Long Voltaire Poems
Long Voltaire Poems. Below are the most popular long Voltaire by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Voltaire poems by poem length and keyword.
True, I do practice the act of introversion quite a bit,
But why should I be blamed? To what am I to admit
When I am not the transgressor in question?
I am not typically one to act in aggression,
Towards others in outward ways, I should say,
For, only in privacy, do I sometimes get irate,
Never to those who desire to brighten my day
But rather to those who nourish from the hate,
For such creatures, as it pains me to claim,
Seem only to grow, to fester in number by the hour,
Corrupting the pure, convincing them they are the same,
That despite the effort, all people are equally as sour.
You may call me cynical, but even still,
Do be confident that I do not speak in vain
Since it is not by my own design or will
That some tend to thrive from others’ pain,
Nor that, sometimes, the weakest among the populace,
Often those who are primarily afflicted,
Are given no respite, no chance at joyfulness
And consequently cause more pain, their sorrows reflected.
An unfortunate truth, just as this may be,
It is not its existence which vexes me so
But rather how it perseveres, us acting carefree,
Acting in ignorance, feeding the spiteful weeds we sow.
And so he was right, Voltaire was, when once he said
That those who believe blindly inevitably regress,
And commit atrocities, not caring who ends up dead,
Pinning the blame on others, if only to digress.
Is this what it’s come to? Rashness without rationale?
No, I fear it is far worse, for it is the Death of Morale.
TOLERANCE
I have little tolerance for tolerant people.
Those that will endure the corruption of
the truth, the erosion of meaning. While at
the same time being intolerant of your
opinions, thoughts, and level of tolerance.
There is a quote attributed to Voltaire:
“I disapprove of what you say, but I will
defend to the death your right to say it.”
How many of the “tolerant” would be willing
to fight for our right to “disapprove of what
they say”? Hush the crowd so that we might
be heard? Unblock their ears and hearts and listen?
Does the present day “tolerance”
lack tolerance, lack understanding,
lack the ability to endure a voice that
is not in tune, does not sing the same
song, does not pray the same prayer?
Or do they tolerate, put up with, the “fool”,
while denying acceptance of his opinions,
his beliefs. Perhaps the fool is more tolerant than they.
Listening to what they say, watching how they
carry themselves, interact with those “different”
than themselves.
For they think him a “fool”, because they do
not know that he thinks, what he thinks,
and most sadly, they do not care to know.
They will tolerate his presence but not allow
him to be present, listen to his voice yet hear
nothing, speak of equality while lauding their
position, education, power over him.
For they are tolerant only of themselves,
of their ideas, their thoughts, their peers,
their alleged - equals.
They disapprove of us, and what we say,
and will defend their right to keep it so.
John G. Lawless – 6/9/2014
If man has become the measure of all
Our world anon will crumple and shrivel
Without a moral compass to keep us in thrall
Failure and success,the deadly ploys of the devil,
Or the cold ugliness of hideous revenge
Could inflict defeat on the Prime Mover's mission
That, discipleless, He can no longer challenge.
And so to Satan leaves us in submission
Man exists in a festering and noxious swamp
Where reason plays handmaiden to naked power
And shameless words service man's pride and pomp
A Voltaire is most sorely needed at this hour
To bring us back into the pure light of the sun.
If ,alas, there is no God,man must invent one.
As Voltaire might have said,
“ And yet it all works”
Did you know, dear friends, that our galaxy
Dash through space,
at a speed of 2.3 million kilometres per hour,
How does it not disintegrate?
Why does the sun keep shining?
How the earth turns around sun
While it is also running at 2.3 million km/h?
I know, there is in this perfect mechanics
Something divine,
As Voltaire wrote,
“ I cannot think that this clock exists
And that it has no watchmaker.”
On our way, no obstacles,
Only a cluster of galaxies 150,000 light-years away
Ahead, nothing can stop our galaxy,
“ And yet it all works”
Could have written voltaire,
at 2.3 million km/h We can safely
Drinking our coffee, isn’t that fantastic?
A long time ago there lived one Isaac Newton,
a great scientist of all times, a famous Briton.
Born premature, into a quart mug he would fit,
said his mother, who left him to grow up on his wit.
Isaac Newton with a refined brain
stood on shoulders of giants to gain
view of the far none had seen.
On him fell an apple green,
derived gravity from his thought train.
Newton had no commerce with women, Voltaire said.
In science endeavor mathematical matrix he had laid.
With disarrayed mind he had died mired in controversy,
alchemic pursuits poisoned him with mercury, a mystery.
September 9, 2019
Syllable count (Limerick) : 9/9/7/7/9
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
Contest : Clerimerick Couplets (Hybrid Form)
Sponsor : Mark Toney
To be. To feel.
To feel, to love,
To love. To rage,
To rage, to die
Like a good Romantic, or to sleep like this,
Ghosting about
Like a loose plastic bag
That flaps on a windy night
Under a sodium street lamp’s
Eerie all-submerging light.
O Shakespeare, pity us,
O Wilkes, O Pope,
O Voltaire, O Heine,
O Byron. O Shelley,
Shed tears for us.
We have mislaid the liberties
You fought for.
And the truths you taught us.
The Board of Standardisation
In the interests of this nation
Will suppress the imagination.
Like ranters at Hyde Park
We’re still good for a Sunday lark.
Our patrons are benign
as long as we are innocuous.
They’ll allow a little room for satire
(as long as we keep our hats on)
Just to show what sports they are.
Toothless protest’s just a cliché,
But don’t let slip a waspish quip,
Or “Sirrah, Sirrah, the whip!”
