Best Culling Poems
Culling
Back in the ancient long ago,
We had the great Crusades,
Men with red crosses on their chest,
Used swords against scimitar blades,
Todays evil ones would murder all,
Is death a disease,
Does hatred of mankind, bitter gall,
Create such misery?
It is in man to cull the crop,
To trim the numbers there,
With 6 billion on the planet, stop,
Another, world slaughter, so unfair?
Murder is in the heart of some,
It festers, and the deed is done,
It’s enough to get you on the rum,
The bitter harvest there…
Don Johnson 23-aug-11
From loss, Love’s searching might
Kill doves with pine and spite
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Entrant: Rob Carmack
Contest: In it's Essence
Form: Verse : Essence
10.12.14
The Culling
Happiness is a beautiful smiling word,
That soars the skies like a radiant black bird;
Culling ebony sheen downs from her sable breast
To fluff and cushion the crib of her protecting nest.
Murder and death are conjuring words too;
Sneaking around and stealing your children from you;
And though their bodies pile up in streets and on the bloody ground---
Like trees chopped down when no one’s around, justice hears no sound.
The long arch of justice has been bent backwards to times of old;
The streets have replaced the hanging tree and the noose by a bullet hole.
We now understand the strange fruits stories of which the ancestors once told;
One by one, our little sheep are being justifiably culled from the extended family fold.
While we cannot and must not substitute one tyranny for another,
We will and must protect the seeded child of every black mother.
She sings to us,
Even when we hear no
sound,
Especially when our
eyes are closed.
She is always there
subliminally,
Inherently in the
background noise of
everything
The city traffic and
noise of the workday
She swims softly
through our head in
the after hours
Tempting us with
Toys and Riches
Telling us what
would make us Happy
She sings on the TV,
on the BIG SCREEN
more, more, more
She fills our head
with empty promises
of The New Golden
Rule
Watch as the masses
head to the mall
To worship at this
shrine of
materialism and
greed
To pay grievances at
Gap and Footlocker
To give thanks to
Victoria's Secret
and Macy's
She is No God
but a Blind Savior,
A False Prophet,
leading men away
from enlightenment.
Your lack of self-control
is what makes you manageable.
Some words if left unscathed will manage
to cut to the bone
You tried to mold me in ways
that would turn me to stone.
A solid with no emotion.
that way I'm all ways alone.
Another hopeless possibility
A so called thawing of bones.
A slit wrist who's blood pools into
this riddle of poems
I'm so out, I am a head
That lives outside its box.
I hear voices of strangers
they live under my bed
they wander around lifeless
just culling the dead.