Long Xii Poems
Long Xii Poems. Below are the most popular long Xii by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Xii poems by poem length and keyword.
Dearest Prof –
I did not title them:
These ever-ready logs
Ready to assemble ants of cowries;
They dance from sea to land
Wishing to be titled by exigent gods
Who watch over their lonely coronations
Lavished with sacrificial songs!
I did not title them:
Pot-bellied officees of faculties
Chewing mouthfuls of the land’s laws
Their neighbours:
Half-truthful goblins of tax-collectors
The smiling kick-backers
And officees of admissions –
Who titled these men?
Dearest Prof –
Many are these titled men of today
Are they found everywhere?
Do they mount uniformed road-blocks
As we pass safety-roads without eyes?
Head-strong: are their skulls also fragile?
Could the husk of a tax-collectors mouth
Eat the husks of his pot’s bottom?
Who titled these men?
Matching boldly with wrong titles?
Of course, the red-caps of the under world
Visited the newly world-renowned ref
(Prof, a roused lad heard it told!)
Did they leave the corpse by the ref?
Sadistic: are they also shrewdly fraternal?
I cannot lavish the sacred lines.
Form:
Vesuvius,
It was a queen fit for a king
unwrapped and placed at the side
giving warmth to a soul
and paths put on hold
hush,
eyes beg for more than more
fires lit are burning long
and sweat has piqued her form
awaiting in the mountain of your lust
bubbling over for the world to see
eyes that see thru the bluest of blues
cloudless nights
your moon lit bright
hush,
for tonight let the angels play
upon colourful rainbows of dreams
of storms laid past
let amazement lead
to love
dripping from the honey of your soul
time will get old but fear not
our arms, our lives
remain entwined
Emerging in the dark,
A pale ghost cast by the moon—
Authenticity—
With the glow of rawness and power
The song of truth so precious
On a tongue that is pressed for
Change—submissive change—
Cradled in the prospects of devotion
The clouds covering the perfect circles
Penetrating through a lens
That magnifies true, imminent light
Of gleaming giants in velveteen skies
Fearless revelations
That accomplish alluring awe
The conundrums of life
Beyond us—beyond words—in us
2.12.20
Note: Those alluring mysteries...in us...if only we knew how to reveal them like the thin clouds reveal the soft circular shape of that glowing moon, as it floats so carefree... yet so purposefully in the sky. I like to compare our vulnerabilities and our abilities to the universe. They are vast, and can reveal such beautiful things about us.
My highest wish for you I hold secure
within my breast, locked fast within my heart,
of which your own is now so great a part
that yours from mine I cannot e're demur;
yet, if your soul's defense be not assured,
and I in love grasp wrongly for your heart,
I pray God grants to me the strength to start
the slaying of a love I would endure.
The dream I hold for you is higher yet
than any dream in legend I have found;
and I avow my pledge know not regret,
but that your soul in purity abound,
for if you make an idol of me yet,
beware: my own two hands will drag it down.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
Your death came as a surprise, it certainly wasn't foretold.
If you hadn't died, today you would've turned 76 years old.
I learned that you were terminal shortly before you died.
When your life ended, people were sure to be misty-eyed.
If you were still alive, I'd be spending your birthday with you.
When I say that you had love and respect, it is certainly true.
If you hadn't died, today you would be eating your birthday cake.
When I found you dead, it was almost too much for me to take.
Your death was upsetting, painful and very hard for me to face.
Happy Birthday, Mom, you died and you went to a better place.
[Dedicated to Agnes M. Johnson (1948-2013) who passed away on March 6, 2013]
Heavy and eerie silence reigned therein,
The dark rooms looking sullen, cold, and mean,
As if they had taken serious offence
Against me who had failed in their esteem,
My heart, feeling contrite, was heaving tense,
To have halfway deserted my fond dream.
No one was there my inner thoughts to share,
None who could some forgiveness to me spare,
Aimless I wandered into my blank mind,
And wished I could that royal guitar find
To inveigle my heavy heart to sing:
O Fire, this poor moth that in vain wished once
To fly away, has returned with wrecked wing
To thee, forgive him just this one instance,
Burn away both his wings and make him lame,
Nay, consume him in thy red scorching flame.
As I wailed clue-less, my soul sinking low,
Two warm teardrops fell down upon my brow.
Dark and deep clouds hung overcast on hills
That day, the gloomy woods and bare river
Awaiting in suspense with monsoon drills,
An ominous calm prevailed all over.
And soon it all shivered— land along sky,
A wild storm blew forth and went howling by,
Through pathless woods baring its lightning teeth,
Like a raving maniac snapping chain,
Wishing to unleash hell, terrible pain
To whoso there’s on hills, whoso beneath.
And not a soul around was in the camp
To wipe the dark of heart, nor light a lamp,
I felt: a woman lying on her face—
On a carpet below the bed, clasping
Her wounded heart, and pulling hair in stress,
Blood trickling down, in utter pain, laughing
Still, bursting into a heart-wringing wail,
Now, rend her bodice, now beat breasts gone frail,
And from nowhere winds roared in from windows,
The pouring rains soaked further her sorrows.
Through the night, the storm never ceased to rage,
Nor did my fair lady's passionate cry,
I wandered from room to room, a blind man,
Unremitting sorrows my companion,
And yet none there who could have consoled me,
As I heard the cry: ‘stay back, all is false',
Meher Ali the mad was there, no doubt,
The old tenant of this odd wailing house,
‘Tell me what’s false?' I could not help but ask,
Waving me off was how he responded,
Repeating, ‘stay back, stay back, all is false'.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali, Kshudhaarto Paashaana.
My name's Rocky Balboa,
Some say I'm old as soil;
An' if you call me punchy,
My blood begins to boil!
Mickey's gone to heaven,
Apollo and Adrian too;
Now I'm stuck with Paulie,
A bum without a clue!
I'll wake up in da' morning,
Right at da' crack of dawn;
Shuffle for a block or two,
An' pass out on da' lawn!
"Yo Paulie!"..."Where are you?!"
It's time to start our day;
Don't forget da' liniment,
I only use Ben-Gay!
Let me box my shadow,
For 'dis I have a knack;
"Whoa!!"...I must be crazy,
My shadow punched me back!!
"Drop 'dat Seagram's, Paulie!"
Come help me to da' ring;
Did you pack my 'focals?
'Cause I can't see a thing!
I float like a fire truck,
Sting like a flea;
My feet are tired an' swollen,
Sit ups make me pee!
Ev'ry time I skip rope,
My feet get tangled up;
Who says I need a mouthpiece?
My teeth are in 'dat cup!
Da' punchin' bag's too lumpy,
Push ups makes me sick;
I think I'm gettin' dizzy,
"Somebody help me, quick!!"
I had my millionth fight,
It didn't go too well;
I couldn't leave my corner,
'Cause I never heard da' bell!
Put 'dis one in da' books,
I'm feelin' like a fool;
Have you ever seen a boxer,
Get knocked out on his stool?!
It's time to go home, Paulie!"
We'll never quit 'dis scene;
Get ready for da' sequel,
I'll see you in 'Thirteen!'