Long Tower Poems
Long Tower Poems. Below are the most popular long Tower by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tower poems by poem length and keyword.
She lived in an Edenic world, a paradise,
this child-like virgin of only sixteen years.
Moonlight glowed in her virtous blue eyes,
unaware that life could fill them with tears.
A budding beauty whose petals were tender,
and fragile were her wings, not yet able to fly.
Fallen from grace when she chose to surrender,
for the loss of her purity, she had reason to cry.
Robert Frost wrote, 'Nothing Gold can Stay.'
His metaphor for innocence is a poignant line.
Whether her naivete was given or taken away,
it can never be restored. For it, she can only pine.
Child-like she will be no more; as a plucked flower
whose petals have fallen. Lost are her angelic wings.
No longer an innocent maiden kept in a castle tower.
'Oh, to be a child again,' the mournful song she sings.
At first I wondered if all things have been said
already, spent
by poets of the past. They stole our words.
We found them stashed. We rearranged, often
deranged the lines with slash marks and nonsense.
Death was pretty back then
before we hid, behind
the nettles of windows and doors.
The lowering of a casket, not too many urns.
Burning the night
oil and the sound of ravens -
a door knocker that eerily caws.
The cause of writing strong with true feelings
that crawl up one’s spine, teeth that deeply plunge
into the carotid. The festering of sores
Upon palms and heels. Worn
out pages with feather quills and ink blots
cold and alone in the night squats.
The tender rendering of a seagull and a ghost.
A captain that is bearded and robust. The tales
of blind mice and braided hair; and children
with no coded habitat. They curl up
at your feet, next to the roaring fire
of your speech and devour each word
like curds and honey. Honey,
that is sweet. You buzz with excitement
as you leap off each cliff, hang-gliding.
The tummies of development,
in the youth, filled. Likewise their mouths
form oohs and ahhs; and good girls and boys
laugh and weep. They kick the dust
as they follow their own paths home -
imagination goes wild like a frenzy of bees,
their nest disturbed with a poking branch.
The lustful sweet tooth, aflame - a story
takes shape climbing a lighthouse or tower
into the ears, mouths, eyes and brain.
Already spent, nonsense! Say what you have
to say, from sun to sun. Poet speak!
3/19/2023
I am not an American
But I have got the hump
Not with all Americans
Mainly with D J Trump.
He has muddled my thinking.
And turned my reasoning upside down,
And wiped the smile from my face,
Replacing it with a frown.
He has an enormous ego,
One that all can see
Cult supporters follow everywhere he goes,
And there is no more incredible leader than he.
He talks a load of nonsense,
That his followers believe.
His way of Presiding
It is impossible to conceive,
A privileged life is all he has known,
Perhaps this is why
He acts like a King without a throne.
He sings and dances,
And makes silly gestures when on stage
He hypnotises and "intrances"
Some others are enraged
Through his manipulation and power over some
That's why most American Republicans,
Look sad and highly strung.
Who can blame them when it's plain to see
All D J Trump is concerned with is Me Me Me.
All he is concerned with is money and power,
He doesn't stop conniving while sitting in his Ivory Tower.
Counting all the cash
That he takes from his cronies
An enormous stash.
D J Trump, your reign is about to end,
People are gossiping about you and
Say you have gone around the bend
Around the bend, that road is mighty long
Mental Institution or prison cell
Where do you belong?
Note
Since when has intrance become an archaic word,
I thought (in trance) explained itself perfectly.
Bob Dylan's Suicide
A song on JFK Assassination
Like a Rolling Stone,
I Want You, Blowin' In The Wind,
Hurricane.
Mr. Tamborine Man, Just Like A Woman,
It Ain't Me Babe
Tangled Up In Blue
Visions Of Johanna
Every Grain of Sand
Jokerman, You Ain't Goin' Nowhere.
Shelter From The Storm
Maggie's Farm, Tonight I'll Be Staying Here,
The Times Are A Changing
All Along The Watch Tower, Things Have Changed,
A Simple Twist of Fate
Idiot Wind, Knockin' On Heaven's Door,
Dignity, It's Aright, Ma
Desolation Row: Murder Most Foul.
