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Best Complain Poems | Poetry

Below are the all-time best Complain poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of complain poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Complain Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Complain poems are below this new poems list.

No Reason To Complain by harris, matthew
Don't Vote, Don't Complain by TheKidster, Billy
Something to Complain by Hauser , Mike
Obey First And Never Complain by Asuncion, Bernard F.
Douse that prophetic fire by nightfall, sir, or the neighbours will complain by Scutts, Julian
I can't complain by Jack , Kelvin
I'll Not Complain - Canzonetta by Berggren, Alfred
I Complain by Lee Sr., James Edward
Complain today by Ochwo-Oburu, Solomon
When Thy Chains Are Too Heavy, Do Not Complain by Lindley, Robert

View all new Complain Poems

The Best Complain Poems

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When Madness Rides on Moonlight

Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.

Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.

His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer. 
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.

Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link. 
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.

He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained. 
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.

The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.




Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011


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A Letter to God

  

I wrote a letter to God and I had to ask why,
He allowed so much suffering and little people had to die?
One’s that had never caused trouble or done anybody harm,
Taken before they experienced life, plucked from their mothers arms.

He said answer me this, why did my son have to suffer and die?
Nailed to that cross I couldn’t even watch, all I could do was turn my head and cry!
What trouble did He cause, what harm did He do?
And all for what, He did it for you.

He said you couldn’t comprehend all the things that daily take place,
And all I ask is your trust till we meet face to face.
He said all things have a reason and someday you will know,
But you must trust in my word so your faith will blossom and grow.

I said Lord please forgive me if I sounded out of line,
It seems like all we ever do is complain, ask for mercy, or whine.
I know that you are busy so I guess I will close,
Thank You for listening and my love I enclose.



Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2009


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When Madness Rides on Moonlight

Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.

Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.

His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers. 
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.

Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link. 
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.

He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained. 
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.



Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010


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The Voice

                               The Voice…

In a dark night that was darker than my pain,
     nothing was there for me except to complain.
I hid myself within emptiness of bed,
     nothing was there except, loneliness instead .
I heard a sound that was not like any sound.
     Joyously called my name, sought me, and then found.
He told me to get up, wake up, look at dawn,
     the darkness of the night soon will be all gone.
The voice told me that morning dawn full of light;
     has a power to wash darkness from its night.
The voice asked me that what happened to my youth.
     That I am old and grey, with forgotten truth.
I asked him that who are you and what are you?
     I don't know you, didn’t see you passing through.
Who are you that suddenly came to my room?
     Aren’t you God, and I am, meeting my doom?
I called your name many times when I was young.
     I prayed your name day and night with broken tongue.
Now you are calling my name at this day and age,
     not worth talking to you, anger, creates rage.
I am too old and I had too many sins,
     Living is only game that nobody wins.
Go and bother another soul beside me,
     I am tired of you, you shall never be.
The voice told me that I am out of my mind,
     and I have been beguiled, as though I am blind.
He told me that he was with me the whole time.
     He let me to fly, in this paradigm.
He told me that he is the end of a start.
     He is the love that cries from an aching heart.
He told me that he is water in a spring,
     he is that nightingale who so blithely sing.  
He told me that he is bottom and he’s up.
     He is grape and he is wine in the same cup.
He told me that he gave feathers for a flight.
     He made it so the sun shall set within night.
I asked him that if I see you with my eyes,
     I will be like the moon,light up the night skies.
That I looked for any sign to believe you,
     with just all promises, dreams may grow blue.
He told me to wake up, open up my eyes,
     and see what is to see, blessing in disguise.
I did open my eyes saw a glowing bright,
     like a drifting shadow in ocean of light.
I saw my son saying "wake up! wake up!, dad",
     What is matter with you, are you going mad?

