Best Complaint Poems
A FULANI GIRL’S COMPLAINT
I carried water. I did all the house cores. I drove and bred the cattle one and alone, singing songs, running and climbing mountains. I milked, sold milk and bought you silk. I ground the corn and cooked your meals. I woke up on the peak of the seasons and carried duties; I did all these to be given to a wild hard-looking stranger like a cowry!
I spent my whole youth among trees and beasts in eloquent silence away from siblings, aloof! I learned and loved God through things that spoke to me, indented, with neither paper nor pen. I wore a strange hat and a stiff piece of cloth that fell on my knees revealing my bony legs; I had strings knotted around my waists and wrists and neck to be betrothed to a wild hard-looking stranger who swept me as if I were a cow for sale, reaped my inward garment and damned my virtue! His words are swords; his horn is a worm that eats in me, wholly!
Oh, Aunt! You fastened my tongue and sold me like Dauda’s slave who would quit me by day leaving me starved, empty bottles and pockets in Gbaya’s tins. Aunt, don’t care the whips, the solitude, the empty stomach, the hands that hurt like electrical cords, but, my aunt, his words are worse than swords and I miss my olden days, the twilight, the humanly beasts I forsook for the beastly human, mother’s looks that hook the heart, oh, I miss my old self!
Galim (Tignère), April 22, 2012
Jaafar Sadig El Waad
We walk in the rays of soft sunshine
That glow in the arms of love;
And never appreciate the blessings
God showers on us from above.
For I am feeling as I count them
That we have more than we need;
And all we don't have are the angels
To bring heaven to earth indeed.
The winter brings long fire lit twilights
The spring brings a season of flowers
Summer brings all a sweet harvest
While fall brings the scent of sad hours.
The woods are alive with birdsong
A moon paints the waves of the sea;
The meadows are scented with clover
And all earth is as good as can be.
But people are full of such protest
Discontent is always their sad lot;
They forget so much has been given
And go whining for all they have not.
Instead of the light in the heavens
That shines on our day and our nights;
They look at the dirt on their feet
And forget all the earth’s delights.
They drink the wine that is sour
And never taste that which is sweet.
They moan for the thorn on the rose
Not heeding its scent so replete.
They don’t look at the garden of bloom
Precious blessings there without number;
They weep for what lies in the tomb.
Who lie in the arms of death’s slumber.
The error is ours to confess
They can’t find the way to go;
They close their eyes while the heart denies
That Eden is not theirs to know.
Stop resenting me
For the way I shop
The things I do
To make sure
My food is fresh
I confess I feel blueberries
In my fingers
To make sure they are firm
Not too ripe
I confess I shake
Cans of spaghetti and ravioli
So that I know
The sauce is not
Congealed
I confess I pull frozen waffles
From the back of the freezer
Less likely that they thawed
And refroze into
Oddball shapes
I confess I smell trout
Before I buy it
Placing it against my nose
In the most unabashed
Way
Spare me your hate
About my consumer habits
When I know it has nothing to do with
Food
As long as I bring you warm release
In the darkness of your desires
Pull your tangled hair the way
You like
Bite your darting tongue
In mad hunger
Deep appetite
As long as I reawaken the
Woman
Primal animal hidden
Within
Turn your heat into a river
For a long passionate
Swim
As long as I attend quickly to your
Every lusty command
The craving of your nympho
Insatiable
Demand
Then I can squeeze french bread
In quiet and peace
I can sniff cantaloupes
Without suffering ire
Or grief
I’ll take you tonight
In that filthy way
You like
Until then
Leave me alone
I’m shopping.
Why am I a love-sick, dead-broke loser
in love with a rich and affluent girl?
A poor, unwise fool, why did I choose her?
(I can't afford such a lovely, rich Pearl!)
I wish I were a prince, handsome and rich,
youthful and full of promise and prospects
(for her): but I'm none of the above, which
makes us at best love's unlikely suspects.
Ironic that the love of my bleak life
is beyond my abject, penniless reach
and past my hope of her being my wife:
barriers that harsh Fate won't let me breach.
But God they say can move heaven and earth
for those of unlike yoke to meet His goals;
now and anon He moves those hearts of worth
which He wills and unites as entwined souls.
I don’t know how I should speak of you.
Love of my life, my soul’s companion soul,
A breath and heartbeat indispensable as mine,
Yin to my yang and, too, contrariwise,
Keystone to my arch, and cornerstone--
Because I cannot look into your eyes,
Love, you cannot see me keen, and pine,
And ache deep down, sheer to the bone.
(Such is the chronic, chafing toll
Your absence wreaks in me.) I’d screw
Me up to chide you, but that would not avail;
I’d rail against my lot and pound my breast
If that would bring you here to me at last,
Or seek you like some almost-holy grail.
But since I cannot feel you next to me,
Or softly sense your soul through clasping hands,
How can I frame in words the buried deeps
You plumb? My very quarks crave yours, so strong
And fundamental my desire’s become.
