Long Voyaged Poems
Long Voyaged Poems. Below are the most popular long Voyaged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Voyaged poems by poem length and keyword.
Green Oasis in the midst of burning sands.
Milk ed Maidens in garb of headdress band.
Soaked in milk and butters cream.
Supple like the grass, taught like the reed.
Come back to me, fall back to your
Leige.
The dry hollowed Papyrus unlocks
the Sundials mystery.
Tells not the tale of my voyaged seventh sea.
Sarcophagus be damned.
I will procure the scarab from the Genie,
the Cyclops, Jason,
or whomever holds the Goldening,
that was fleeced from me.
I will take my birthright
from their blooding hands.
As the Nile bleeds
onto the fertile crescent lands.
See it in your Astronomy.
Canopic jar it with your gland.
The Sphinx's eyes gleam and Sirius,
it shines for me.
By God's own hand.
Our ancestors… though they lived,
Their lives had a closed curtain, leading to the greatest of all mysteries:
The universe itself.
No one really saw it, and even if they did,
No one had courage to explore that sealed universe.
Yet one man, a name unknown,
Plucked up his courage to open that barrier and see through.
Though only little, only a speck,
He took out a chain… linking us to our past, and us to the future.
So, all mankind stepped forward,
Pouring their sweat to open up that curtain.
Though their names are endless, we know a few:
Those who dared to use the unlocked part of the secret,
And plunge deeper, in.
Newton, Faraday, Einstein, Rutherford, Harvey, and more…
Those whose names we celebrate.
Those who found the metabolisms of life,
The chemistry behind it, and the physics of space-time.
No one really knows how large the secret universe is.
Nor we know how much has been discovered.
The whole universe we live in… a great secret.
But I daresay that we’ve voyaged a great deal, though it does not seem so.
And that to find the meaning of a secret, is to plunge deeper still.
PEOPLE TELL ME I’M NOT ALIGNED WITH MY ACTUAL AGE.
BUT NEVER BOTHERED MY PARENTS -
THOUGH FELT THE UNSPOKEN WEIGHT OF COMPLAINT.
DEEP DOWN, NEVER LIVED LIKE A YOUNGSTER;
CIRCUMSTANCES ADORNED ME IN ADULTHOOD,
A NUMBER HEAVIER THAN MY BONES.
I USED TO CARRY THE ROOM’S SILENCE LIKE A DEBT I HAD TO PAY.
I WAS THE ARCHITECT OF SAFETY,
THE CHILD WHO FORGOT TO SWAY.
I AM OUTGROWING THE “STRONG ONE”
TO MAKE ROOM FOR THE “HAPPY ONE”
I WAS SUPPOSED TO FIND,
BUT THE ARMOUR HAS GOTTEN TOO SMALL.
WHETHER REALIZATION, GRIEF, OR SORROW,
THEY BEGAN TO SAUNTER WITH ME.
GRIEF AND UNDERSTANDING VOYAGED SIDE BY SIDE.
WHAT I COULDN’T LIVE WITHOUT BEFORE
NOW IT BEGINNETH TO LIVE—
FULLY, FREELY.
YOU MAY ASK, WHY?
I NOTICED A NATURAL SHIFT:
BIGGER, STEADIER, MORE MATURE.
NO NEED TO TINGE MY SURROUNDINGS WITH PLAYFUL THINGS.
I NO LONGER PLAY TO WIN OR TO PROVE—
I PLAY TO ENJOY,
TO ERR,
AND TO GUFFAW AT MY OWN ERRORS.
THIS IS NOT AN ARGUMENT WITH TIME,
NOR A COMPLAINT AGAINST THE PAST.
IT IS A WONDER WITHIN,
UNASHAMED.
SLOWLY, I AM ARRIVING AT MY ACTUAL AGE.
THIS DOESN’T MEAN I’M BECOMING A CHILD;
I HONOR MY INNER CHILD—
WITH RAPPORT,
WITHOUT GUILT.
WE ARE NOT BROKEN;
WE NEED TO LISTEN WITH A FIERCE FONDNESS.
GROWING UP TEACHES ENDURANCE.
GROWING FREELY TEACHES GRACE.
WE ARE LEARNING TOGETHER.
JOY SPEAKS LOUDEST
WHEN IT IS UNAFRAID.
