Best Rage Poems
Into blind rage he flew again
His neck veins bulged, his fists he closed
His wife could not remember when
She'd seen her man calm or composed
This time she screamed; she'd yelled out Stop!
Surprised and stunned, he lost his voice
Tempting fate, she'd ruled out cops
She prayed she'd made the wisest choice
His veins relaxed, his fists now hands
His voice returned, he told her thanks
She would not have to make demands
Resort to feline's cunning pranks
He managed to suppress his rage
Thanks to his wife, he turned the page
~ Iambic Tetrameter ~
The rage I feel now is boiling inside, pressure in my head
I have never liked this feeling when I’ve felt it before, too close to being dead
I am tormented between jealousy and guilt, not sure how to deal
If I could figure it all out and make it all right, to tell only which is real
My head is throbbing hard, my eyes real sore, something’s gotta break
I lie in my bed and think it all through, not sure how much more I can take
No one on the phone, no knock at the door, no answer to my call
If it does not change soon, honest to God, I fear I am going to fall
With one final thought, I head for the door, a crime I am to commit
Rage filling me now, unable to stop, damned, this I will admit
Oh the venom on these lips
cold fury should you
taste it there. Drink
deep my gathering gloom
quench your thirst for
my lies and my truths
and my muted thoughts.
Stand still frozen dead
in pools of wonder and
dread for this poison
that seeps into your
pores will not soon
leave the haunted spaces
your frightened places
there will be myriad traces
where it killed the
wonder it found in your
dull and dreary mind.
Choke on toxic thoughts
vomit my musings and
spit forth guts colored
black with doubt and
fear and torment stain
the ground with your
loosened purpose your
pathetic beliefs that
words are always intentions
of the noble and righteous.
I will NOT "go gentle into that good night"
I will "rage, rage against the dying of the light"
For life was not meant to end in death
Our breath of life was heaven sent
But this is our morbid destiny
For Eve picked the apple from the tree
And plunged us into a world of sin
Where evil is birthed from within
And now death is part of life’s game
Because we filled our hearts with shame
But….I will NOT lie down and simply die
I will fight with every ounce… I’ll try
To cheat death and give him the slip
Before he plants his kiss on my lip
I will "rage, rage against the dying of the light"
I will NOT "go gentle into that good night"
I will blaze and burn in a brilliant flame
I will leave behind poems to my name
I will speak with eloquence, oh so fine
Before I become oblivious to time
I will NOT "go gentle into that good night"
I will "rage, rage against the dying of the light"
I will hold your hand one last time
And smile sweetly, a smile sublime
I will tell you to live and not to mourn
To drink in life and death to scorn
To be all that you were meant to be
For in that you’ll taste eternity
But most of all before I leave
I’ll make you promise not to grieve
But to rage and rage against this death
And live, truly live till your last breath
I beg you, do not go gently into the night
You must rage against the dying of the light
Eileen Manassian Ghali
In Response to the poem by Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night." One of my favorite poems!
recklessness attacks ego
fury attacks soul
adrenaline attacks viscera
middle digit attacks upward
foot attacks accelerator
vehicle attacks vehicle
hand attacks pistol
lead attacks flesh
remorse attacks fury
gavel attacks sound block
inmate attacks inmate
Are socialists human beings?
Do they need food?
Are they capable of goodness?
Do they deserve to be tortured, starved, abandoned, beaten?
What makes a socialist cry?
It isn't sad movies -- or is it?
Why should I stop hating them?
I have the right to punish them, do I not?
Or do I?
When Mother Teresa found a Communist, starving, abandoned, beaten, she fed him, loved him, made him feel the hands of Christ, touching him through her hands.
When the SS found a Communist, they shot him, tortured him, starved him, gassed him
When the Communists found a Jew, they tortured him, starved him, took his property, made certain he was strung up as an example, that people do not have the right to own their own property.
When Gandhi found that Hindus were murdering Muslims and Muslims were murdering Hindus, he fasted publicly until they stopped.
Whose example do you prefer?
Mother Teresa's, or Stalin's
That of Gandhi, or the SS?
That of Christ?
I have the right to shoot every Democrat who angers me -- or DO I?
I have the right to impeach every Republican for being Republican, to loot his store, to force him to perform abortions, to punish him...
Somewhere in Africa, a father drove nails through the knees of his teenage son
For converting to Christianity.
I am hatred.
I am anger.
I am violence.
Whose example do you prefer?
Christ's?
Or mine?
This is where we save ourselves,
Or destroy ourselves.
'Let Brotherhood, Peace and Progress become landmarks of attainment', it has been written.
Well?
Which do we prefer?
It's a question to ask yourself every day.
When I win, I make the whole world bleed,
And I LAUGH!
Not such a nice fellow am I.
Riding a scotch high
down
a twisting
river road past
midnight,
his grip tightens
on the steering wheel
in sync
with the pressure of his foot
on the accelerator.
He convinces himself
he is chasing
meaning
in a meaningless time,
waiting perhaps
around the next curve
or the next
in the tree with his name on it.
Silence shatters
in the mirror
above the dashboard:
the familiar face glares at him,
screams
the ugly sound of rage.
He trembles,
sees himself in the agony
of his limits.
He listens to what he sees;
he hears madness.
He breaks the glass,
disappears in the cry.
In the headlights,
purple eyes
devour the mist.
Gods of another age,
another plane,
guide him,
automatic cruise,
into the empty night
beyond
the threat of the winding river.
