Long Tempered Poems
Long Tempered Poems. Below are the most popular long Tempered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tempered poems by poem length and keyword.
Would you crusade to remote regions
in search of that timeless tomb, the one made of seasalt & sandstone,
to towns tempered by the terror of war, windswept with worry,
Do prayer calls of the Jihadist singe the comfort breathing in your books of traditions,
could the Koran summon an instinct of journey in the feet of your hopes,
perhaps the Bardo Thadol a simmering shout from the monastery of one's monsters
suppressed in cells of selfless sorrow, daring repressed in reminiscence of rectitude,
in the Old Testament do you find aged allergies or fertile figments of prophets' pennies,
saviors in the center of gravity cinching the flinching surfacing in proverbs proofing
along the borders of the desserts chilling in the kitchen of your cares,
Maybe in front of the Wailing Wall you'd find dust entreating you to become a martyr
for the charm of morning, on your knees amid the Caaba perhaps sand jinies will jest,
in the midst of the tree grip of Angkor Watt the tongue of first life might muse of miracles
sewn into the sackcloth of parents' aspirations, conceptions wrought from the wanted,
take it to the sky, take it to the soil, take it to the core, let saints keep score,
take it 'till there is no more -
J.A.B. %
Early/mid afternoon May 22nd, 2020...
Raindrops percolate Perkiomen Valley watershed
pleasant reprieve versus quite warm temperatures
yesterday found yours truly averse attempting re:
ding outside, the secluded alcove visible looking
thru single bedroom window here, once upon time
former Schwenksville Elementary School, now re:
purposed Highland Manor apartment alphanumeric
unit B44, 2day precipitation lightly palpitating terra
firma quenching thirsty flora and fauna donning viz
age fifty plus shades of lush green meteorological
regular phenomena offsets prospect where drought
would deprive biota requisite liquid nourishment
speculation June, July, and August promise triple
digits essentially forcing creature comfort ala air
conditioning as climate control to weather extreme
hot temperatures linkedin with global warming, a
grim prospect lately tempered courtesy coronavirus
COVID-19 inexplicably temporarily giving respite
the Earth atmosphere purportedly less toxic since
countless manifold modes of industrial production
lockdown subjected since employees in quarantine
to thwart contagion infecting adjacent areas, thus
impacting transportation hub, no substantial traffic
most rerouted thru information superhighway data
bits and bytes sent to and fro, hither and yon, until
"green light" signalled for businesses to reorient
themselves to alternate paradigm, hoop fully more
eco friendly less dependent upon fossil fuels, where
greenhouse gases deplete ozone layer compromising
delicate balance offset severely trending toward by
Yoda - star wars pitched battles witnessing galactic
empires armed 2 teeth with supersonic weapons mass
destruction spelling demise of human civilization
think brinkmanship whereby within eyeblink en-
tire realm encompassing eastern, western, northern
southern, brethren and cistern multifarious legacies
snuffed out without a trace extinguishing gamut of
living things great and small, perchance world wide
web overtaken with radiation resistant critters, an
unrecognizable changing of the guard when no pry
mates abled (Cain not) wrest control against giant
size carnivorous entities deliciously feast carrion
until nothing but lovely bleached (bomb shelled)
bones scattered across the pock marked terrestrial
landscape - mush room 4 opportunistic organisms.
You don’t feel upon lying
So you sing the song of the dying
Sunday afternoons
Pastors choose reign in a spiritual doom
The sun plasters we coons
Stand out and fade faster with the moon
I bid you the same old static and blues
The one always in favor of tempered news
The trail of adventures and rules
We don’t heal upon crying
So we sing the song of the dying
The highways haunts you
Night sky’s taunt the blue
All life wants from you
Is the truth
The secrets they’re telling you
One just knows not what to do
Feel like you want to cry
Coincidentally you realize
It would be better to die
We don’t feel upon lying
So we sing the song of the dying
I’ve given away myself in every song
Driven the bars last liquor home
No sympathy for an aging man
For I cannot feel your tears
Upon my rough hands
My scared palms
My irrelevance
bared in chapters of Psalms
Until my ending is calmed
In the vault of sorrows, the lights are dim,
Memories dangle stiff, stark, cold and grim.
In glass-fronted vaults of remains half-dead,
Haunting to avenge losses, regrets and dread.
Bitterness is grit, dust and rust—
Metal relics wrapped in tempered crust.
Too sharp to hold, too old to appeal,
Scars embalmed, behind bars of steel.
Fur skins and feathered bones, long dead.
Eyes once bright, are now glass instead.
Stuffed with pride, stitched in despair,
They rage within riles, gasping for air.
Old garments show arguments, long of old,
With threadbare cuffs, and buttons of gold.
They're sour of fit, and hung too tight,
To ever again leave shadows in bright sunlight.
Such bitterness belongs in museum displays.
Where you can visit it on sad, rainy rue days.
To see such hateful feeling-disheveled, dismembered.
Covered in dust, to be forgotten, not remembered.
Lock it up, behind the glass, don’t let it breathe,
Bitterness will bloom, when we fail to believe.
It should be kept under lock and key.
Where all such sour sorrows, are meant to be.
Meant to be, Meant to be-!
That's the key, That's the key!
In smoky halls where echoes groan,
they carved the truths in tempered stone,
yet none recall the scribe who wrote—
a chap in boots and mismatched coat.
