Long Vassal Poems
Long Vassal Poems. Below are the most popular long Vassal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vassal poems by poem length and keyword.
earth life dream sequence, unfolds as ordained
all we may choose, is manner of response
no sooner this truth, in us is ingrained
upright and joyous, will become our stance
this mind body vessel, make our vassal
too long we allowed tail to wag the dog
let us heed only the love pulse whistle
or else remain befuddled in a fog
save silence and stillness, there is no way
fervent prayer too works, holding focus
what matters is attention does not sway
poised steadfast along the divine locus
Any moment we choose, we can be free
All we need to do, is cease to worry
20-July-2021
The sun was setting, as it usually does
The town a ghost town, the main street all but silenced
The wind blowing leaves and dreams to and fro
The tension in the air was palpable
The few souls about all peering out shuttered windows
When in from the west, came a storm
Her name was Serena Storm,
They shivered in her wake, the poetess of dead lovers
Then over to the east side, riding in slow and steady
The grim reaper or so it seemed, hollowed eyes
Dead soul and dark mind, his side arm at the ready
The greatest duel in history, right here
In the town of Nowhere
The setting sun reflected of her dark long coat
The last tear drop, falling to its death in the dust
She stared ahead, face blank
Daring, with a glare, shoot me, shoot me, try
He dismounted his horse, called Heartless Soul
His eyes slits, staring down the curvaceous storm pacing untoward
His hand inside his coat, slowly pulling out a mickey
He belted down a shot or three,
In the town of nowhere
They both paced, hands at their side
Closer and closer, the saloon keeper
Not quite sure his bottle would be paid in full
Then as quickly at the sun set……
Vaso drew first.
The finest long black quill one ever saw
His other hand dropped his bottle
Magically a writing pad appeared
Serena drew second, pen at her side
The color of blood, and for good reason
She too tablet in hand, putting ink to paper
As they both furiously wrote
In the town of Nowhere
Hearts were murdered
The meaning of life was hanged not long after
Love was beheaded
The main street a river of blood
A storm of tears washing away crimson desires
An empty vassal, Vaso’s insides already dead
Dropping his pen, he pulled out his sword of mourning
The duel to end, as he lopped off his own head
She dropped paper and pen to the ground
She faced down the grim reaper, and it’s he who is dead
The only one to know, his name was Arthur
King of the dark, ruler of lost dreams
In the town of Nowhere
The poetic duel of the century
Both won and lost
Long ago
arminius a German vassal prince, offered bait.' Of the best. More
Land in Germanica off to their west.' Two legions decamped
And were led on their way, by this dastared arminius villian
Of that day' his warriors were waiting in undergrowth thick
Druids there many, made potions; chanted and waved sticks'
Publius and two legions.' Were slaughtered en'masse nailed on to the oak trees.' What can we draw; from such a pass?
I gather the (dark gods of nature) were sated: with gore?
Did the havests grow better.' Was the weather more sure?
Quick snapshot of horror, 1940's again war.' Oak leaves on
ss lapels, gets my attention for sure! fast forward to our time
And 'a green planet to save' claus a swiss again pagan' and the
commitment 'to grave' measures to protect all nature at
Any costs.' Even introducing con-vid (and the intervention)
Though human lives could be damaged and lost.' Yet the the
Back drop is an area of 'green has emerged since around
The naughties? Well so I have heard? Twice the size of the
U S.' Will any experts concur.? Or show by a mapping' maybe
With a ( lectern chart and stick ?) Like we saw throughout
That con-vid ' the very thought of which; gets me sick.)
HARMLESS WASTE
-------------------------
Transuranium Elements
Sound is Produced when something
vibrates. Shockwaves in
the surrounding area.
toroidal and poloidal
magnetic fields.
Vacuum vassal, plasma
chamber
torus shaped
tokamak.
blanket system
coolant system
diagnosis
Plasma
Cryogenics
neutrons released from fission
two or more atoms
are forced together
to form a singular more heavy
nucleus
magnetic fields and lasers
after combing deuterium and
tritium to create helium
100 million degrees
tungsten metal is used to create the reactor.
atoms are invisible and turns into plasma
which too is also invisible.
