Short Oration Poems

words writen on paper
that would ring out louder
than any speech...

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Black
No color
Blank
Without Splendor
No fancy trimmings
No thoughts
Void
Empty
No eloquent oration
No honor
Absent...

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Marc Antony's funeral oration
Masterpiece of shrewd persuasion
  Igniting sundry Romans' fierce desire
  To douse 'noble Brutus' life with fire...

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Don't stop me now, on a roll my friends
Destined for greatness wearing my Depends
As I accept congratulations
Squirming during my oration
Hope no one notices and my speech transcends...

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Don't stop me now, I'm on a roll my friends
Destined for greatness wearing my Depends
As I accept congratulations
Squirming during my oration
Hope no one notices and my speech transcends...

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Should mortification
be justification
for your fortification
  
  Then you need 
  a long vacation  


'Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts...'    
    Marc Antony's 'Funeral Oration' in Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar"...

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Reciting prayers,
Body splayed across the floor,
Reaching for heaven.

Knees gnarled and bent,
Mouth calloused from oration,
Hands clasped tightly shut.

Passionless faith is,
Just ceaseless recitation,
Magic doomed to fade....

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Oh how fine to be read by those who appreciate poetic jargon.
(Someone read my poem!)
Oh so grand to be heard through oration.
(Wow! I heard my poetry out loud!)
But ecstasy is to be understood by those who read or hear our scribed thoughts.
(YES! YES! YES!)...

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Proses and poems
Pictured prevail
Emotions emancipated 
Feelings of frail

Stances and stanzas
Words weaponry
Therapeutic tensions
Designated decree

Odes of oration 
Verses verily victorious 
Whimsical writes
Grandeur of glorious

© Stacy Lynn Stiles...

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Bro Billy Sunday preached that salvation

   Was the key to avoiding damnation

      In pulpits he'd sweat and shout

         And fling his arms all about

            As if fighting bees in his oration!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved...

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In a Sunday wintry air
The pigeons, the sparrows 
And the mocking birds 

Without array 
Congregated themselves 
Outside the family house
 
Listening, intently 
To the noonday oration 
Of Her Majesty, the Queen

Whilst I, I quickly picked
The various colors and shapes 
Of myself, my dignity

Shortly thereafter
She, fumingly, dropped them off
Through the guiltless window...

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Possibility given a voice
Opportunity and multiple choice
Everyone is equal and free
To put pen to page...just try and see.
Real and true to this art
You must be, from the start

Flowery verse or staccato prose
Oration, lyric, iambic, morose
Real emotion, your words must expose

As you write, as you share
Life, love, loss, or despair
Leave your soul on the page...if you dare....

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WHEN SILENCE SPEAKS

There’s a role for quiet contemplation
No need for loud opinion or speeches
More is said without prepared oration
Sensing the depths that stillness reaches
And understanding that silence teaches
Confusion, if a peaceful state is broken
Yet hesitation is no more than a token
From loose lips, perhaps a secret leaks
Words are just words if left unspoken 
One should listen when silence speaks
...

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Sequestered from mundane oration
Until this spell from Earth’s rotation
Meanders from my frozen gaze.
Melting clouds in pastel plush,
Evanescent waning rays,
Recant my vision’s wanderlust.

Slivered shards of ruby hues,
Unflinching wisps of reddish blues,
Nuanced haze in wafting threads,
Supplanting twilight’s blushing gray.
Eventually dusk’s blanket spreads;
The trance is broke – I look away.

-28 Jun 2014-

(Rhyme aabcbc)...

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Crowned the queen of creativity: she is
Always adding aroma to art with alacrity,
Rhyming rhapsodies…and raising red roses.
Oh oasis of outstanding opera! you are
Leading a lively, lovely, lady-like life.

Brown… bold, bright and beautiful! She is my
Red-hot favorite: a rare gem in my roll of honor; always
Opening our minds to overwhelming oration.
Wisdom wanders in her wealthy wells... she
Never niggles at the novice in her noble nursery....

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The afternoon outlined. The sunny strokes
of a samurai blade on her body
revealing things the eyes feign see.
Tempted, wounded, the virgin parchment floats
between her skin and satin cloak.
Artist; afternoon, craving company
draws her inside-out so innocently,
on purpose leaves the yolk indwelling.

The painter in the corner moans,
he jealous of the afternoons artly
sensual oration.
Improving skin, bare olive tones
of subtle pastel, the moment partly lost
to the constellations....

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