5/14/16 


Copyright © Pashang Salehi | Year Posted 2016


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My Parting Gifts


                 My Parting Gifts…

Goodbye my son, my only king.
You are my love, your name I sing. 
My wish was more to be with you,
to be with you, and see you through.
This is my fate to leave you now,
my dread was this, to tell you how.
I’m going away, place unknown. 
The way I lived was not my own.
I am going, to ease my pain.
Letting you go, is my complain.
I am with you, with morning dawn.
Kissing with breeze until it’s gone.
My parting gifts to you my son,
to live your life, the way is fun.
Surrender to, the thing you love,
what measures love, grows above.
To get knowledge to find out why;
what is this life to you and I?
Me and you both, we are oneness.
There is no fear, to feel darkness.
I am going without goodbye,
Remember me the way I fly. 


2/16/16 Haloo

For: AJ




Copyright © Pashang Salehi | Year Posted 2016


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The Third Station

The Third Station

Weak and tired I fall on rough cobbled stones.
Blood oozed down my face across my cheek bones.
My knees are bruised and pain spreads from my brain, 
The wooden bar hurting my back again.

Man must learn as I accept my bad fall.
The time must come for you to confess all.
I fall but sinless I still bear your sins, 
Get up, repent and a new life begins.

Still I suffer as lashes hit my back,
For soldiers hate and like a wolfish pack
They just wish me arrive up on the hill
Whilst Pharisaic zealots curse me ill. 

Yet I speak not one sole word nor complain.
I suffer pain and pray all's not in vain.
Sturdy hands roughly urge and lift me up.
Gives me my cross, I drink my bitter cup.

I came to save humanity from hell, 
That I might see you all in Heaven dwell.
Haltingly I trudge on the cobbled rocks, 
Die on a cross. O happy paradox.

POTD 20 March 2018


Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2018


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When Madness Rides on Moonlight

Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.

Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.

His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer. 
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.

Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link. 
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.

He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained. 
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.

The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.



Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015


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Asylum Bound

I'm not really sure how to explain 
This strange feeling with my feeble brain-
It's driving me a new kind of insane.

If I believed in love, then in love I would be. 
This bitter, cold heart is set ablaze inside me 
Just hearing your name- I melt at the sound. 
Without you my dear, I'd be asylum bound. 

I'm not really sure how to explain
This madness taking over my brain-
It's driving me a new kind of insane. 

Well, I'm not quite sure I can complain 
About the thoughts of you that consume my brain- 
They're driving me a good kind of insane. 

If I believed in love, then in love I would be. 
This bitter, cold heart is set ablaze inside me
Just hearing your name- I melt at the sound.  
Without you my dear, I'd be asylum bound.

If I believed in love, then in love we would be. 
You set this bitter, cold heart ablaze inside me. 
I only feel sane when you come around- 
Without you my dear, I'll be asylum bound. 

No, I'm not quite sure how to explain
This strange new feeling with my feeble brain-
But my dear, you drive me perfectly insane.

By Anne Currin

For Valentines Day Contest 


Copyright © Anne Currin | Year Posted 2013


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Small Gifts God's Work

small gifts - contributing to other's happiness? # show me a man or woman of simple mind people who we commonly term as slow # point out ====> people  of simple means<==== the poor,  the sick,  the hungry. {direct me to someone of simple needs a person with his ear to the ground.} find me* : a so called loser: with a winning smile! the kind you   -photograph- then   -file- let me find a giving person of "warm heart" a parent who loves their child (ren) bring them forward  ~ the diseased ~ that never complain or cry' gather  the  people  too kind  to ask. [the child]  quietly  lost inside ! round up ! the addicts,  the homeless, the ones who accept their stock in life that never would even think to steal or lie (huddled)  like embryos happy to quietly die. show me.......................families  with................adjoining hearts one for  all and all  for one  in practice not just words. people who give of their time to help the  .......................................................................needy who travel to third world countries  ~~~~~~make the ultimate sacrifice. show me a person kind a person of simple mind show me a person considers their acts no more than a small gift i'll show you a person closer to God then you or i. 05~12~2014 Sponsor: Brian Johnston Contest Name: Small Gifts - Contributing to Other's Happiness