In that similitude of spirit and gaze
I see much in you that you see in me,
for in me are your Arthurian ways -
old man, I am your son and proud to be.
In the dark days and darker nights of us
when the Angel of Death entered our home,
father, I saw in you a map and compass
but I was lost and destined to roam.
For in that we are all a vassal to age
no sceptre or mitre can set us free,
and no fealty can old time assuage
or rail against its synchronicity.
So it is in the time of tide and flow
between us there was ebb and distance,
yet I know I will miss you when you go
and hold dear the tides of least resistance.
Truly ever decreasing circles besot
the cognisance of what and who we are,
yet I am not fogged to what time begot
but wise to your end and your exemplar.
Wise to our earthly labours and pleasure,
and all that was ventured and lost or won
for insofar love is the true measure
I shall be its keeper when you are gone.
I have a son, and love him more I can’t -
he in time might forget you but I shan’t.
Alas, no mortal thing this world outlast
yet still the risen sun your shadow cast.
Written: October 2004
So many weep from pleasure or from pain
and raise their invocations to the sky.
I watch them from the corner of my eye.
Their exhibitions I would likely feign
to match expression shown when masses cry.
My eyes, instead, might blur. I gasp or sigh,
and sometimes I despond when under strain.
But rarely am I vassal to the guilt
that others I’ve observed are prone to claim.
Of slower-melting metal I was built.
By keeping cool, I suffer less from shame
than those who feel too much. They often wilt.
A gift or curse? I rarely feel to blame.
For Frank Herrera's WHAT MIGHT THEY FIND THERE
(I've noticed I do not suffer so much from feelings of guilt as some of my friends do. I think it has to do with basic personality types)
In seventeen sixty nine a child was born
in Corsica, Genoa's former vassal state.
Prior to his birth, his land had been war-torn,
Paoli's resistance did his birth predate.
At school, his geometrical talent was inborn,
and he was tutored by none other than Laplace.
For his accent, his peers at school laughed him to scorn,
but fortune would elevate him from grass to grace.
With his much older heartthrob he tied the knot;
much to the chagrin of his own dear family.
For the heart of Josephine he relentlessly fought,
and at Chateau de Malmaison they lived happily.
Later he would choose a military career
that would take him beyond the Corsican frontier.
France's revolution saw to his glorious rise,
when at Toulon, he took royalists by surprise.
To Egypt he led a dual expedition
of a military and scientific mission.
To France he returned and sacked the directory,
taking charge of the affairs of state and treasury.
Europe did contend with him in seven coalitions;
at Austerlitz he subjugated two nations,
at Marengo, Austria on her bended knees fell,
at Jena-Auerstadt, Prussia to victory bade farewell.
At Borodino, Russia met her nemesis,
as her vanquished forces saw their paralysis.
At Ligny, Blucher like a beaten canine fled
with the terribly smitten forces he once led.
Portugal's sovereign lord to distant Brazil ran,
when like an invincible lord he came to his realm.
The emperor he feared, and made no military plan;
thus he paved the way for him to ascend his helm.
But despite his triumphs, his weakness was exposed.
At Rolica, his troops a major set back saw.
From Leipzig he did to Elba's island withdraw,
from whence in 1815 he returned unopposed.
Russia's wintry plains did his grand armee deplete,
making his troops vulnerable to a future defeat.
After the famous battles in which he gloried,
his great ambition at Waterloo was buried.