SOME LIVES BEGIN EARLY.
SOME BEGIN HONESTLY—
WHEN THEY STOP PERFORMING SURVIVAL.
There lived a peasant girl, I do recall,
Of cheerful and charming disposition;
And a servant boy who lived in her halls,
Unwavering in loyal submission.
They fell in love, a tender transition,
But the whims of fate pulled him from her side;
Deployed to war on the king’s commission,
He vowed to return, and make her his bride.
On good fortune, the enemy did fall,
But she knew not of her love’s position;
He was missing from the returning haul,
So she succumbed to dark intuitions.
By happenstance, the king’s premonitions
Led him to the plains where she resides;
When he gazed upon this lovely pigeon,
He promised to make her his princess bride.
A masked man in black climbed the castle walls
While the future queen was in dormition;
She stirred awake upon hearing his call,
Hoping to find her love’s apparition.
He shed his mask and his inhibitions,
Assuring his love that he had not died;
They embraced, a lovely exhibition,
And she resolved to be his princess bride.
The story says, a timeless tradition,
That they voyaged where sun and sea collide;
Through any fate that came to fruition,
She forever remained his princess bride.
You’ve traveled past the mountains way up high
Where the heavens above reach down and touch the sky
Above the rain where the birds fly
You’re with God who makes the clouds cry
I knew the lord had to take you away and you had to go
To reach the other side where the wind doesn’t blow
I look up and pray for just for one sign
But you are gone beyond the point of space and time
I search for you but I still cannot see
But you have voyaged beneath the deepest sea
I knew the lord had to take you and you had to go
To the other side where the wind doesn’t blow
I need your love and your helping hand
But you have crossed over the longest desert sand
I’m here alone while you are free
Taking a journey across the entire galaxy
I knew the lord had to take you and you had to go
To the other side where the wind doesn’t blow
The meandering Universe or tightly packed with no edges at all
The Universe huge and pulsing enough to give seed to the life forms is packed rock into a ball
The Universe did it know all along about Love?
Hey what is life anyway? Some say they know from messages above, within— without
Some say they know by analysis, some philosophers, mystics, priests, all claim they have the key to the riddle-- What do they know?
I have voyaged with Plato, and Aristotle feeling the firm ground beneath me slipping away,
I mourned the Passion, I have kneeled for Allah, Vishnu, Shiva, Yahweh, RA, Amun-Ra, Odin, and I have imbibed the mystic, elevating into a fugue
Hawkins, Sagan, Einstein have wisely spoken, I speak their words, “Where did God hide those confounded data?”
I have visited the land where law of religions becomes the external garb of man, atoms flowing rapidly energetically all from cloth to flesh and back again--
In those black holes I have held hands with Sagan, De Grasse
In search of other worldly terrestrial beings, and have floated into eternity embracing Hawkings into beauteous things— with water at the center of it all…
Plunged into darkness, and never found those dice,
What can I say, I am only man.
We have tried for millenniums to answer the puzzling riddles, what is the ‘mystery of inequity’, perchance it is of no substance at all, or is split asunder in the vital soul of man himself some slippery essence waiting to ooze out into the atmosphere,
The riddles are great, and the universe holds them somewhere in the abyss, of man blackest recesses perchance— Maybe there is no mystery at all… “Philosophy is a smile on a dog”
Some say they know by analysis, some Philosophers, mystics, Scientists, all claim they have the key to the riddle…What do they know?
In the desperate search of God we have despised our ways, Men have become haters of Love. I saw the birth of the humanist once upon a page-- Petrarch my father
He held the keys jangling with a smirk and rage…
Man disappoints man…
A Scotsman voyaged through the highlands
Thickly covered with lush, purple heather
Kilt adorned and bare, his regions nether
Feeling breezy on this, a grand endeavor
He trekked across enjoying balmy weather
Heather gray sky and ben blend together
Through the loch did wet his boots of leather
The effort causing removal of his sweater
Warm with heather yarns the colours speckle
He laid it on the hillside and rested, however
Off in the purple heather shrub was a new treasure
A lass holding a bouquet of aforementioned heathers
Whether or not she knew, she blushed behind her freckles
And when she saw him, the meeting was a pleasure
Her laugh as soft and light as a floating feather
They grew a love that no one could deem to measure
Happily ever after, and of course, her name was...Gertrude
Mr Ragged 2024
The unsteady slow winter moon,
trudges towards a freezing night;
riding on winds back,of shadows feint,
blowing out the days diminishing light,
It is !