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014


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Egos on Display

So many people complain when they lose

To gain better rankings, judges they schmooze

And if they don’t place, their egos are bruised

They even use blogs simply to recuse

To some extent, these attacks may amuse

But their true intent is to light a fuse

Comments from favor seekers surely ooze

Superlatives they always overuse

They don’t know how to give honest reviews

“Luv” is a word they quite often misuse

Seeking to have their poems perused

But tell them the truth and they’ll sing the blues

It’s a game of getting comments and views

If you don’t play, they will transfuse

Words of anger from an inadequate muse





Copyright © Diane Locksley | Year Posted 2011


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No More Soup For Me

I sought a place to post my poems and thought I'd found a fit for me.
At first I was thrilled and felt I belonged to a pleasant community
But I lost my taste for soup and then came to the sour realization
That it's a site of more takers than givers, one rife with idolization.
It's overdue for me to take my leave. This is a place I no longer belong.
I've had enough of those who can't seem to tell what's right from wrong.

I don't want to read nasty words from writers who use vulgarity
or comments of praise that were made without thought to sincerity.
I never liked the idea of 'you read my poetry so I'll read yours, too.'
A tit for tat mentality?  Isn't that what politicians and children do?
I don't want to be in a place where people argue, fight, and grumble
or with those pretending to be nice, but complain of others in mumbles.

I never thought my poetry was on par or better than many in the soup
but I was pleased with what I posted among all those in the group.
Scripture tells me to consider others superior, so I have lowliness of mind.
Humility is a quality I wish to emulate, so it's on humble pie I've dined.
I don't have an ego though accused of having one. I'm not pretentious
but this soup has those who are eager to be obstinate and contentious.

Pointing fingers and throwing insults?   It sounds infantile but it's true.
I've even been called a hypocrite by one who shares this site with you.
No judgement will I make of the one who stoops to callow name-calling.
Reaping what we sow is always the repercussion of what's befalling.
I've not mentioned any names because I prefer exiting on the high road. 
We're all responsible for our choices and some people have no honor code.

A poetry site should be a place of camaraderie, not one of self-defense.
A place where encouragement reigns, where no one is stressed and tense.
Galatians warns to stay away from dissension, hostility, envy, and jealousy,
so in accordance with His Words, this soup is not a place where I should be.
In the eight months I've been around I met some of you who were kind.
I hope you know you meant a lot to me and will often cross my mind.

I'm moving on to enriching phases of what's important in my life.
I wish everyone well  -  no hard feelings  -  no bitterness or strife.
My hand still holds a pen so I'll write when the words fill my head
Time for me to take my leave.  In soup waters I'll no longer tread.


Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2016


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Life is Short

it seems in just the twinkling of an eye
life passes by
and one's left at the brink
with time to think
before the fall 
into the great abyss
where did time go?

For some, life is short
for others, long
But the years don't count
Nor do the hours
It's the moments which capture eternity

You can live a lifetime in a moment
and face death happy and proud
for eternity has been tasted and lived
Cowardice kills
Bravery lives
Be brave enough to follow your dreams
Don't settle for second best
Mediocrity weighs you down
numbs and suffocates
Cling to your passion
Blaze in its flame
be honest with your soul
in that bid to be whole...
BE HONEST WITH YOUR SOUL!