by,
Martin Braun
3/30/2020
Father I was a sinner
Been one since the beginnings
Now been redeemed-received better
As I am letting
Allowing your power
Father your mine high tower
I’m not perfect Lord
God you don’t make no mess
I am bless, I confess no longer I resist
I come I listen unto your Holy messages
Hallelujah
Father I am a sinner
Yet now I am a winner
With new beginnings
As I’m letting allowing your sweet, sweet spirit
Come o’ver me
You Lord did die on the for me
Father you kind sweet power
My life, my love my blossoming flower
I’m not perfect Lord
God you don’t make no mess
I am bless, I confess no longer I resist
I come I listen unto your Holy messages
Hallelujah
12/16/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2020
I'm sitting in the garden
With my small son on my knee
He looks up at me with big brown eyes
And says “Tell me about Granda's tree”
My father planted a tree
In nineteen forty two
He nurtured it and hadn’t bargained
On just how big it grew
When I was just seven years old
I had a love of climbing trees
Many times mum put plasters
On my bloodied and skinned knees
I can remember one day
Wearing my new party dress
Peering in through the window
A grubby bedraggled mess
I’d climbed as high as I could go
Then heard a quite loud crack
The branch it snapped in two
And I landed on my back
I’d excelled myself on this occasion
You could say I’d gone the whole hog
I’d landed on a little offering
Left by next doors dog
I remember as a little girl
My father built me a house in the tree
A sturdy wooden house with windows
Especially for me
When I was in my tree house
I could be almost anywhere
In a tropical jungle
Or in a cave hiding from a grizzly bear
Hanging onto my rope ladder
With a plastic cutlass on my hip
I could be looking for buried treasure
My tree house a pirate ship
Underneath the carpet
In the middle of the floor
My father had lovingly made me
A little brass-hinged trap door
Whenever I got fed up
Of being stuck inside
I’d open up that trap door
And go straight down the slide
Sometimes I would stand
For maybe half an hour
And pretend I was a princess
Imprisoned in an ivory tower
Some days I’d be a cowgirl
On a wild west ranch
And sometimes I’d pretend to be
A monkey swinging from a branch
One day I picked some flowers
And mum asked what they were for
I said “they are for my cottage
With roses around the door”
My son is looking wistful
Then he smiles at me
He says “mummy I would love
To see my Granda’s tree”
Tears come into my eyes
My son’s smile turns into a frown
I say “The tree's no longer there
The new owners chopped it down”
My son says it is sad
That the tree's no longer there
But no-one can destroy the memories
That my son and I share
I’ve heard people say heroes are getting harder and harder to find
You may call me idealistic
But I find that message to be too gloomy, too dark and much too pessimistic.
I found my first heroes in Fairy Tales
I admired their courage, their integrity…their power…
They were the ones unafraid to face the dragons…to save the princesses in the tower.
My next heroes were sports figures…which made it a lot of fun
They passed for the winning touchdown, shot the winning basket
or scored the winning run.
Next, I found my heroes in the pages of books about history…
Their names were Abraham Lincoln, Benjamin Franklin and John F. Kennedy.
But when I learned more about my heroes…I was astounded by what I found
Abe couldn’t control his children, Ben abandoned his family
and Johnny fooled around.
One day I realized to find my heroes…I didn’t have to look very far…
My dad was a postal worker and my mom…a nurse in an ER.
These are the people who loved me…whose inspiration and guidance I sought
which, to me, was more important than if they slew any dragon or not.
I found my heroes didn’t have to save the entire world or make the winning score…
they could be a nurse and a postal worker who lived on the other side of my front door.
Yes, I’m proud to profess in the final stanzas of this now lengthy rhyme
The heroes I once went looking for…had been with me all the time.
To those who say heroes are harder to find…I say…not in my book
because the keys to finding heroes…is knowing where to look.
Tell me, tell me whispering woods
What is the secret of man’s youth
Life and death is in the power of the tongue
This is what all the wise men have sung
Tell me, tell me whispering woods
What is the secret of man’s wisdom
Was it not Solomon who was the wisest of all
The holy fear of the Lord kept him from many a fall
Tell me, tell me whispering woods
Why are bad days so many and good days few
The earth is groaning under pangs of new birth
Till evil runs its course there will be no mirth
Tell me, tell me whispering woods
When will be the day of the Lord
When confusion and contradiction shout from their tower
And men of God are made to shiver and cower,
When the path of truth will be concealed
And crops no more will give their yield
When the whispering woods will shed its leaves
And no more whisper is heard in trees
In 1773 the sun never set
on the British Empire so goes the story
now the 'Teatime Islands'
crumbs of Great Britain’s former glory
but as the moon rose over the White Cliffs of Dover
standing guard at the Gateway to England
ramparts the enemy to forestall
if the ravens left the Tower of London
the kingdom itself then would fall
and Britain would rule Gibraltar
one of the Pillars of Hercules
so long as macaques inhabit the Rock
another of man's legendary absurdities
but should those Barbary apes depart
the British too will soon follow
and the Overseas Territory come apart
yet to save the primate population
Winston Churhill did insist
in the early days of World War II
reinforcing British rule would persist
to ensure the troop replenishment
he issued a directive September 1944
for five such females brought from Morocco
to maintain the number at twenty-four
and so it seems my friend in the end
the continuance of this green and pleasant land
is in the balance and totally dependent on keeping
a certain breed of bird and Old World monkey on hand
long ago 'twas colonel brownes' folly
to build a tower in a wood
just for employment and to be jolly
had he known, surely he never would
the folly still stands with no penitence
yet gypsy girl Sally was locked in there
imprisoned without sustinence
left to die without any care
no birds nest now in this woodland
flying by with no song it seems
many see Sally's ghost first hand
and hear her piercing screams
a road winds through this wood now
the darkness chills you to the bone
eight fatal car crashes, not known how
but it is said Sally is no longer alone
UP TO 20 LINES Poetry Contest
Sotto Poet
APRIL 28, 2023