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Best Poems Written by Solomon Storm

Below are the all-time best Solomon Storm poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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What Am I, Chopped Liver

i posted poems earlier, why no reviews?

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That Was Then, This Is Now

In the wind that blows with the rain
is a man with a past very dark
lonesome he was, and in pain
through years all fruitless and stark

now, life for him is beautiful and new
the tears and fears of old have no power
the long journey is nearly through
as the gale becomes a spring shower

this life has in cycles and circles been led
round and round, up and down, before and after
countless are the tears he has shed
yet sometimes smiles too, and laughter

once a beggar, then a king, then a beggar again
in ignorance and blindness he once stumbled
now dimly seeing, the man does begin
to awaken and realize how he tumbled

it was drugs!  it was drink!
it was "i"
he barely noticed the brink
then, shuddering, he...

looked forward, and then peered behind
seeing nothing, then looking back he recoiled
he had been no king, noble and kind
but a knave, a slave, still bleeding and soiled

so close to his grave, yet so far from his heart
ruled by feelings, urges, and addictions
and attended by demons, all playing a part
in dramatic delusions, and fantastic fictions

thinking life was lost, and the end was near
all was in vain, and no credit was due
he set out to change from need and from fear
and he stumbled some more it is true

but that first moment of sight will never be over
a feeling worse than can be described
once a carefree wanderer and restless rover
he became an accuser who couldn't be bribed

that was then, this is now
and i have reason to believe
the way is clear, and is how
to renew, not to fail, or to grieve

and one fine day, clear and bright
the light will grace his rising frace
what was wrong will be right
and he will be done with the chase

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Thank You, Rhank You, No Applause Please, Just Throw Money

what can i do
who could i be
i don't want to be you
i've got to be me

yes, i've a need to grow
to live and learn
the world isn't my foe
but a friend i must earn

i was generally opposed
to being societies clone
but now hell has proposed
and i can not condone

i only seek to be a better man
though the way isn't always clear
i do believe, i have, and still can
a changed man sits writing here

i'm not what i was "then"
years ago is not today
though maybe not a respectable man
i'm more okay, and just want to say

!@!%#$@^%#$%  YOU!

thank you, thank you

woops, relapse!

Details | Solomon Storm Poem

The Wisdom of the Ages

THE WISDOM OF THE AGES
gently, the breeze wafted, past the me
as i stood sentinal to the grass
empty now i lay so silently
as the world swirls, and whirls on past

the birds flitter about 'pon my head
leaving marks of white and grey
i've no indignation, now, being dead
i find i'm much more unflappable today

a headstone, a marker, a name in stone
memories live on in others, oh so finite, lives
but for me i'm quite bored, and all alone
only my name in stone survives

gently , the breeze wafts past me
as i wait, for eternity

to pass.

sometimes, i wish, i had accomplished something
like, something that would have made me immortal, then
what would riches, and honor, and glory bring
that i should ever hear my name again?

to conquer, invent, to carve in stone?
to found an empire, a nation, company, or state
what, after all, would laws and society condone?
after all, the New World wouldn't forever wait

the Incas, the Mayas, the Dakotahs, too
just couldn't wait
for folks like me, or probably you
is it much to late?

namer of nations, up to me, what would i say?
statues in honor, what would i be?
still, i'm here, i found no earthly way
to live on, eternally

as me

and , if there was a way to found some earthly dynasty
i think that it wouldn't have been free
my world would have been burdened with my me
and wouldn't have been quite so free

gently, the breeze wafts past my me
and goes on and on, wild and free

of me

they say with age comes wisdom
now i'm so smart
if i could found a kingdom
i wouldn't start

i'd plant a field, raise a daughter, and a son
and try to ignore
everyone.

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Myself

in the bindings of fear,
though anger is distortion
a solution draws near
and this change is NOT contortion

i admit, and yet believe
there is much good to be drawn from bad
opportunity knocks, then it may leave
and this is the biggest chance i've had

i did not know, i failed to realize
that my self sufficiency was a lie
the love and adoration in others eyes
is what i measured myself by

but it is not what is in anothers heart
that defines us, of our own
it is ourselves, that may set us apart
OUR words, and works alone

there is both encrouching darkness, and light
in the compass of the human condition we share
we see evil and good, with the same sight
looking out, but look in, and beware

i think to scoff, and ridicule another
is to deny in you the same
everyones feelings make them sister, or brother
in the well of emotion from which we all came

i seen through your eyes, and reckoned
myself to have been okay
and then fate twisted, and beckoned
one cold, and windswept day

inward i peered
and seen what i feared

myself

think not that i don't see
the weakness, and strength, in me

myself

Details | Solomon Storm Poem

Serius, the Syrian Sorcerer

Serius, Arch Nemisis of such bliss
that you woulodn't know to miss
the beating of your heart inside 
or the doors of hades swinging wide

and the gentlest carresses of the dragons tongue
leaving traces of sulphourous flaming nether-dung
'pon your head, though had you read, you'd know
the stygain darkling doors near, creaking woe

serius, enchanting stalwart scoin of royal lineage, going back to hell
from which, i swear, my oldest ansestral memory, is of that day i fell
from heavens trumpt up majesty, through a very vale of tears
to land here among these people, and their many lovely lively fears

an eye i wiped, and without an upward glance
i set about to make the best, of my every chance
to find employers fit for me, apprentise as i was back then
to try to fit in with this crowd, so evil was this race of men

gently, trepidations palpitate, this cavern of flame within my chest
i wandered to and fro, trying my levelest best
to figure out how to compete, with Adams vicious broods
still on my guard, still atremble, they have such moods

