Of what almost was and can still be.
And so back here on Earth you join the tide
Of the religious chanting “Allahu Akbar”,
Which of course is true,
Or the falsely educated more secularly minded
Who under their rainbow flag
Just want all the old ways destroyed
To give rise to something new
Unable to stop while they are ahead
Stop before the tide carries them to the walls
That guard the halls of pure and shining Shambhala.
But when the waves break,
Waves of no longer huddled masses
With their swords and stones, rockets and drones
How will the light of Shambhala then shine?
Like the fires at the end of time.
And where will you be in this great battle?
On the side you pledged your heart
When you first heard the song.
(11/17/25)
A Nook and a Storybook
What would I give for a nook and a book
to cuddle and snuggle and longingly look
the pages unfolding as I listened to
the comforting song of a fast flowing brook.
Oh, if it had pictures, a faraway place,
mysterious villains, a dark alley chase
I’d pick up the phone and I’d call in sick
disappear in the mist, leave not a trace.
What would I do to be captured by words
impressed into service by pirates with swords,
adrift without wind, current silently slow
half crazed crew pacing the sun-baked dried boards.
Perhaps of an evening a stroll on the beach
salt, surf, and moonlight on ebony skin
passion full sated on cooling hard sand
last dream of the shanghaied seagoing men.
What would I give for a storybook nook
I’d offer it all the time that it took
to take me away to wherever it would
leave me enraptured by a murmuring brook.
4/15/2016
submitted to – What I Would Give For A Nook And A Storybook – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Eve Roper
In my hand the ink drips,
commotional emotions at large,
patches has failed.
Nails and swords, pierce the hearing ear,
fussed drops of lethal dose,
push me to the edge,
for adrenaline chokes my conscience,
lead tracks,
Perforation of daunted untrampled dark corners of my mind,
diffuse me from this dungeons,
Let the near and afar witness
and preserve my presence
for days have surpassed others unrecorded,
I'm poetic ink,
unleash and infiltrate the soul
for the present to inherit the marks,
Was just an ink, they said,
Lil to their knowledge,
This is a force to be reckoned with,
if today imparts none,
Tommorow might be in vain,
shallow and void,
the ink drips.
Feed the soul for the mind is unguided and clouded by rage, assert the uncertain, pull me closer for the desire is ravenous.
Hand me the cannon, mass distraction at need.
I blow the missiles my presence is not for the immediate
but the wild and beastly,
human essence at awe,
look and listen,
read and understand,
this ink echoes, wisdom
and intellectualism.
breed the inbred.
My crime would not go unpunished,
spilling the ink is my servitude,
don't wanna account for my silence,
for I'm delegated,
to empty this ink before my return,
dust to dust, ash to ashes,
none must pass here before bowing
and acknowledging the spillage,
for I am poetic ink.
#Poetic_Ink
They guarded the tomb with a firm grip on their swords;
no thieves, intruders or followers would be allowed nearby
as they executed Pilate's order with very vigilant eyes;
three long days passed and still they heard the women's cry!
Jesus had told His disciples He would be resurrected,
and the prophecy would be fulfilled on the first dawn's gleams;
Thomas doubted it, the others believed what Jesus had said,
but who was more fearful of it than the powerful Pharisees?
A dazzling light blinded the drowsy soldiers with chilly bone,
" Awe in the Roman soldiers' eyes...a bright angel rolled away
the heavy sepulcher's stone! " Who has stolen my Master's body?
Mary Magdalene asked him, " Christ has risen! Go and tell everyone! "
Copyright ( c ) 2015 by Andrew Crisci
In a long-forgotten time, when the sky stretched like an endless canvas of dreams,
Poets were magicians, weaving incantations with words, more powerful than swords or crowns,
More eternal than the whispers of fallen gods, lost in the abyss of oblivion.
I remember, or perhaps it’s the memory of the wind, its whispers bringing buried memories,
They stood on green hills, under the violet sky, their voices echoing through the cosmos,
Each word was a spell, each rhyme a thread of light,
In an infinite tapestry, woven with dreams and unspoken desires,
A blue thread for sorrow, a red thread for longing, a white thread for hope,
Oh, how I remember, though it was before I was born,
Or perhaps I was there, a speck of dust in a corner of the universe,
Watching as the poets rose, soaring above the gods,
And their words becoming stars, guiding lights for lost souls.
Princesses from tales wept at their verses,
Warriors laid down their arms, conquered by the pure magic of poetry,
And even the gods, in their cold heights, halted,
Listening to the songs that echoed from the heart of the earth.
But time, that ruthless thief, stole the power of the poets,
And the gods laughed, and the warriors forgot,
But in the depths of shadows, beneath stars that never ceased to shine,
The soul of the poets remained, waiting, dreaming, whispering.
And now, in the deep night, when the moon weeps silver tears,
I feel the magic returning, how the words come alive,
How the verses rise again, like an ancient, yet eternal flame,
And the poets, those soul magicians, will be powerful once more.