Classed Poems | Examples

A Whale Quite Vast

 

Inspired by image #1
"Did you know Orcas can live 70 - 100 years."

                                               National Geographic
_______________________________
                                    

An Orca leaps the water glassed,
a sweet scene in the sunrise bliss;
O, experience unsurpassed,
an Orca leaps. . 

He wished to give the sun a kiss,
leaving the boat viewers aghast;
experience to reminisce.

With sharp teeth-  a killer whale classed,
then, he sinks into the abyss;
these beautiful creatures swim fast,
an Orca leaps . . .

Esperanza

Esperanza (S)

(A lone voice whispers)

I'll always miss you, and all the crazy little things we used to do

But now like a faded white sculpture painted black

Our Time together ran out and all I can do is react and inside scream

For there's no going back to that

The games 
The embraces with me bending the knee for my one and only queen 

But we all have a choice 

So I'll pick up my tarnished name from the wet dirt of hurt

Brush it off with the wet brush of hope and 
Take it back to my new home to help me cope

For knowing what I now know 

There's no going back
Now I've been painted black and classed as unholy 

And have suffered enough
So all I can do is take each day slowly

Singing this melody
Sending out my souls call

Oh,

Only a new love can help heal this fall 

(C)
Copyright John Duffy 

Esperanza / Spanish 
Translation - Hope

Way of Life

Life, as if fear itself bestowed 
Fantasy of a act in human life 
Betrayed drama of what is to be 
Or wickedness of a species breath inhale 
Mind illusion to a dream's reality 
They push thought, molding image or control 
Way of life, a promise to happiness 

A struggle life, none equal unless classed 
Hopes to live life fruitfulness 
Laughter, the key to kindness joy 
We watch, what is portrayed the purpose 
But do we thrive under its anger 
That we turn not to right or wrong 
But the hunger of our own ambitious emotions 

Is it so much that we fear death 
That realistically we know no time 
In life itself a dying soul each day 
Mortality taught and trampled beneath constitution 
Existence of your journey sane or in vain 
We live in a lie covering truth 
Actions of many pardon crime of nature 

Way of life, we're killers walking the streets 
Where theirs is worth more than the innocent 
We trade a way of life for what's to be 
For destructive society digging their own grave 
My dust, scattered in breath of the breeze 
Way of life, is it what you hoped to be

In the shadow of classes

5/4/2024, Vaishali, Bihar

In a society where I live,
Pride is a class identity,
And pain is a class identity again.
The color of people is cast
Into white, brown, and black,
All shades of the same soil.
People born as kings, servants, or watchdogs.

I live in a village of divided lands—
Bhumihar fields, Mallah shores, Nunia, Teli, Sonar,
Brahman, Rajput, split like crops on the farm.
I belong to the Nai—
A class of servants, kings, and watchdogs, all in one.

The air hums with stories of the Nanda Dynasty,
Pride wrapped around our class like armor.
Yet, sorrow lingers in the gaze of those
Whose eyes are heavy with dirtied dreams.
I live in a society where identity is seen
In color, cloth, and words—
Old roots buried deep like the broken tree
By Abhishek Pushkarini,
Which falls, like us, at the feet of the upper class.

My tearful words often seem lost,
As each passing day etches more pain into hearts.
But these small hands carry the strength to resist
The cruel stares of a classed society.

In a society where I live,
Pride is a class identity.

Nadir

The worst nadir in my young years
that brings me still to shed sad tears;
while I was pregnant- months to wait-
September, nineteen fifty-eight.

My new friend's child was six weeks old,
and for a while, left me to hold
and watch her for an hour or two
while she ran errands that were due.

I fed and rocked her sound to sleep;
with love, my arms around her keep.
When Mom returned, she quickly went;
no signs of heartache- felt or sent.

Come morning, we woke from a scream-
and thought perhaps, Mom had a dream!
But no! Such horror took our breath!
Her baby passed- classed as crib death!