When you deny your soul
you start to die

Above all....
LOVE
with PASSION
as if this were the last time
your lips were to taste
desire's embrace
or eyes were to see
that blessed face
Don't make haste
LIVE

Love
Love is the sum total of life
if you have loved
you have lived...
and if you have truly lived love's life
you can die content
for eternity has been yours
for a moment 
in
time

Jade Celeste

I recently showed some photos to my class of a young man in his twenties who lost his battle with Cystic Fibrosis. His sister is my daughter's age, and once when she visited Cyprus, I took her and my daughter and another friend out. She loved me and added me on Facebook. I've followed her brother's journey with avid interest and pain. Her younger brother has cystic fibrosis as well, and her husband has it. He recently had a lung transplant...and for a time, Hannah didn't know if he would make it to the wedding. So much pain in her life. I've recently shared on FB at her request, a site where people can make donations to raise awareness about Cystic Fibrosis. My heart aches for her in her time of mourning. We complain about insignificant things, when all Ben wanted was to be able to breathe free and LIVE!!!

What is life? The Bible says that it's like a flower...here today and gone tomorrow. We complain...about so many things...not realizing that every day we live is a gift that's not guaranteed to many.  We need to cherish those who matter. Live life to the full. Find and grasp happiness. LIVE LOVE....LOVE! :) That's the sum total of life.


Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015


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To Charmaine

There was a girl named Charmaine
So sweet, not one to complain
Her words did ignite
Put flames in the night
Her rhymes are pretty not plain

Her use of each metaphor
Will lead to visions galore
Like honey and cream
They sweeten each dream
That’s why her rhymes we adore

She writes with class and finesse
Each line has her sweet caress
She flirts with the moon
And makes poets swoon
Her heart is sweet, I confess

So, Girl…here’s looking at you
You bring us visions brand new 
Your words are sublime
They have a sweet chime
For you're are a poet so true

Eileen Manassian

I’m blessed to call Charmaine a friend. I adore her heart and her spirit. She doesn’t have a shadow of malice in her sweet character. Her poetry is of the finest…and yet she is so humble about it. This was inspired by her latest poem….I Think of You. It is just…..sublime. I truly can’t do it justice. Love you, Charmaine….I truly do!!






Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015


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YOU'RE MY INSPIRATION - DEDICATED TO MY AMAZING MUM

How do I begin to describe you Such an incredible person Yet even now you doubt your abilities You lost your own mum when you were eight - you never ever got over it You worked all your life, started off by working in a bank for almost 20 years Then when you had children you ran a village shop from home But also helped run the smallholding where we lived You even had an evening job to bring in extra income Then you began working in a care home and that had a big impact on you At 50 you changed direction in life and studied and trained to be a nurse No mean fete with two children to bring up When you retired you continued to work in a care home Then you undertook charity work every week still continuing well into your eighties In fact you were on your way to work at the charity shop when you fell You were found lying in the street … Two bleeds on your brain and over three months in hospital How you pulled through I will never know Yet you battled on and are still with us still Now you have short-term memory issues and are going blind Fate struck a cruel blow when dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer He passed away in February Your lifelong partner for nearly sixty years Your world turned upside down and now you live in a care home We are selling the family home - gosh I find it tough emotionally I know we have lost dad but I feel like I am losing you too You are helping me clear out things from the house Items you have known and loved for many years Sadly we can’t keep everything It must be so so difficult for you, yet you never complain I just want you to know how much I love you How much you inspire me We only have one mum and I am so lucky I have you still Written for a previous contest but too late to be submitted Placed in Judy Konos' Contest - tell us about your mom 18th September 2015


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015


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The Prostitution of Her Love

“I’m not a machine, you know.”
He says huskily 
As she places her chocolate tipped breast
Within inches of his lips
Tantalizing him
She just smiles, breastfeeding him
His treat
And leans back and sighs 
As he gorges
On creamy chocolate ecstasy

Later, he wonders
About his insatiable wife
Wondering if he can keep up
With her little bedroom games
And trips into fantasy

Another day
He lies back in the
Exhaustion of fulfillment
About to close his eyes
When he hears her weeping
Trying to stifle her sobs

Should he pretend he doesn’t hear?
He is so tired
She quiets down
And before sleep claims him
He hears her whisper
“When you make love to me
That’s the only time
The only time….
You really SEE me
For those few moments
I feel that your world revolves around me
That you NEED me
To be fulfilled
The only time
You're the man you used to be
The one dying to possess me
And so I prostitute my love for you…
Hoping in these moments
To feel…..alive”

