Long Villanova Poems
Long Villanova Poems. Below are the most popular long Villanova by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Villanova poems by poem length and keyword.
In the darkest final hours,
I began to write
And my words once spoken new
from scattered ashes light the sky
To begin and end each day
caught up in beauty’s distant wake
All loneliness filled by pages lined
with happiness and joy
My fate betrothed, once mistress
scorned
—a lover more than wife
Whose vision so much sharper,
her dissection cuts through bone
To slay the muted dragon’s fire
in present tense delight
Beyond all past and future clouds
above the darkening storm
To mate each breath and gifted word
that heaven sends unwed
Never destitute in blessings shown
—or in things I wish I’d said
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)
“Messages,
trapped in the wind
Words,
burrow deeply within
Voices,
emerge from the past
Memories,
and dreams overcast”
Leaves fall,
branches reach for the sky
Winter clouds gather,
snow starts to fly
Furloughed—the seeds
march distant and free
The season long,
its transients flee
Vision impaired,
past futures to fade
Acceptance—rejection,
a choice to be made
The first Nightingale sings,
its call from beyond
A feeling unfreezes,
old words to a song
The hills begin thawing,
new tracks to reveal
Salvation once promised,
no longer concealed
Winds from the west,
bring rebirth and enthrall
The sun melting lies,
—and winter recalled
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)
Searching through the forest,
chasing dreams your sleep abandoned
And losing yourself in the mindless
spatial distance
You play two handed poker
with the devil of the night
The Prince holding only one card,
as you gamble it all…
Forever promising:
“This hand will be your ticket out”
He relays his wagered truth,
with a baton of shattered tears
But time recovers,
the present firing upon the night
Hitting it at last dead center,
the debris now quicksand
Drowning the last excuse
of your bloodless past refusals
Salvation now in full retreat,
—all exits thrice denied
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
Down this once famous graveled road
I drive by day and drive by night
my mind replaying stories of times past.
As if thinking about them
can make them real again.
Buildings standing with new faces, signs.
I see them now only as they once were
in my childlike memory, mind.
Each corner sparks a lost thought.
Transparent faces of townies crossing cross streets
a blur of long gone friends and schemes
living only in my most selfish dreams.
The Devon Horse Show grounds
where the Main Line's best show off
at its annual celebrated competition.
Villanova University where I honed my hoopster skills
a high-schooler sneaking into the gym on snowy days.
The Bouquet Flower Shop where I summer jobbed.
The Bryn Mawr Deli where I waitered posing for
giggling girls of crosstown Harcum College.
"Good Counsel" church, my reverent gothic fortress
for those important beliefs that later would fall away.
The Bryn Mawr Trust Bank that juts out proudly
on the main corner, a gray stoned prominence
where accounting of my money's worth was kept.
It too a dream. A dream of a future now lived.
Sepia shadows of decades ago.
A feeling of loss wells up within me
of time I want back again.
To right lost wrongs. To try again somehow.
Sometimes I turn away so not to remember.
But I have no way of getting there.
Street after street, ghost after ghost
looking down alleys and ways
in my haunting trance.
So many visions with no redeeming consequences.
Simple reminiscences of my time, my simple life
and this once famous graveled road.
