pawprints:
Post by Bluecifer on Jul 22, 2016 9:55:58 GMT -6
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POEMS
This is a poem I had done for school, in regards to justice or injustice.
--
Justice is black and silvery steel, the flash of an axe and the perfect ideal.
Justice is the final sterility of a blade, dealing endings to those who towards evil have strayed.
Justice is fire, scorching and bright, the burning of pyres and cleansing of blight.
Justice is one man’s hero and another man’s tyrant, a protector or killer, swift but not silent.
Justice is the face of the feared Timur, and the slaughter of seventy thousand mutineers and schemers.
Justice is a stony face and a pair of piercing eyes, an unrelenting force dividing truth from lies.
Justice is like lightning, shattering the peace around – horrible, unstoppable, deafening, unchained and unbound.
Justice is the ghastly truth which defies the human soul, but exists for the good of survival, and humanity as a whole.
--
This was when I was a wee little kid who thought I was Christian. A poem about the saint of poetry.
--
Brigit of Cell Dara, a savior and thief,
Was born brighter than the sun, and as warm and as lief,
With a passion to give, most times without asking,
And honesty unbound, a hero’s unmasking.
Her long giving life began in 453,
Where she lived out her first years with hardly a plea,
As she worked like her mother on a slave owner’s lands,
Then was finally brought home to her true father’s hands.
She grew and she loved and she gave all she owned,
And made a brash choice which then angered the throne.
Brigit stole the prized sword that belonged to her house,
Then gave it to a leper who had asked for a mouse.
She quickly was pardoned, and moved then to preach.
She opened a place, from which she did teach,
A retreat named Cell Dara, the church of the oak,
Where virgins have stayed, and spirits have woke.
Saint Patrick saw her worth, and her fiery soul,
And ordained her a Bishop, to fulfill her holy role.
When his actions brought attention, he said to the kings,
“So be it, my son, she is destined for great things.”
From poets and children and dear dairy maids,
To nuns and people with traveling trades,
Brigid blesses these, and so many more,
She loved all of Ireland, from shore to bright shore.
Her love of a poet and her wandering heart,
Has left me in wishing to follow her art,
And so I stand here and lament her tale,
So I might just rise up and, like her, prevail.
---
Next one here is an old 'Reflections' poem about Imagination.
--
First of the five is where Freedom hides,
Its wild winds the source of the spark in our lives,
With unruly nature does this one exist,
And the storms it creates are hard to resist.
The second holds home for Wonder’s warm breeze,
A smooth, eager current that one rides with ease,
This beautiful work, this brilliant light,
Is the key to finding the way in the night.
This third of five feathers holds Faith close to heart,
With near constant strength does this wise gust impart,
Generations of knowledge, of tradition and trust,
And it’s firm guiding voice shows the path that is just.
Key four is elusive, for Expression is shy,
With it’s breath just a whisper, and it’s influence a sigh,
This feather needs care for the fact to be known,
That an idea is worth little if it is not shown.
Feather number five carries the unending Soul,
A current without cease, ever flowing towards a goal,
A life without living would one come to lead,
If the infinity of this key was not guaranteed.
If the feathers are my Self, and my life a zephyr,
May Imagination be the horizon, towards which I forever fly.
--
Justice is black and silvery steel, the flash of an axe and the perfect ideal.
Justice is the final sterility of a blade, dealing endings to those who towards evil have strayed.
Justice is fire, scorching and bright, the burning of pyres and cleansing of blight.
Justice is one man’s hero and another man’s tyrant, a protector or killer, swift but not silent.
Justice is the face of the feared Timur, and the slaughter of seventy thousand mutineers and schemers.
Justice is a stony face and a pair of piercing eyes, an unrelenting force dividing truth from lies.
Justice is like lightning, shattering the peace around – horrible, unstoppable, deafening, unchained and unbound.
Justice is the ghastly truth which defies the human soul, but exists for the good of survival, and humanity as a whole.
--
This was when I was a wee little kid who thought I was Christian. A poem about the saint of poetry.
--
Brigit of Cell Dara, a savior and thief,
Was born brighter than the sun, and as warm and as lief,
With a passion to give, most times without asking,
And honesty unbound, a hero’s unmasking.
Her long giving life began in 453,
Where she lived out her first years with hardly a plea,
As she worked like her mother on a slave owner’s lands,
Then was finally brought home to her true father’s hands.
She grew and she loved and she gave all she owned,
And made a brash choice which then angered the throne.
Brigit stole the prized sword that belonged to her house,
Then gave it to a leper who had asked for a mouse.
She quickly was pardoned, and moved then to preach.
She opened a place, from which she did teach,
A retreat named Cell Dara, the church of the oak,
Where virgins have stayed, and spirits have woke.
Saint Patrick saw her worth, and her fiery soul,
And ordained her a Bishop, to fulfill her holy role.
When his actions brought attention, he said to the kings,
“So be it, my son, she is destined for great things.”
From poets and children and dear dairy maids,
To nuns and people with traveling trades,
Brigid blesses these, and so many more,
She loved all of Ireland, from shore to bright shore.
Her love of a poet and her wandering heart,
Has left me in wishing to follow her art,
And so I stand here and lament her tale,
So I might just rise up and, like her, prevail.
---
Next one here is an old 'Reflections' poem about Imagination.
--
First of the five is where Freedom hides,
Its wild winds the source of the spark in our lives,
With unruly nature does this one exist,
And the storms it creates are hard to resist.
The second holds home for Wonder’s warm breeze,
A smooth, eager current that one rides with ease,
This beautiful work, this brilliant light,
Is the key to finding the way in the night.
This third of five feathers holds Faith close to heart,
With near constant strength does this wise gust impart,
Generations of knowledge, of tradition and trust,
And it’s firm guiding voice shows the path that is just.
Key four is elusive, for Expression is shy,
With it’s breath just a whisper, and it’s influence a sigh,
This feather needs care for the fact to be known,
That an idea is worth little if it is not shown.
Feather number five carries the unending Soul,
A current without cease, ever flowing towards a goal,
A life without living would one come to lead,
If the infinity of this key was not guaranteed.
If the feathers are my Self, and my life a zephyr,
May Imagination be the horizon, towards which I forever fly.
Made by Riley at THQ!
