Epic Poems
The Last To Leave
by Leon Gellert
The guns were silent, and the silent hills
had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze
I gazed upon the vales and on the rills,
And whispered, "What of these?' and "What of these?
These long forgotten dead with sunken graves,
Some crossless, with unwritten memories
Their only mourners are the moaning waves,
Their only minstrels are the singing trees
And thus I mused and sorrowed wistfully
......
Imagination
by Jin S. Byun
Imagine thunder and lightening streaking across the moonlit sky,
streets are torn apart oozing out fiery lava.
The Earth is barren and the once colorful oceans all dry,
as a single warrior walks out of the fire as Earth's last savior. Imagine a heroic knight dashing across the shallow mirrored lake, as his mighty horse gallops with unnerving speed.
Dressed in garments of pure white like a snowflake, the knight races to the mystical castle to rescue the winged steed. Imagine a palace built of blue-tinted glass,
the color of light-blue topaz after cut and polished to a finish.
The bearded wizard chants ancient dialect of the past,
to summon the mythical creature that no person had dared wish. Imagination is the foundation to bring the world closer together,
creating your own version of the story for generations.
From nursery rhymes to epic novels retold forever,
......
Don Juan: Canto The Fourteenth
by George Gordon Byron
If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss--
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.
But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
......
Don Juan: Canto The Eighth
by George Gordon Byron
The town was taken--whether he might yield
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now:
His stubborn valour was no future shield.
Ismail's no more! The Crescent's silver bow
Sunk, and the crimson Cross glar'd o'er the field,
But red with no redeeming gore: the glow
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,
Was imag'd back in blood, the sea of slaughter.
All that the mind would shrink from of excesses;
......
The Revelation
by Robert William Service
The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut;
Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut;
Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train:
Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?
We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen;
They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men.
We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew;
But when we go back to our Sissy jobs, -- oh, what are we going to do?
......
The day of rage
by Phillip Nine-Mafunga
He rode on a colt
To raid our vault
While sychophants find no fault
We have to bring this to a hault
By the gun an'the bullet as we revolt
All that fat will not hold
Our rage will bring all this to nought
PHILLIP NINE MAFUNGA
28 JULY 2024
Echo, Bells of Harmony
by Quinn Smorenburg
Echo, bells of harmony.
Ring your radiance down valleys
so cold. Shatter black ice covering
land. Make heavy shapes get up
and stand. Your gift guides paradise,
coming this way.
Resound, oh bells of harmony.
Fold your music as solid and shove
every ear idly lying; their souls slowly dying.
......
Woman And War
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
We women teach our little sons how wrong
And how ignoble blows are; school and church
Support our precepts and inoculate
The growing minds with thoughts of love and peace.
‘Let dogs delight to bark and bite, ’ we say;
But human beings with immortal souls
Must rise above the methods of the brute
And walk with reason and with self-control.
And then – dear God! you men, you wise, strong men,
......
The Revelation
by Robert William Service
The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut;
Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut;
Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train:
Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?
We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen;
They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men.
We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew;
But when we go back to our Sissy jobs, -- oh, what are we going to do?
......
Kathleen
by Robert William Service
It was the steamer Alice May that sailed the Yukon foam.
And touched in every river camp from Dawson down to Nome.
It was her builder, owner, pilot, Captain Silas Geer,
Who took her through the angry ice, the last boat of the year;
Who patched her cracks with gunny sacks and wound her pipes with wire,
And cut the spruce upon the banks to feed her boiler fire;
Who headed her into the stream and bucked its mighty flow,
And nosed her up the little creeks where no one else would go;
Who bragged she had so small a draft, if dew were on the grass,
With gallant heart and half a start his little boat would pass.
......
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Arthur Patchett Martin (1 poems about Epic)
18 February 1851 – 15 February 1902 / Woolwich, Kent, England -