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Best Poems Written by Mateus Corvinus

Below are the all-time best Mateus Corvinus poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Jehovah



I say Your name, 
I pray the same 
and I feel close to You. 
The word You gave me 
will always keep me 
close to You. 

Our Father! 
King of eternity. 
Most High! 
Creator of all things. 
My Jehovah, 
Your name “Jehovah” 
is what I sing. 

In time You prove 
whatsoever You 
shall prove to be; 
as You become 
whatsoever You 
might need to be. 

Almighty! 
True God of all I see. 
Savior!
Your kingdom come to me.
My Jehovah, 
Your name “Jehovah” 
is what I sing. 

He glorified His name.  
Let it be glorified again. 
He draws close to us
when we draw close to Him—
Jehovah!
We’ll never take His name 
in a worthless way, no not in vain; 
cause He’s not far from us
and He will surely judge the day!
 
I say Your name, 
I pray the same
and I feel close to You. 
The word You gave me 
will always keep me 
close to You. 

Our Father! 
True god of all I see. 
Savior!
Your love alone saves me.
My Jehovah, 
Your name “Jehovah” 
is what I sing.

Details | Mateus Corvinus Poem

I Won'T Cry



If I could have one spoonful 
of your daily feast,
just one spoonful that my eyes
might shed their wanting hue,
I promise not to gloat 
against the raging beast
that like a fire inside 
consumes this empty tomb. 

If I could have one taste
of the sweet grape you drink, 
just one taste that I might know
the joy that stains your lips,
I promise not to dance 
and give you cause to think
that drunkenness is what quivers
these feeble hips. 

If I could spend one night
lying in the bed you keep, 
just one night in silken sheets
and pillows plush with down, 
I promise not to dream 
of things I'll never reap
and tomorrow I’ll return
to my place on the ground. 

Where hope transcends banality 
of shallow breath, 
where longing taunts the poverty 
of daily toil, 
I will resign my innocence 
to certain death, and
I won’t cry as the victors
celebrate the spoils.

Details | Mateus Corvinus Poem

The Runaway



Oh, lord
what’s the use in tryin’? 
Nothin’s turned out
the way I planned. 
I got the whole world
tellin’ me I’m dyin’. 
Think I’ll just lie here with
the Good Book in my hands. 
 
I’m on board
and bound for leavin’. 
No farewells 
from family or friends. 
Guess in the long run
I just broke even   
while I lie here with 
the Good Book in my hands. 

I won’t bother tryin’ 
to sell my soul
before I rest in peace.
I never found 
an ounce of gold in anything 
I claim to believe.
Reminded of my sins 
when I feel that linen 
soft against my skin. 

Oh, lord
too late for cryin’. 
Ran out of reasons
to save this man. 
I see four walls
closin’ in around me 
as I lie here with 
the Good Book in my hands. 

I won’t bother tryin’ 
to sell my soul
before I rest in peace.
I never found 
an ounce of gold in anything 
I claim to believe.
Reminded of my sins 
when I feel that linen 
soft against my skin. 

I got the whole world
tellin’ me I’m dyin’. 
Think I’ll just lie here with
the Good Book, 
die here with the Good Book, 
in my hands.

Details | Mateus Corvinus Poem

When Freedom Rings

 

The bus pulls out for morning routes
on empty streets
as the cops rouse up the homeless 
on the sidewalks sound asleep 
and it’s no surprise. 

A world away one soldier 
makes his father proud 
as the bullets rip the air 
he calls his Savior’s name out loud 
and it’s no surprise. 

When one man makes his fortune 
while a million more go hungry 
with the layoffs and payoffs 
in the name of god and Country
singing “Glory Hallelujah!” we go marching on 
never asking why we don’t hear the angels sing 
when freedom rings. 

Asylum in disorder 
migrants brave the night
they caravan to borders 
asking “Who will save a life?” 
and it’s no surprise. 

We barricade the classrooms
with a wall of hands
between the bully and the gunman 
our kids don’t stand a chance 
and it’s no surprise. 

When one man makes his fortune 
while a million more go hungry 
with the layoffs and payoffs 
in the name of god and Country
singing “Glory Hallelujah!” we go marching on 
never asking why we don’t hear the angels sing
when freedom rings. 
  
(I’ve heard them say 
how much they love this land. 
Tell me again
the progress that we’ve made?) 
 
My sister called me crying 
when my mother passed away 
then the bankers hired their lawyers
to collect on bills unpaid. 

So someone tell my brothers 
that I won’t be coming home 
there’s no love lost between us 
since I struck out on my own
singing “Glory Hallelujah!” boys it’s no surprise 
men like you and I 
we don’t hear the angels sing
don’t ask me why 
we don’t hear the angels sing 
when freedom rings.

Details | Mateus Corvinus Poem

A Daddy's Prayer



Today you learned how to tie 
your shoes all by yourself.
It’s one more day that I’m 
so proud of you.
I’m counting the reasons 
why you still might need my help 
with a million other things 
you’ll want to do. 

Ayva don’t grow up so fast. 
What little time we have 
your mamma’s trying to make it last.
Well, today you’re only three; 
then tomorrow you’re eighteen
Ayva don’t grow up so fast. 