And so no matter what or how I say
I love you, all inadequate and tongue-
Tied, the words are merely stereotypes
As timeworn as the Sphinx in shifting sands,
And just as cryptic. Oh, come home;
For then my eyes will redirect my voice,
Inspiring by your nearness all those words
Eluding me till now. Let loose the cords
That keep you from me, and confer your grace.
Your long term plans, I have not seen ‘em.
And all those love vows, you don't mean ‘em.
You have only got eyes
for my long limber thighs,
and that small bit that lies between ‘em.
09/26/11
*Adapted from a Limerick by ‘Poet Unknown’
Fundamentalists have misinterpreted the wise men,
Magnified them and blown up their faith in god,
Claim that the magi had an epiphany, heard from above,
In searching for, analysing and interpreting the nexus odd.
So what’s the real story of the wise men,
Because it’s they who had societal eyes,
They were listened to and very much respected,
By the many, the productive and the whys.
There was something going on, a wave, a tide,
To initiate socialisms feeling, equalising bride,
Which let the poor and the working citizen,
Be treated medically as they did not ever sin.
A rebel was born not through experience, but by birth,
To parents out with the marriage contract,
Whose bond was love with natural affection,
And who reared the child on such an astute fact.
The wise men understood Jesus beginnings,
Accepted their power to enable his work and carvings,
And balanced his parents sexual immorality,
By giving reputation, a promise for him to be god on high.
The magi, as Zoroastrians, believed in free will,
That actions are completely yours, not gods,
Not prompted, divine, suggested or derived,
But yours to enjoy or for you to suffer from your frauds.
So as wise men they advocated themselves,
As the finders of the messiah of the jews,
As his pronouncers and original validators,
As the hinters of his apparent short fuse.
I was always taught, right through childhood,
That god told the wise men where to go,
What stance to take about this needy child,
And how to interpret his parents certain know.
Zoroastrianism is the total explanation,
Of the people’s toleration of Jesus Christ,
And I posit that societal interpreters have secured,
Much sociology, which was by them allured.
Doctors getting exposed like popes,
Caught pulling the rope a dope,
Falling down the entropic slope,
No integrity - can't cope,
Seats of power to dethrone,
Why don't y'all extradite your own?
If ya catch a sleeper near ya,
Take that tommy peeper,
To the nearest theatre,
And expose that creature,
Its the latest greatest feature,
In reality media,
Put it on wikipedia,
We like, "Dawg, we hear ya!"
Stuff ain't black and white,
So let's punk these zebras,
Walkin' 'round like libras,
How 'bout we take their medicine,
To debilitate libidos,
Of ghouls in tuxedos,
Friggin' neato,
Now let's stop the peep show.
We gon' Murder, lazy suckers in art,
Not in the streets, are you a stinking sweet tart?
Be smart, avoid Agents Provocateurs,
Lessons learned from disturbed dealings with nerds,
I'm jealous of every one of you free punks,
Livin' lux' cuz you learned math and redux,
Methodology, just watchin' the flux,
Making rational decisions and earning big bucks,
Sucks to me be me cuz I'm a sensitive nut,
Driving the short bus right into a rut,
I once thought I was a cut above the rest,
Perhaps blessed,
But when putting faith to the test,
I found a lot of hex, and now maybe I'm vexed,
I realized my faith wasn't in myself,
It was in the rest,
So I went on a quest to discover why I felt,
And my feelings lead me straight to hell.
OMJeepers creepers,
Would ya get a load of these sheepish creatures?
Could ya set a tone of leaner demeanor?
Should ya live by the vote of some evil geezers?
I'm gettin' at the throat of some evil deeds,
I'm pullin' out weeds like, "who planted these?"
Some GMO seeds, like, "do we really need these?"
These things we see have an invisible leash,
I breath, I eat, I sleep, I compete,
I discriminate based on character for real,
No Little Bo Peep gon' convince me,
That skin means stink,
Look sir, I'm free,
To use intuition to see into you,
Sleuthin' through the politics that consume you,
Communistic who's who protruding through all the doo-doo,
You know this, Excentrix is super glue sticky dude.
Friday Night Check-ins
The days have been calm and collected.
The guests have been happy, content.
The weekday staff scurry out from the hotel
To avoid the upcoming event.
Weekend receptionists tremble
As the Friday night check-ins approach,
Fearing the tsunami of wrinklies
On their three-day excursions-by-coach.
The first vehicle’s brakes squeal their warning
As its door opens up with a sigh.
The girl at the desk and her male teammate
Watch the porchway with dread in their eyes.
The first wrinkly disembarks backwards,
Reaching up to be handed her Zimmer.
The scowl on her face giving more than a hint
Of the litany of protests within her.
Slowly the vehicle disgorges
Its fifty malcontent arrivals.
The front desk staff offer a brief heartfelt prayer
For their sanity, composure, survival.
Like an unerring wave of displeasure
The wrinklies shuffle in through the door,
Shoving aside anyone heading out –
They’ve made this manoeuvre before.
The party’s predominantly female,
Determined and far from benign.
Apart from one chap, in windcheater and cap
Looking hen-pecked and toeing the line.
They descend on reception like locusts,
Complaining, demanding and cackling.