Before he can respond
She's gone
And he looks up at the ceiling and wonders
How life has changed him
His other friends complain
About their frigid wives and dull lives
So unlike his
He is fortunate
And yet…
He remains in bed
Staring at the ceiling

She cries softly on the couch
Feeling broken, used
Just a receptacle for his need
While she remains empty
She fingers her phone
Thinking of the invitation there
Very casual
A shared cup of coffee
Nothing more, and yet
She reads the real invitation
In the depth of his eyes
When he looks at her
She wipes her tears as she thinks of fidelity and promises…

He walks into the living room
Suddenly shy
She tries to cover her body
With her red see through lingerie
Her black hair covering her mascara streaked eyes

He kneels down in front of her
Pushing away her hair
His eyes searching hers
And holding them for a moment
Tilting her chin up, his lips cover hers
With a gentle longing
She gasps for breath
Shocked at the tears gathering in his eyes
His voice barely reaches her ears…
“Will you be my wife?”
She tries to draw him to her
But he takes a hold of her outstretched hand
And helps her to her feet
Gently leading her to the bedroom

And night turns to day
As he makes love to his wife
Satiating her soul
Realizing her every fantasy
He says all the things he’s felt, but never said
As he ravishes her…
His woman, his bride, his wife

The mid-morning sun
Caresses her face
And she awakens
To find herself
Where she’s always longed to be…
Nestled safely
In her husband's arms

E Ghali
05/20/03


Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013


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No time

Off goes the alarm, I continue to sleep
I wake up flabbergasted, my brain takes a leap
The milk boils over, I run amok in vain
The newspaper is wet! Thanks to morning rain!
The headlines read in bold, 'Another gang rape'
There's no time to think, as long as I am safe.
 
Loads of pending files; deadlines stare at me
Clinic is worse than home, there's no time to pee!
The boss calls for me, when I am not in seat
And when she sees me, she finds me sipping tea!
I see a battered girl, 'Help me Doc' she pleads
No time to think, and luckily not my kids.
 
I drive on pothole roads and find the tire flat
Me and my friend Jack, wear the mechanic hat
I race against time, and lo! A traffic jam
Accident on the street, I do feel alarmed!
I see splattered blood; a man fallen from bike;
But, No time to think, bikes I  never like!

Homework and assignments, craft and revision
I spend some time with kids, enjoy progression
No time to clip nails, no time for hobby; game
A spat with my hubby, puts my eyes to shame
I hear my maid complain; beaten- black and blue
But, no time to think, it's never me, but you!

Weeks are cramped with work, with so much stress to cope
Weekends come and go, with nothing much to hope
My life is only me, myself; family;
No time for others, and that's the irony! 
Will I wake up to, the call of human kind
No time to think, even as life set to wind.....

Off goes the alarm, I continue to sleep.....


Copyright © Uma Kulkarni | Year Posted 2017


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What's in a Name .

Mom.. I think I might be homosexual..
CALM~DOWN !.. I just said THINK !..
It's not I fear
My multi~studded ear ,
Or that I look stunning dressed in pink .
I wont complain ,
As I sip champagne
Of my blemish~free youthful looks ,
Or how I enjoy the finer things in life ;
Like fine art , or poetry books .
 NO !.. I never joined the Girl~Guides .
 You're being silly...patronizingly .
I dont like damp
But I do love camp....
'Specially in Summer , by the sea .
I like being with Brad and Christopher ;
Young Lloyd is such a dear
And Mourice is such  a sweet lad ;
Yes.. I'll always keep them near .
But , deep inside my inner soul
When push will come to shove .
For my own part ,
Who has my heart ,
Yes !.. It's Annie I really love .
But one thing that still bothers me ,
And will , until my dying day ....
Is , when on that morn....
Yes!.. When I was born..
WHY ! !.. Did you name me  GAY ??...