© Gene Williamson, 2009
Your ignorant torturing and teasing sparks me.
It ignites me.
My rage is ignited,
Ignited like a wild forest fire.
Uncontrolable!
The tears in my eyes are like the billowy, thick clouds of smoke in the sky.
Then it comes and outburst of anger that seers everyone and everything in my
path.
It leaves a disastrous trail, a mark of destruction.
Why did you spark me?
Who's going to calm me down?
Tell me who's going to put me out?
"I will never know how you see red and you will never know how I see it." ~ Anne Carson, 'Autobiography Of Red'
Red are my cheeks when you compliment me.
Red is the bacteria in the southern Red Sea.
Red is the blood that has been shed for freedom.
Red is the cover of Dutch yellow cheese, edam.
Red, too, the lips after lingering, hungry kisses.
Red marks the sector of bullseye misses.
Red is the power of a celebrity's walk.
Red, the color of love's angry talk.
Red is love, hate, romance, and rage.
Red is the ink that edits my page.
Red is sexuality and esteem.
Red Stars is a women's hockey team.
Red is the blood of Christ and the fires of Hell.
Red is the sound of the persistent death knell.
This is a long extended night,
The stars all hibernate,
The blustery gusts revolve around
The dreams which suffocate.
Now the torrents lash my door,
And now they slam the shade,
'Be couched right here, and do not move',
The whispers promptly bade.
Out there I glanced, the wild tree pranced,
She swayed her tipsy stem,
All drenched and dark, the leafy arc
Seems like her death-gown's hem.
Is that mere downpour, or a sign,
An omen of the time?
The thunders clash with louder splash,
Upon the lakebed slime.
My window pane is stabbed by rain,
One thousand spears en masse,
They prick the eaves, pummel the leaves
To the level of the grass.
The flickering lamp will die at once,
It does not cease to pour,
A marble sculpture drowns beneath
The water on the floor.
That which gives life can take it too,
Lo there it heaves its head,
The shrine's bemused, the priest presumed
A curse on holy bread.
It has to cease within no time,
The devil's thunder roars,
The gale allays his evil play
Withdraws his wondrous force.
28th September, 2021
Old age
Muted rage
Broke hips
Bitter lips
Happy thoughts
Are Fought
Sunny Days
Turn away
Why lie
Will die
Nursing home
Swallows groan
Silence As Paper Absorbs Ink To Battle Rage
The clink, clink of hammer and anvil kissing hard
hot flames from fiery furnace belching molten steel
famous blades born from a fallen meteorite shard
gifts bloody deep cuts a fallen warrior feels.
Deadly romance of man, fire and metal forged true
tiresome toil that births deadly weapon made to kill
can opposition, pen and ink give such foe its due
when world spins faster to create deadlier thrills.
The clink, clink of hammer and anvil kissing hard
hot flames from fiery furnace belching molten steel
famous blades born from a fallen meteorite shard
gifts bloody deep cuts a fallen warrior feels.
Silence as paper absorbs ink to battle rage
long past late midnight hours, and quivering of hand
as poet consults epitaph of an ancient sage
to venture deeper into mists in darker lands.
The clink, clink of hammer and anvil kissing hard
hot flames from fiery furnace belching molten steel
famous blades born from a fallen meteorite shard
gifts bloody deep cuts a fallen warrior feels.
War from Man, can opposing factions separate
BLOODY PAWS FROM GOLD, ON A BROKEN DINNER PLATE
War from Man, can opposing factions separate
BLOODY PAWS FROM GOLD, ON A BROKEN DINNER PLATE.
R.J. Lindley
Nov. 12th 1984
Rhyme, ( War, Man, This World, As Opposed By Poetic Pen )
What I Love – The Midnight Garden
Beneath the silver hush of moonlit air
The garden breathes with jasmine’s secret bloom,
Soft petals tremble, fragrances laid bare,
They weave enchantments in the quiet gloom.
The roses bow, their crimson hearts awake,
While lilies glisten on the mirrored lake.
The stars lean closer, whispering to the earth,
In darkness, blossoms find their truest worth.
What I Hate – The Plastic Tide
Upon the shore, the ocean beats her song,
Yet plastic shards invade her foaming breath,
They choke the waves that carried myths so long,
And stain her womb with fragments born of death.
The dolphins weave through broken glass in pain,
The seabirds starve where poisoned shells remain.
I rage against the greed that drowns the seas,
The world’s own hands unmake her harmonies.
Let them call it rage
when I bare my teeth in silence
or scream without needing permission.
Let them say I’m bitter, bruised,
too much, too loud,
a wildfire when they wanted a breeze.
They named my fury “ugly”
because it cracked the porcelain of their comfort,
because it didn’t ask
to sit quietly in a corner,
because it came dressed in all the wrong colors,
red like blood, not pink like politeness.
Let them shrink from me.
Let them whisper when I pass
that I’ve changed, that I’m colder now,
that I carry myself like a knife.
They never asked why I had to sharpen myself
just to walk safely through the day.
Let them call it rage
when I say no without a smile,
when I stop explaining the hurt
just to make them feel better.
This isn’t a tantrum.
It’s reclamation.
It’s the sound of centuries unraveling
from my throat,
one scream at a time.
Let them tremble at the truth I carry.
Let them stare at the flames I became.
I was never soft enough for their comfort,
only silent enough for their control.
But silence didn’t save me.
It never does.
So now,
I roar.
Blood flows through these hands
Like currents during a storm
Lightning in their pulse