Tow the line. That’s fine.
“Douse that prophetic fire by nightfall, sir,
Or the neighbours will complain.”
A D-Notice served on the brain
deadens every joy and pan.
Cross the heart with this red pencil
And with this stencil write:
THE END OF ART.”
WHO are WE at our CORE?
How should I answer such a brazen QUESTION!?
Are WE defined by SPIRIT or CHOICE or our DETERMINATION?
Or is it our NATURE or a DIVINE INFLUENCE on our FREE WILL on further EXAMINATION?
At the CENTER of our EXISTENCE
are WE defined by our EGOS, or DEEDS or OPINIONS by OTHERS
no matter how dumb?
And was it not a great PHILOSOPHER who answered “I think, therefore I am”,
or precisely, “cogito, ergo sum”?
Are WE then to believe, THOSE who are guided by their EMOTIONS,
victims of FATE, their BODY OF WORKS by PATHOS,
amounts to NONE?
Tell that to VOLTAIRE, who wrote of CANDIDE,
the epitome of OPTIMISM, and ask what matters most,
"is it his BOOK or the PERSON,
the ACT or the OBSERVATION?"
Or ASK the marathon RUNNER
was his or her EFFORT all in VAIN
simply because they were not the WINNER?
YOU ask, WHO are WE at our CORE?
What does it matter, truly, at the END,
when,
in the END,
WE cannot our imperfect REPUTATION defend?
Is it not said WE are made in His IMAGE,
that because He loved US first,
WE can love?
So to Him I put the blame, but not the shame,
that at my CORE is CHRIST above,
that without HIM there is no LOVE,
and without LOVE there is NOTHING to gain.
by Martin Braun
December 29, 2023
bunny heads
and spilled wine on the sofa
Minotaur on fire
and a raspberry doll
a sailboat in a swimming pool
and high foreheads in a park
a mime in a sand mirror
and armed homeless people
blue lips in hands
and Max Ray or Man Ernst?
graffiti in a coffin
and a skyscraper in a bottle
vegetable war
and a black hole in a pear
violin chef
and obese angels in McDonald’s
a paving on a water surface
and an auction sale in a wrong hour
colourless grass
and laughter in times of plague
fashion diarrhea
and a cow in a dance dress
black winter sky
and Cabaret Voltaire forever
dark red absinthe
and a hundred-year-old fisherman on top
murder on a chessboard
and dinosaurs in New York
cosmic mixer
and a smell of lemon fields
amarylis inside out
and a toddler in a sea shell
snow under the bed
and an orchestra at Mount Everest
space shuttle on the beach
and a night under her skirt
a steel ropewalker
and a flea in a golden cage
nice gesture under the reading glass
and a zip on the back door
calm west
and a key to deceased stars
labyrinth of cards
and a 2-D dinner with God (knows who)
all this and more
another time.
Balmy january fifth two thousand twenty three
pardon moi as I self plagiarize
with slight modifications
cuz following words written
at least an Earth's orbit ago
exhibits pearls of jocularity.
I ran than jumped high
into the upper atmosphere
like a faux young American
landing on the lunar surface
frisky buck naked and bare
no matter weight of world
and personal woes oppressive,
yours truly shrugged,
(she loves you yea... yea... yea...
think Atlas) "faking" without care
free, able, eager, ready, and
willing to dare
daubing, muddying, and wading
metrical feet into stream
of consciousness (think)
metaphorical earthenware
placid figurative smooth as glassware
reflecting mine mien
mean disheveled hare
reed state of swiftly tailored body,
mind and spirit long
acclimated, accompanied,
and accustomed
with mental, physical,
and spiritual malfunctions
ever since birth,
(or even in utero), where
biological mutations did interfere
easily availing self
as token "scapegoat
school kids did taunt and jeer
futilely screeching nevertheless
targeted and doomed killdeer
lamely seeking safety, albeit laughable
pencil necked geek longhair
donned as outdated "hippie"
lame excuse for cheesy mouseketeer
every day of younglife (mine) wanted
me "mommy dearest" near,
cuz yours truly
felt like kin outlier
one lonely human
being within alienation
forever seeking salvation
courtesy wing and prayer
ill fitting analogous to round hole
raised to accept unconventional
credo, gospel (according
to Matthew) mores as quare
figurative peg thus revere
ring boyhood, because
growing up scare
re: especially as
undersized withdrawn tear
huff eyed little lad
donning monogrammed underwear
“enlightenment touché”
honoring inimitable Voltaire where
he unabashedly espoused
freedom of religion,
freedom of expression,
and separation of church and state.
Pierre was a billionaire living in BelAir
A most successful concessionaire
Handsomely suave and debonair
Loved reading excerpts from Voltaire
Played for hours games of solitaire
His favourite lair was in a cozy wingback chair
Savouring his Earl Grey with chocolate éclair
Loved to travel just about anywhere
His wife accused him of having an affair
With a stewardess high in the air
Turned out it was she dating a commissionaire
Though every night she said a little prayer
She got caught with her derrière in midair
Quite unaware of her disheveled hair
And how deep she fell in her own snare
Totally no panache or an ounce of flair
She thought life to her had been unfair
Since Pierre’s money she’d not get a share
It would all be left to an heir
One whose loyalty did not compare
Pierre’s cuddly pet, his rare mohair bear
On this fine day I do declare
Liars and cheaters do beware
Play your games if you dare
But if I have my way I swear
You’ll only inherit your fair share of despair
AP: Honorable Mention 2020