Copyright © Sean Kelly | Year Posted 2008


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The Red Babushka

Nineteen twenty-four and the wind was cold,
When men in uniform entered our town;
Forced us to leave in their boxcars,
Made us believe that it was for our own safety.

With no time to fix our things
We hurriedly got in the box.
And when everyone was in,
The doors were locked.

The place was hell
For not even a whisper of wind 
Could enter the place,
Nor could a light shine through its walls.

Our eyes were dry and lips cracked
Plead for just a single drop;
As four nights and days we travelled
Inside the cars with no food or water.

The box unimaginable in its very state,
For dung and human liquid fragranced the place.
Weak-hearted both young and old struggled to live
Even the strong wished not to survive.

And on the fourth day, the box went to a halt!
Survivors were singing songs to God;
“Please end this tormented journey,
And deliver us home safely.”
Light shone as the heavy doors were opened!
We dropped to our knees
Hoping the place was Paradise
But Paradise was it not for we were in Hell. 

Ironically, the gate held words
Like that as ‘Beware of the Dog.’
Written in frostbitten wood saying:
“ARBEIT MACHT FREI.”

My mind was puzzled upon seeing those,
How could labor set you free,
When labor here meant
Dying in force and agony.

Schnell! 
Jew, work or die!
Schnell!
Jew, never complain and lie!

Those were the words 
That became music in our ears,
As we bent our bones
Working for freedom that is bound.

Schnell!
Jew, form your lines!
Schnell!
Jew, the choosing has come!

And in this place we call Hell,
An Angel waits for preys.
Not to feed to its cherubim
But to the ovens decay.

Schnell!
Jew, old and sick!
Schnell!
Jew, to the ovens burn!

As the sun paints the sky red,
A gray smoke danced with the setting clouds,
And in the heavens, the old and sick smile
Grateful to be forever free from the Angel.

On and on, the days passed by
Not faster but years it seem.
Millions were killed by the monsters of time,
Feeding them to the hungry gas ovens.

Then one even night,
I dreamt of food, of home,
Of freedom and safety
And a voice calling me to follow.

I had no choice but to obey,
For in that moment I was already tired,
Sick and losing hope that once was mine
But seem to be forever lost. 

On the 16th of March,
I lied still in my shelf.
I slept forever smiling,
With my red babushka in hand.

But disappointed and angry was I
To share the very day of my death
To the birth of the Malach-ha-mavis:
The Angel of Death.


Copyright © Joseph Sabido | Year Posted 2011


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Way of the River

My waters had their genesis in the sea,
A path created was fashioned for me;
It can't be changed for there my toil
Winds through life in a twisting coil.
My waters end where they began,
Where life takes hold of its brief span;
To return to that enigmatic source,
Where once again I flow on my course.
The fragrance from the flowers as I pass,
Scent the air with whispers from the grass;
And my waters run down as they go
Over gemlike stones my streamlets flow.
And the tears that pour from my sad eyes,
Go back to the sea where all rivers rise;
And if my soul should suddenly leap
Over a ledge to kiss violets that sleep;
Then I will wander back to the sea,
The mother source that set me free.
And if those riddles I must keep,
Let me not complain, but sweep
On to the bitter end without fear,
Knowing that He who walks with me is near.


Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2011


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Highveld Storm

Oh Aphrodite! Mother of my two pearls
Venus of my night sky
Commander of my world

I fell for you like a comet
I burnt for you like Mars
Abide in my trajectory
While guided by stars

Your sonnet dedication metered
All is written in quatrain
I'm completed in your presence
In your absence I abstain

Diurnally blinded by  fire in the sky
Cupped my hand to shade my eyes
And thirstily complain, about the lack of rain
Elongated animals on savanas and  plains


Nocturnally beleagered but eternally yours
Seeking answers in  ash , while  staring at  coals
no one hears my guitar  so voicelessly strummed
Flames my desire  , so forsaken  my soul

A hundred thousand embers
Sparked a thousand million stars
Explosions in the ether
Flashing diamonds that we know

Unprepared for this  journey
Undeterred my savage heart
Skies are ripped and torn by thunder
Clouds adrift and left asunder

Lonely cloud goes East and cries
The other West, and melted... dies



Copyright © Jannie Breedt | Year Posted 2017


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Clouds

Crepuscular cumbersome clouds above,
Curdled and ebon, heavy with cold rain.
Silence reigned below like a brooding dove.
Peace lost seem it would not be found again
To the discomfort of old ones in pain,
With all the chill of winter they complain.

City fraught with fear, although no wind blew,
Incessant rain starts, with no respite found
Birds made their quick escape, away they flew
To safer places where covers abound
In cozy nooks, far from loud booming sound
Of thunder and bright flash that hearts so wound.

Raining without respite for eight long hours,
Felt as if all life, had left normal time.
Wind surging enough to show its powers,
Nature decreed all had made a bad crime,
Men feared their city was not worth a dime.
As cold rain increased mingling all with slime.

Morning came, relief winds blew clouds away,
Men rose to clean the slime without delay.

January 30, 2018

Placed 3

Urban Sonnet - Poetry Contest 
Sponsored by: Laura Loo


Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2018


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Solstice

              Solstice…  

How can I drag myself without divine wine?
I am falling and I need, wine to be mine.
Being inebriated has its own joy,
To me heedless and headless both are just fine.

I am tired of me being without me.
The me left me and I don’t know where is he.
He is not me, where is he gone, he is missed.
I am not me, me is not him; who are we?

I am done with my faith, love, and devotion.
With this gray hair, my soul has no emotion.
Where is my bottle of wine, how much more pain?
I am done with desert drown me in ocean.

How much longer for my chalice to get filled?
How much more is enough before I get killed?
I came in, and I stayed, and now, it is time.
I must break from my cage that I didn’t build.

The sky is full of tears, it washes my pain.
To me best remedy is dancing in rain.
Am I going to dance once more as it rains?
Hope I will see the next year, and then complain.

The good and all the bad are kept within us.
If you have it, you will lose it, have no fuss!
The more you gain the more you lose when it's time.
Keep only love for good, not much to discuss.

7/10/2018 Haloo


This poem is in the form of "Rubaiyat", it is the plural form of Rubai. Rubai is a quatrain with rhyming of AABA. Each Rubai is a book by itself, it starts and ends within the quatrain, but when it's in a form of Rubaiyat, it follows the single theme with the same meter throughout. Poetrysoup has a good explanation of this format.


Copyright © Pashang Salehi | Year Posted 2018


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HE WEPT FOR YOU AND ME

In chains, did he complain — this man of sorrows? He wore his stripes well. Freedom for all! Freedom for all! Follow the cross, the bleeding tree. This holy man, he wept for you and me. Encircled by snarling beasts — they mock and strike like venomous serpents. Can you hear the cruel heartbeat of angels who weep? Follow the cross, the bleeding tree. This holy man, he wept for you and me. How vulgar our tongues! They rage feeling sorry for themselves. But, look in his loving eyes — what do you see? Follow the cross, the bleeding tree. This holy man, he wept for you and me. Did he stand before saints? Did they seek the truth? Every last one was out for himself. But this man looked to release, to relinquish the chains even of kings. Follow the cross, the bleeding tree. This holy man, he wept for you and me. He sees the one in terror, the lonely, the poor, the sick and lame. He showed us who can heal all infirmity. Surprise your dim eyes — lift them up to the light. Follow the cross, the bleeding tree. This holy man, he wept for you and me. If he returns today, how will he find you, my friend? Will you bare your teeth or crumble at his feet. Are you about cursings or blessings? How do you feel about life and death? Looking into his eyes, would you dare to compromise? Follow the cross, the bleeding tree. This holy man, he wept for you and me. Saints are former sinners, under his righteousness not wrath, wrapped up in a robe of glory, under his glorious wings. Saints “one another” as in: love one another, forgive one another, do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Follow the cross, the bleeding tree. This holy man, he wept for you and me. Are you caught in a snare of your own making? Do you judge and stare at the others made in God’s image, same as you? Look into his soulful eyes! See the Spirit’s wings! Follow the cross, the bleeding tree. This holy man, he wept for you and me. Kim Rodrigues © 7/5/2018


Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2018


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How A Bill Becomes Law

How a Bill Becomes Law
Democratic process, that’s how it goes
More like pimps puttin’ out cigarettes
On their hapless ho’s

If you don’t vote, don’t complain about the result 
You have heard, no doubt, that jive-*** insult
Think you got more choice than Pepsi versus Coke?
Then pass me that pipe, ‘cuz I too want a toke

Maybe I can just drink my way out of this mess
Got my Freedom of Choice, where more equals less
Pilsner, ale, lager, stout, by all means take your pick
Cooler door’s open, better grab somethin’ quick

How a Crispy Stack of Bills Becomes Law
Corporate lobbyist shills, they write every word 
Then it goes to committee
Puppet show of the absurd

They feed you Scorn Flakes by the heapin’ bowl
Fixin’ to microchip you and short sell your soul
Judas goats lead the Sheeple down the path to mutton
They can bleat all they want, but that won't do nothin'

I elect two tall boys and appoint a sad-*** sack of Doritos
Magazine headline pushin’ vaccines in mosquitoes
They gonna mainline you with junk, if you like it or not
I slap a sweaty twenty on the counter, cuz that's all I got

How a Hundred-Dollar Bill Becomes Law
Without ever bein’ read, it goes to a vote 
Gets ramrodded through the House
By some bought 'n' paid-for turncoat

What’s one more sellout, another Big Lie?
Small price to pay for the best system money can buy
Kickbacks for politicians handed off in the park
Blown on five-grand hookers turnin’ tricks in the dark

I see the Jackpot’s over two hundred million again
To not take a chance would be a jackass sin
All you need is a little bit of luck, says the CGI midget
So I circle five numbers, plus a Powerball digit

How Swill Becomes Law
At last, it gets signed or vetoed
If it don’t serve its paymasters
It’s long since been torpedoed 

Dollar and a Dream, keep clutchin' that ticket
Forget the long odds, math’s a real sticky wicket
If I win it all, I’m gonna take the lump sum
Go lie on the beach, sippin' daiquiris and rum

I whisk my gewgaws back up to my apt
Crack a cold one, watch the news, my attention quite rapt
Flickerin' pixels put the RGB hex on me
Alpha-state so soothin' that I finally can see

Disregard what I was sayin', so bitter and snide 
Talkin' head pundits set my paranoid delusions aside
Quiet on the set--stop shovellin’ chips in your maw
Some sexed-up strumpet’s splainin’ me...
     ...how a bill becomes law


_________________________________


For Contest: Political Ordeal
Sponsored by: C.T.
Written: March 11, 2016


Copyright © Brian McClain | Year Posted 2016


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For Mama

She showed me the clouds
and how to walk on the ninth one. A dreamer.
In the absoluteness of her mind, no barriers
exist within existence
as if her battles have
been won. I think she craves to fly,
past those clouds---another possibility
to make possible, a challenge
to challenge. Or dream about.
She probably thinks that when I complain
I cannot see the clouds,
the way she did when things got rough
in life. Of course, I beg to differ.
She dreams. I live. I don't
keep my eyes on clouds all day
as if there is nothing else to see
to make me understand the world better.
I suppose I'll rest one day, exhausted
by the what-ifs and whys, while Mama smiles
and points upward.


Copyright © Nikkia Roberts | Year Posted 2014