A Wordsmith’s pen
Is mightier than the sword
For he can turn a tricky word
Into a verbal weapon
And win the day against the hoard
The words of the Bard
It’s not very hard
The turn of a friendly card
The changing of the old guard
The wicked witch is feathered and tarred
The sky above is dark and starred
It’s feeling out loud
The dancing of spirit abounds
The singing of the soul
The mind and body are whole
Although sometimes it makes no sounds
Manifestations of mental visions
Put to paper by steward, or vassal
On cotton, leather or papyrus passel
Seeing illusions and derisions
Inside the book, the bookmark’s tassel
Of words and dreams, and fantasies
Muses and fancies
Blissful and blithe
Demons and monsters, and zombies alive
Somehow the dead come back to life
Shadows and shades of torment
Ghouls and ghosts, and wraiths
Humans tear at their at the clothes and lament
And prophets forecast and forebode advent
Fortune tellers and soothsayers say
The mind screaming in pain
Devotion and emotion
Evolution and convolution
The sane are temporarily insane
The brain suffers erosion
To purify what has been defiled
Or deride what is pretentious
Celebrate what is momentous
Of the humors; blood and bile
Are both infectious
Soul speak
Affirmation of thought and deed
The lookers seek
All of those who have a need
Reap of the sown seed
Strong encourage the weak
Travels in time and place
Exploring inner and outer space
The Children of the Is
Sing the songs that were once His
Though the Old Man’s dead and gone
His legacy lives on
From dusk ‘till dawn
Memories in tome eternal
Glimpses of Heaven
Thoughts of Hades infernal
Rolling sevens and elevens
Immortal mortals
Of a limited time
Speaking in riddles and rhymes
This poem a babbling run-on thing
Pondering, wandering and wondering
A beautiful mind
It should be dismantled and dismembered
Fuses blown, circuits fried, wires unwind
The Dancing divine
When remembered…
My guardian angel sleep how I honor thee,
Thy contrarian ways leave me breathless,
Thine art, the bearer of life’s synchronicity.
I am your vessel, a vassal on your highways,
Thou speakest in tongues, thy magic conveys,
Subtle shifts in the feelings of voluptuous days.
You speak to me archaically, sometimes not,
With ears I absorb your many voices,
Though my eyes are slow to know your every plot.
Faithfully you come to me when the shades are drawn,
Carefully you wake me with touching flair,
I am pushed to reconsider most every dawn.
A night without you is an adventure at home,
It is, to wit, but a journey to bed,
Better not to sleep if you venture not to Rome.
Your flavor spices my mind, with thirst I crave it,
Its abundance and magnitude move me,
I search the seas to find your shores to inhabit.
You surprise me, you recognize me, you see me,
The masks I use to cloak, your hands deface,
Uncovering my ploys with mirthful subtlety.
Naked I stand before you, your canvas to paint,
With strokes of genius you unnerve my life,
In depth you make my shallow ways seem less than quaint.
A weaver could not imagine the text you bear,
The knot you wind only a knot can know,
There is no metaphor that can describe your stare.
I will never understand how you do this trick,
Yet it is me who does it every night!
I am undone by you, yet you make my life tick.
If you are the eye of my mind who sees the truth,
Better to go, leave me to my devices,
To abide by your laws would be just too uncouth.
Yet I hesitate to cast you away stranger,
You are the god who lives inside of me,
I can not live without my nightly messenger.
Stay with me then my ritual marvelous friend,
I need you, crave you, in sleep I would die,
Without your visitations life could not amend.
------
Written 09.06/2014 By Jornjorn.
A mother’s two daughters transformed the bookstore the other day…
let me set the scene….
They turned our bookstore into a castle…ruled over by two queens.
In an instant the battlements and a tower were erected…and here’s a fine footnote…
our door became a portcullis and outside…a drawbridge covered our moat.
The Deacon’s chair that sits in our store…the two queens let it be known…
would no longer be a Deacons’ chair as it became their throne.
They wore long and flowing robes and carried the sovereign orb…
in strict Victorian fashion
and I was happy to see the two queens not only shared the throne…
but ruled with fairness and compassion.
From my vantage point behind the counter I sent them good wishes and regards…
they were fair but they were strict but I didn’t want them summoning the guards.
Their mom asked if it was okay…
”No need to worry I said…I love to see imaginations soar.”
“Besides,” I whispered, “the queens and you the queen mother
are the only three people in the store.”
“But there is one thing you need, your majesties.”
I bowed, knelt down then said.
and, with their permission, I placed an imaginary crown on the top of each queen’s head.
They ruled over the kingdom until Mom said, “It’s time for dinner!”
at which point they hurried out the store…
and I watched as the two queens moved their castle to the restaurant next door.
I love imagination…how it can turn a bookstore into a castle…
two children into queens and one bookseller into a vassal.
As I closed up for the evening I thought back to those two queens
with their imaginations so innocent and pure…
Then I made sure the drawbridge was up…
the portcullis was locked
and their castle was secure.