The staff at the desk have nowhere to hide
From the surge of objections they’re tackling.
Ground floor room! No steps! Wheelchair access!
Why no lift? Single occupant! Porter!
The tottery old girl with the big Zimmer frame
Demands a young man to escort her.
The onslaught is tough and relentless
As the wrinklies press home their attack.
Then, deftly dealt-with, the tidal wave thins
As they head to their rooms to unpack.
Pleased with the way things were handled,
The reception-staff think they’ve survived.
But outside the lobby, brakes hissing with glee,
Another full coach has arrived…
The Gift, Then The Complaint
Gladly if only, I had nothing to say,
I could just murmur and walk far away
Instead I write to spend my new day
doing so with no acclaim and no pay!
This life can be so mysterious indeed
first you may refuse to stop or plead
Yet time brings its own eternal whip
a cut each little time you dare slip!
No great solace lasts more than a week
future may grant but tis' only a peek
A sight given to beg the mind to see
To climb the tallest mountain to plea!
Of course the world cries out to stop
toss away the fine broom and dirty mop
With much deeper sinister cry and hue
dire threats blast you right on cue!
Gladly if only, I had nothing to say,
I could just murmur and walk far away
Instead I write to spend my new day
doing so with no acclaim and no pay!
Robert J. Lindley, 07-15-2015
Note-- No serious complaining my friends. I write poetry because
it is in my blood. Acclaim and/or pay would just be icing on the cake
were they ever to appear. I expect only to be read and if thats all-fine by me.
To whom it may concern
This is a letter of complaint
See I was told I could be whatever I want
Without any trials or restraint,
But why do I feel so deceived
When the world says that I'm free
And so I dress to my liking
Only to find eyes glued to me?
And when the words unveil me
It's as though I've killed a man
When its about sex, drugs or violence
That's when society gives a damn
But other times they are blind
And cannot even see my fiction
Each stroke of my brush is a painting
To show them my own depiction
And why do you find necessity
To comment on my weight
When I was perfectly happy in my skin
Now you're the reason that I self hate
And why do I need to be labelled
By my beliefs, background or race
Can't I just be a human
Without any trace of debase?
See I just want to be free
Free from their expectations
Free from their ideals
Free from the image
of myself in their minds
Free to express what I conceal
How can I dance,
with this grip around arm
And when I begin to fall in love
Off goes that same alarm
Why is it such a struggle
To expand this rigid fissure
Do they want me to drop my brush
So that they can complete my picture?
Yours ever so faithfully,
Ijustneedtobefree
They complain in the morning because their night was a fright
They complain at noon because their school lunch was not right.
They complain to everyone who enters their sight
They complain and complain, long into the night.
At first these complainers are rather entertaining
They complain about their umbrellas, and the fact that it’s raining
They complain about others, not ever refraining.
But after a while, others run away from their constant complaining
They complain about the traffic, and see others as bad.
They complain about their children, whose lives must be sad.
They complain about their parents, their mom more than their dad.
They complain until they lose every almost-friend they ever had.
They complain about their life, and the heat of the sun.
They take away our energy, zap our strength, and sour our fun.
They complain about their hot dog, and its tasteless bun.
If you see one, get out of there, fast, on a dead run.
One morning ere the sun burnt hot
My brother Abel pleased me not,
And though my face shone like the sun,
When moonlight came I cudgeled him.
Oh, had my brother marked me well
There were no more for me to tell.
One morning when the sun burnt hot
Again my brother pleased me not.
I cut a bough to make a bow,
And with a dart I laid him low.
When next time he pleased me not
I made a gun and with it shot.
Should he provoke me but once more,
I'll have yet deadlier things in store.
Bombs I'll make till I have one
That shall dispatch a megaton.
Then shall my brothers mark me well
And there'll be no more to tell.
One evening ere the sun had set
Through his device his end Cain met.
And Rachel wept and Sarah sighed
When Cain the unrepentant died.
"Though there was God in Heaven to trust,
he found for me and poisoned dust,"
wrote Death his epitaph,
"And so I'll have the final laugh."
But then at last the Archangel cries:
"Cain's had his day. Let Abel rise
Even if some rare corningware may be hypothetically worth a LOT
what ordinary person would buy it, cook with it, or let it get hot??
Rumbling collision of vapour,
The dancing ritual the increased
caper, acts of earthly vigil,
autonomously the same above, the
cosmic storm fitted quietly upon the
pupil, all fractions and pixelled
evolving minerals, blinking gold-
laden crystal, the workshop of clarity
, the milk and oil contrast reality, the
true light festering among the
counter core of creation, giving
place to life just a sound a musical
note, manifested 'this' into being as
perceived, contrived through it and
believing, if you lose meaning that's
the mind retreating from the
anarchy peace your seeking, soul
stirringly appealing, jump out from
the blocks of inner vision and into
the springs of new dimensions,
sinking illusions finger tipped grasp
at perfection, not a lonely road but
one of anguish and sorrow, dying
today searching for tomorrow, then
your begin to understand nature's
complaint, and nature's reason for
acts of terror and charges of treason