I like it when you hold my hand
when we’re crossing the street.
It’s one more thing maw-maw 
taught you to do. 
The way that your eyes light up
when tickling grandpa’s feet—
like the shooting stars 
are all named after you. 

Ayva don’t grow up so fast. 
What little time we have 
your mamma’s trying to make it last.
Well, today you’re only three; 
then tomorrow you’re eighteen
Ayva don’t grow up so fast. 

And when you find out 
there’s a world wide open 
you’ll say it’s time to make it
on your own. 
That’s when your heart 
should lead the way!

Oh, try to remember 
as you’re falling fast asleep
your mom and dad are always 
here for you. 
We’re counting the reasons
why we both been trying to keep
you from stepping out 
and growing up too soon. 
 
Ayva don’t grow up so fast. 
What little time we have 
your mamma’s trying to make it last.
Well, today you’re only three; 
then tomorrow you’re eighteen
Ayva don’t grow up so fast.

No, Ayva don’t grow up
so fast…

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Gallery



Oil stains on canvas, 
thumbprints on the frame,
the price dangling from the bottom 
on a string and paper tag.

Sculpture in the corner, 
penguin eggs in clay,
all piled in a random pattern 
on a plate made of glass.

Gallery.

Lithography landscapes, 
black and white on gray, 
resigned against a cedar backdrop 
like a stage before a show. 
 
Gallery… in gallery. 
 
If I can keep an open mind, 
messages in crumbs of bread, 
engaging what’s been left behind 
might sweep the cobwebs
from my head… in my head. 
 
Quetzalcoatl rising, 
navigating space, 
the last Chichen Itza villager 
mundane in photograph. 
 
Gallery… in gallery. 
 
If I can keep an open mind, 
messages in crumbs of bread, 
engaging what’s been left behind 
might sweep the cobwebs
from my head… in my head. 
 
Gallery… in gallery.

Details | Mateus Corvinus Poem

Rafter J



Perched within the fair La Plata
just beneath the great San Juans
basking in the starlit rapture 
as the dusk approaches dawn

Lies the point of inspiration 
where lost souls have found their way
each unto the revelation
offered there in Rafter J. 

Abandoned by the Anasazi 
tamed by Ute and Navajo 
across the river Animas 
between the rock and blinding snow

Lies a spiritual awakening, 
visions of the ancient ways, 
a timeless wisdom rising, breaking 
through the beams in Rafter J. 

A refuge in the course uncharted 
a tower of hope where love redeems
to bring us back to where we started
in our youth and with our dreams

To find our peace there in the mountains,  
find the God to whom we pray, 
to find new life there in the fountains
springing forth from Rafter J.

Details | Mateus Corvinus Poem

The Fiddler



She was raised on the shorelines of Lake Wawasee
her mother a full-blooded Miami
and her father now buried on Syracuse Hill 
said she will have his eyes. 

She’ll always remember the day that he died
with fading breath he called her to his side
and he played her a song, he knew was the one, 
that she loved as a child… 
that she loved as a child.
 
And, oh, when that fiddle would call for its bow
his hands would begin soft and slow
and the strings they would sing through the night. 
They would sing through the night. 
 
*

The tears and the years made her spirit free
the summer before she turned seventeen 
she went out on her own and her mother can still
see the will in her eyes. 
 
She played in the taverns and out on the streets
she played for the strangers that she would meet
like that maple and spruce, and hickory bow, 
was a part of her soul… 
was the heart of her soul.
 
And, oh, when that fiddle would call for its bow
her hands would begin soft and slow
and the strings they would sing through the night. 
They would sing through the night. 

*

She traveled the world over land and high seas
the audiences cheered and rose to their feet
when the legend lived on and she played the song 
that she loved as a child… 
that she loved as a child. 
 
And, oh, when that fiddle would call for its bow
their hands would begin soft and slow 
and the strings they would sing through the night. 
They would sing through the night.

Details | Mateus Corvinus Poem

A Child's Poem



I saw a cloud go drifting by
and doing so I cast my eye
upon another puff of white
following the first one’s flight. 
 
The two they traveled stern to bow
by wind and sky I know not how
but onward, onward they did sail 
their speed increasing with the gale. 
 
So what am I to do at last
just sit and watch the clouds go past 
or follow them to lands beyond? 
Yes! Follow them to lands beyond!

Details | Mateus Corvinus Poem

The Course



“You must not serve an other’s dream,”
so said The Man when lately asked,
“your soul drinks from a different stream
that spills the life that soon shall pass.” 

His words did taunt the untrained ear 
and felled me prostrate on the ground 
arousing me with poem, this prayer, 
that I have humbly written down: 
 
“Wind-withered arrows split the air 
and meet their target straight and true; 
if only fate could likewise snare 
the future coveted by you.”  
 
“Such dismal thoughts of wasted time
keep chipping at the marbled brim
the jagged rocks they leave behind 
will someday trip us up again.” 
 
“Rest easy in the silent search 
for all too soon we stand fulfilled 
while ecstasy from one’s rebirth
ignores the young and weak of will.” 
 
“Oh, king of your inner domain, 
ruler of your own remorse, 
remember that we live again 
still free to choose or change the course!”