to and fro, yet still i go
aworried and afrighted, don't you know
i kneel and pray, to God above, for His grace
trapped in this so beknighted place

often

to and fro, to and fro

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Gratitude

Gratitude
--------

desperate madness, and aching sadness once held me tight
now, unexplainable memories, NOT unendurable, that's right
time went on, and beautiful love shone through
between quivering me, and radiant you

now, these eyes see quite a bit clearer
shadows faded as the sun drew nearer
darkness shrank away, and the fog lifted
as objectives grew longer, viewpoints have shifted

the man you once knew, has changed
i was wrapped up in self, blindly deranged
swallowed by fear, and lost within sin
like Jonas, from these depths i'll rise again

cast out, from the beast to the shore
slowly drying, crying, " I will swim no more!"
warmer blood, faster flowing, melts the ice in my veins
i realize where i've been, and discard his chains

set free again, each and every day
to enjoy the world in a new way
not watching for the axe to fall
or adding another brick to the wall

i see people in a new light, through God above
reformed with help and hope, renewed through love
" i thank you all, for being there
because now i know that people care

and my heart swells with gratitude
for each one of the multitude"

stanzas in parentheses are dated, at this point, people suck!

Details | Solomon Storm Poem

Woe Is Me

the past is past
and the now can't last
time flies fast
and the stones i've cast

make the future a suture
on the scars of the present
in this kingdom of kings, i'm a peasant
it's not pleasant

my castle is ramshackle, in the woods
my sceptre a stick from a tree
i'd change the world if i could
it's hard enough being me

i follow a meandering path
stepping aside to avoid wrath
but only into a puddle of pee
oh, woe is me

bad luck, or no luck,often dumbstruck
head lice, rats, mice, a dog in my bed
dreaming of loveing a woman instead

this is really not the way
don't really know how to say

this...

i guess i'm busy braiding rope
getting stronger as it gets longer, i hope
i'll not tie a noose yet
not willing to let

darkness overcome

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Treasure

these are the words of a seeker of light
a believer in the knowledge of old
through our fathers we reach a new height
from their lives, and the stories they've told

we must never forget, or sunder the ties
that binds us all to our past
for that is where our virtue lies
honoring them, our Nations will last

the river is calling out to be free
and the sky, is where it's spirit will fly
now, i hear the gentle voice of the tree
gathering the winds, as they go by


the fish in the river frolic with the bait
as our men on the bank strive to catch some
they seldom see them, yet still they wait
landing a few, whose time has come

the dog is silent, and watching for now
the beaver is home dry, and resting
we could be as free, if we knew how
to ride lifes wave to its' cresting

there are birds on the water, and some overhead
they float, or soar, with the ease of belonging
each content to live where God has led
feeling no sense of lacking, or longing

deer come down to the shallows to drink
then return, to lay again in the shade
they have no reason for fear, they think
knowing somehow, our meals are all made

i look to my poeple, and see reflections of me
listen to the shouts, of the children at their game
i am at peace, and the spirits agree
this land and our TREASURE, are one and the same

we've cars now, and jobs for the taking
and fierce pride in anscestors long gone
ours is a "new" life, of our own making
and our Fathers are still with us, as we go on

living this life that we love
with peace, and harmony in the sharing
looking always to God above
for He is "Creator", alive, and still caring

as long as our Mother, this land, is still somewhere
and Wakan Tonka (?) lives in my heart
then where i am,  He is there
nobility, honor, pow'r and love cannot part

all this concrete, these people, so different from me
that surrounds, and closes off my horizons
all the baubles, light, shadows, trinkets, and wares that i see
can't seperate me from  the Wise Ones

they are only proof that i'm free

and i can still go home

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Perfect Art

gently
before me

on a desk, or a table
rests the means to enable
me to craft a new fable
to run and leap like the sable
a squirrel scampering upon a gable

to perch on high

level with the treetops
even with the dew drops
before they appear on leaves and grass
and as the moments pass
above the uncouth, the crass, with aplomb and class

to perch on high

not a computer, monitor, or screen
but a single piece of white paper, pristine, clean
and a pencil, or a pen
this is one of my favorite things, always available again
for me to clutter up with poetry, it's a religeous experience, maybe a sin

to perch on high, and then, to fly

above this work of still life, a pregnant moment, this glory
how do i get across to a mere animal like many of we
the potential, the opportunity, the act of creation
the pantheon of art, intellect, and creativity, the nearly divine relation
of a pencil, or pen, and one single piece of paper, the correlation

of inspiration, asperation, imagination, an elations flirtation

with all of creation, and even with the Creater, all the world and history
all possible, sometimes, probable, once in a while, we'll get to Be,
creatively

this mere human being, this mammal, this fallable and maelable man
may one day be as close to God, as, say, a squirrel, a sable, a dog or a cat
created as perfect as God intended, then staying that way
us?  this world is sick and evil, faded, jaded, and peopled with egos based
entirely on waste, differences of taste
being better than, largely by plan, and lies, by intention and ignorance, like flies

i was perched on high, minutes ago, almost
(computers, phah!)

there is a certain amount of gratification in crumbling up a piece of paper
when faced with the fact, that what i've created is trash

getting another one
setting it down
setting a pencil or pen on it
and starting over.  perfectly.  gently.  what is that moment?

to fly

perfection, and me, trying to be, to become, to create,  
really, it seems everything i write or draw is a waste of time
it was perfect before i picked up the pen, now look what i've done!

delete?
phah!  can you think of a title, a word that defines the moment described?

p.s.  i am ussually surrounded by malevolent cretins, nobody on this site is a mere animal, 
my apologies if you are!