I’m a Type A Poet,
literarily incorrect
In the company of fools,
my pen goes for their neck
They sing to the choir,
while we cry and spill blood
Their trash in the fire,
their lies in the mud
The things that we struggle with,
just folly to them
As their dilettante pleadings,
ramble on and pretend
Their self psycho-analysis,
and the time that they steal
Turn to dead broken promises,
masking what they can’t feel
The thing they most run from,
we welcome inside
As they tunnel and burrow,
trying harder to hide
And their one greatest fantasy,
for us never to know
That their self-proclaimed mastery
—was at best just a show
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)
The Citizens danced
Romulus cried
Centurions posed
in Legions wide
“The world is ours”
they said in glee
“And death to those
who don’t concede”
The past unyielding
future loaned
The present flew
like David’s stone
Their party ending
candles burnt
With spoils poisoned
lessons spurned
And history writes
that in a day…
What once was Rome
was cast astray
Whose legend carved
in stone reminds
What young Narcissus
hoped to find
The glory that once
ruled the world
Now left in rubble
myth unfurled
As time awaits
to stalk our path
That wolf inside
—as history laughs
(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2018)
I was twenty,
you were nineteen,
that day along the mall
When I heard a guitar
from deep inside,
that round auditorium hall
Up on stage with legends,
Son House, Muddy,
Johnny Winter too
A red haired, freckle faced,
blue eyed girl
commenced to sing the blues
You started with an apology,
saying you were outclassed
and over matched
But once that voice
left your heart and flew
….in nothing did you lack
I followed you out
that afternoon,
in the late State College Fall
And after fifty years of looking back,
every moment
I recall
I walked you to the bus
as you said:
“We're in Harrisburg tonight
“Why don't you come,
it might be fun,
from there I catch a flight”
The bus was full,
my eyes looked south
as I hitchhiked down #322
Fate unexplained,
life forever changed
-that special gift from you
(Villanova Pennsylvania: Looking Back- March, 2018)
My eyes were diverted
my mind taken back
Her presence upon me
her breath an attack
There’s no sense in running
with no place to hide
Although rare in the daylight
her message alive
My pen comes out quickly
and drawn like a sword
Each word spoken plainly
and pointed toward
My life now a capsule
exploding like hail
The light towing blindness
the comets new tail
Last phrases are written
my senses return
I feel her leave slowly
my pen it still burns
I look down at the page
to see what I wrote
The handwriting foreign
familiar once spoke
“Your life but a dream
between wisps of my breath
“Once spoken inside you
beyond life and then death”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2018)
United Natives of America 7th generation uprisings.
March 24, 2018
A Lakota Mothers Prayer
(From: Searching For Crazy Horse)
________________________
‘Wana Hin Gle’ the Lakota call me,
‘Wana Hin Gle’ my given name
‘He Who Happens Now,’ the drum beat has found me,
reaching into this moment beyond glory and fame
As ‘Wana Hin Gle,’ my spirit has wandered,
as ‘Wana Hin Gle,’ my ancestors call
The questions dissolve, as The Great Mystery beckons,
the campfire eternal, the chanting enthralls
“Wana Hin Gle,” my Mother calls proudly,
“your horse is now ready, your shield fixed with bone
Off into the prairie you must ride in the twilight,
the People will dance until their son returns home
Wana Hin Gle, you must now happen quickly,
the buffalo are all captive, starvation allowed
Your eyes look upon the great Wakan Tanka,
whose absence has shamed us, who once were so proud
As the great Tasunka Witko who traveled before you,
you must wait for your horse to come out of the lake
Great Mother River and Great Mountain Father,
to your will they entrust what The People forsake
Your vision must suffer, the babies still cry,
the cold through the tent flaps, all future in blight
You must leave us now, but leave us in darkness,
for when you return, a new vision will burn bright
You will ride to the top of the ‘Pass Of The Bears,’
ask the Grizzly, our brother, if the demon still preys
If it does, you must kill it, for this time and always,
it has hovered above us keeping spirits away
The White Horse will take you from the lake to the mountain,
and the stallion will sprout wings with its hooves fiery hot
You will trample this demon and burn him before you,
the smoke will then signal of what he is not
Wana Hin Gle, my son; the time is for going,
your vision awaits, past-futures on hold
The Medicine Woman is locked deep inside you,
your People die waiting—the young and the old”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2018)
Copyright © Kurt Philip Behm | Year Posted 2018
On which side of the authority line
do you fall…
The pulpit,
The assembly line,
The suite down the hall
Who makes the decisions,
do you stand—do you kneel
Is it giving or receiving,
do you take—do you steal
How many horizons,
do your dreams fall behind
Are they distant—uncertain,
not in view to remind
Where your memories lie,
are your promises kept
Is the past now your future
—will the present forget
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)
(Abbreviated)
Are Promises Kept
Where your memories lie,
are your promises kept
Is the past now your future
—will the present forget
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)