A pencil sketch in many pleasant hues
sharp strapped; as a barbers razor,
lined out,in a distant vanish point,
cloudless,pained in a subdued flavour,
Oh yes!
Wood pigeons pair for the chill; it comes!
Clocks are sleepy now many unwound,
all along the water spilled fountain; the
sparrows thirst sip for a familiar sound.
Then !
The street seems to carpet up its cobbles,
It narrows; and tunnels into fast black,
bully boy cats prowl; and growl all clawed,
local dog snoozes, it snores on its bed of sack.
There on -
a lonely street corner cardboard damped,
barley lit; Is home once again to Mr ragged,
chatting in an alcohol tongue; a dialect to rats,
brittle veined, slow flowed, pave stone padded,
Soon !
Morning seeps in; spilling quite secondhand,
It slept long and sexed; under voyaged stars,
not fit for purpose! It breaks over a penciled hill,
49th street corner bustles, Mr ragged lies very still.
Some cry
INFERNO
As I watched from far away,
Under the sun sending down its rays,
Not willing to stare any longer,
And about to find my way out,
I noticed the earth trembling,
Followed by a cacophony,
Temperature rose in a flash,
Behold it was a volcano,
Red molten flowing down from its cone,
Arable down destroyed,
The reddish molten was like blood,
Blood of Slavery.
When will hearts of men be one?
Being different from none,
Humans being callous to another,
For exploitation of others,
Like a lion that turneth not away from its prey.
Captured with alluring promises,
With goodies and pleasantries,
Men became victims of circumstances,
Minds anticipated life with good fortunes and feature,
But least they never knew,
That their thoughts were all fiction.
Disastrous like a sirroco,
Blew the winds of the deserts,
Their human nature became weary,
Without any proper attention given,
Covering many miles,
Of which some lost their lives.
Seeing the anguish of men,
I rhapsodised about the fate of lives,
That were experiencing onslaught,
My heart was deeply exasperated,
Seeing how lives were siphoned like liquid,
The famished ones died away,
And the sands of the desert buried their bodies.
On the Mediterranean they voyaged,
Endangering lives of youthful age,
They were like unpreserved cabbage,
Experiencing the sporadic fierce tempest,
The extreme cold nights,
Accompanied with empty stomach,
Leading their skin to take the hue of an oak,
In juxtaposition with a mahogany.
Nostalgic feelings came,
The care and love shown to them at home,
Created in their hearts a hole, Which can only be filled by hope, Their condition was like perdition.
ANYABOLU IFEANYI GENTLE
FOR THE NEW TORCH BEARERS (REVISITED)
(APROPOS MLK: PART 2)
They voyaged over many tempestuous oceans and seas;
They were pursued in woods by vicious dogs—dogs
Salivating stale slave smells of strange fruits
In hanging trees.
They were hunted, trapped and penned like slimed
Wild hogs.
They waded rivers—buoyed by the bodies of their ancestors;
Footprints left in caked blood on river banks in the golden dawn.
Now here we are; standing in the mist of our debtors:
flaming spirits from the black phoenix’s spawn. We’re now
on the everlasting arm of which the ancestors leaned upon.
We are those of which the ancestors long ago spoke;
We are the dream that sustained them during their bloody ‘buke
and lashing scorn;
We are the moored vision and anchor that strengthen them
with audacious hope.
So come chosen children, everybody gather here around;
Let us sit together—talk and pray for just a little while.
Like papa, keep your eyes on the prize—not on the ground;
Walk well down the blood stained path of freedom’s aisle.
Listen children, the battle is not yet won; there’s still much work
left for us to get done.
Girdle yourselves with that ebony pilgrim’s pride—facing
the rising sun of a new day begun.
Rise up little children and give rebirth to the words
the ancestors said!
Rise up little children and cover yourself with the blood
they have shed!
Rise up little children and rip apart the new veiled shackles
and hidden yoke!
Rise up little children—raising your torches higher
than everlasting hope!
You are the new torch bearers of the dream;
You are today’s Martin Luther King.