His quill was plucked from harpy's wing,
he’d hum while making corpses sing,
and in his book, no saints nor rules—
just jesters crowned as sacred fools.
He’d scrawl: “The Pharaohs danced in socks,”
“Atlantis sank for TikTok shocks,”
“The gods play poker, bluffing fate,”
and “Death’s quite fond of jam on plate.”
No funeral dirge, no sacred chant—
just tales of one ghostly aunt
who haunts her pub near Camden Town,
and downs her Guinness upside down.
In Chapter Twelve, he penned with flair:
“The soul’s a squirrel. It climbs. Beware
of preachers selling spirit glue,
and wizards who misplace their shoe.”
The elders scoffed, the prophets wept,
the choirboys fainted as they slept.
But underground, the rebels laughed
and toasted with their witchy draught.
He wrote of love, of wars, of tea,
of how the stars play hide and seek,
of time—“a dodgy landlord bloke
who always vanishes mid-smoke.”
The Book of Souls, they locked away,
filed under “Myths” in disarray.
But now and then, it starts to speak
when full moons twitch and reason leaks.
It sings not hymns, but punk and blues,
of afterlives in dancing shoes—
a book that breathes, that mocks control,
and dares to ask: Who owns the soul?
So if you find it, dog-eared, worn,
by alley bins or fields of corn,
read loud, and let your spirit troll—
for madmen may just save the soul.
I dwell amongst the byways of my past,
My heart unsettled in the present day,
Only in dreams am I correctly cast,
Performing in a happy ending play,
Where all the other players know their part,
And one, in truth, is closest to my heart.
The stage is set within a northern town,
Just one of many on the Great North Road,
The scene is grey and just a bit rundown,
With nature's blessings scantily bestowed.
Yet sweetly blooms a rose, as roses do,
And in my dreams, my love, the rose is you.
A cherry flowering midst the winter gloom,
Unruly clouds a windswept dance perform,
Upon the breeze, a summer-sweet perfume,
A rainbow vibrant in a sudden storm.
Unshared with you, they're seen as through a veil,
All joy is tempered, colours drained to pale.
When blessed sleep enfolds me in its arms
My half-life day is banished out of mind.
Your loving presence once more charms and calms,
As one forever, our two hearts entwined.
With youthful aspiration yet instilled,
Would that my waking hours were as fulfilled.
While sleeping
Why is it mornings, so far in the distance,
flowing from beyond tempered borders
on north facing bridges,
always seem to call in the midst of a dream
When sunrise illusions erase sleep
with mockingbird rhythms sung midst dew drops
lost in the confines of spring
with autumn fast approaching featuring
shadows stretched
Long silhouettes on the porch, weathered and beaming,
tapping the front door with frantic fingers,
calling in loud voices of new day charm,
yet quiet in the state of mind seen through blurry eyes
Still, a before smile, brought about yesterday
forces dimples once again in my cheeks
igniting the darkness with blue sky spotlights,
streaked of feathered beacons on pale white ceilings
Reminding me, the true dream I have found
actually lives in my daylight,
slipping around corners and window sill gaps,
finding me on the brink of now,
stumbling my way to where I long to be awake
For my true dream is you,
who I so desperately miss. . .
while sleeping
Good morning Soupers
Your courage unfettered by doubt or dismay
Your character tempered to battle display
Enlistment from spiritual beings on high
The question of conflict you chose to comply
Of youth, beauty you considered for naught
Consequence to the war which you fought
Liberation for France by the hand of your deed
A King has been crowned the English concede
Your passionate mission of promise so great
Now turns against you to consummate fate
Captured imprisoned, unwavering faith
Instructions of wisdom have ceased from the wraith
Heretic, witch, thus you're accused
Your judges convictions of principles abused
You dare to slap the church in the face
Your silence condemns them to their own disgrace
Sentenced to death and burned at the stake
Persecution content for their own prides sake
Furious bravery accomplished endeavor
Oh Joan...martyr, You will live forever
The far distance
I remember well the gone days we sat in the corner
of a restaurant for quasi-intellectuals talking about the book,
we were going to write, telling it like it was.
As the evening progressed, fueled by alcohol, we believed
in our uniqueness, come tomorrow.
Walking home, a rented room, the dream was fading
unmade bed, library book not handed, in shattered around
half read and dog eared.
The grey morning and the self-loathing of a misfit trying
to sleep a bit longer, overwhelmed by utter wretchedness.
The white fog of loneliness, cigarettes and coffee.
To escape, half of my life, I have lived in a country not mine
the morning is sunny, the solitude persists the illusion is
a stark reality tempered by mild weather.
No, there is no flight from oneself, but life is what it is.
But the dream continues; sad is the life of exile
Shroud of eclipse,
Where murmurs are cloaked in velvet firmament,
And valor clings to breath held tight-
The cosmos halts in reverence.
Shroud of eclipse,
Where enigmas thrum within spectral gleam,
And destiny reweaves its primordial thread-
A lone ember dares awaken.
Shroud of eclipse,
Where umbral trials forge tempered spirits,
And hope is clad in dusk-wrought steel-
The precipice of metamorphosis.
Ascension of glory,
From the sable clasp of night emerges the soul,
Its vision refined in light's retreat-
A conflagration reborn.
Ascension of glory,
The veil unravels, the hush is shattered,
And triumph, sovereign and incandescent
Devours the vestiges of darkness.