Short Paean Poems
Short Paean Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Paean by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Paean by length and keyword.
Disguised as a horse,
Walked the rim of the track
Stepping onto the hippodrome
There was no turning back
Zeus, piqued by this folly
Turned proud steed into donkey
At the wire annoyed spectators
Might think him an ass?
Now, at last, I finally understand:
I can never be complete within myself...
without You, my emotions betray me,
my mind counteracts itself,
hope will flee me, despair will eat me,
unless I reach out for Your love
with a child's open arms....
Oh, you daughters and sons of Man,
Latent heralds of truth,
Oh, you pioneers of hope, peace and mercy,
Sleeping apostles of compassion,
Wake up and join our ever-expanding ranks of love,
You, solemn knights of light,
For it is time that darkness sounds retreat,
Beyond the boundaries of earth!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
24 NOVEMBER 2012
Draw back the curtains at your wake
To welcome in October
And heartily libation take
Lest the old crows find you sober
Invite your fond familiars in
Each cat and rat and magpie
Ignite your jack-o’-lantern grin
And kiss the moon at midnight
Fling far and wide your festive gold
Let no leaf go unvarnished
Stoke hearth and heart against the cold
Lest silver linings tarnish.
What due is this, O feline fierce,
for what affront thus penalized
with calibrated nips that pierce
for soft caress unauthorized?
T’was you with brazen move unasked
who burnished coat upon my limb.
What dire affect iconoclast
did stir your feral feline whim?
The cat is oft like womankind
beyond man's feeble intellect,
a primal spirit state of mind,
requiring manners circumspect.
When life is full in my throat,
I pray with an embryonic want.
I hear the needs
of the innocent and dragons,
they do not seem
so different to me.
The plaintive calls of the lost,
the tigers panting bruit
are not so different.
I am what the egg wants.
I want a pulsating engine
that crashes through the tangle
of this worlds face.
I want a hammer-bright orison
to challenge with a shell-breaking voice.
Skype tells me it’s your birthday, Polly Ross,
a disembodied message from the ether
that nipped me like a redback. “Southern Cross” –
remember that? So, hurl it in my teeth, or
delete me, tweet me, blank me, come across –
do what you will, I’m living with the loss.
You probably no longer give a toss.
If only I’d a cooler glamour-gloss,
could be more Aussie actor (Meller? Heather?)
you’d see the gold, and set aside the dross.
I miss you, need you. There. But you’re the boss …