I could not comfort my dear friend;
her miracle came to an end.
Just like myself, so filled with mirth-
she'd waited for the thrill of birth.

Now, sixty-five years since that day-
this hurt within won't go away.
Though from that base, we all did part-
still feel my friend's pain in my heart.

The Old Soldier

The picture stared down at the old man

Good times, friends for life

The decomposing body was in its second year now

The dust and webs had cloaked him like a blanket

Giving him comfort that life denied him

Time ago, they would have classed him as a hero, time ago

The black van took him away

Eventually releasing the body for burning

The prayers were brief

His final epitaph came when the council cleared the house

The picture was the last to go in the skip

Glancing at it, the worker remarked to his colleague

Old soldier.

MAMMA

MAMMA

My mother is sadly now just a faint memory
As her passing was a number of decades ago
But always caring, maternal, and good to me

Of course, classed as a baby boomer, I know
I was to be her only child, born just over term
Brought me up well, as she watched me grow

Not dominant, but always fair and yet firm
She played piano, which in turn, was inspiring
Long brown hair, yet rarely received a perm

It was plain that later life became quite tiring
Taken with cancer while I was working away
Her life had been modest but worth admiring

In the end, survived by her father and mother
A proud woman of substance, unlike no other

Sad world

Isn't this a sad world?
Shouldn't we do more?
People dying every day
Others classed as poor
Where's the happy endings
For those who do deserve
Where's the Christmas spirit?
To those who live on nerves
If God could shake this life up
Banish all the bad
Make the people smile again
Instead of feeling sad
Entering a new age
We will wish for peace
Hoping in the new year
The fighting all shall cease

Julie Crosby

Better Again

Better again

On get quote this 
Stopped wi the wrangles 
Complex focus 
Offering angles 
Left with the hurt 
Top wi the spin
An ethic of work
Offer a win
It’s got to be 
Say as it lives 
This prophecy 
Takes and it gives 
Dealing on maps 
Frames require 
Feeling with contrast
Same desire 
Haze is exciting
Earning the list 
Phasing the writing 
Turn wi the twist 
Just stay wi the round 
Got so to holler 
Upstaging the pound 
Offload the dollar 
Sign so fantastic
Then it left 
Rhyme show and classed it 
Treble cleft 
See the plans
Show the plate 
Kilograms
Overweight
Try to decipher 
Things that arise 
Cry when you’re hyper
Sing with the eyes 
When they close 
Scream with it shake 
Mention those 
Dreams are awake 
Put on a list
Be jotting
Sure, from the gist 
Keep spotting
Watch the heroes
Set it a gem
Stop the zeros
Better again

White Near East and Such

ONE:
Is our Near East in Asia? Are Israelis "Asians"?
People from India are called South Asians
The same folk in Caribbean are East Indians!
Fancy that: West Indians being called East Indians
STOP: DON'T BLAME COLUMBUS
He simply said, Indios! You say South Asians
But I don't see North Asians, East Asian, or West Asians!

Two (2):
Now, Arabs are classed WHITE in USA
These South Asians are not
I guess Near East is WEST enough
Unless you are bad, bad Saddam - cast out
I means Indians being called anything but!
What gives?
The labelling police got me bad
(At John's Hopkins University way back when
I was a "meek Hindu." I did sue @ JHU)
Jesus made me a "meek" CHRIST-ian
Following the Meek of the Middle East
Holy Land's Meek Moses, man of God

THREE (3)
IN A NUTSHELL
This South Asian is really South African
A nutty situation: I'm not African African
Here they don't use ASIAN, but "Indian South African"
Yet if Whites can be "Afrikaner," why cant I?
I speak Afrikaans
Even pray when i evangelize, in daardie Taal!

Dankie Here, in die Naam can Die Vader, Seun en Heilige Gees amen

In Us Many Free Gifts

Lodged in men are many free gifts
That life gives a push plus its rifts:
Ability to crucial points sift,
As crisis rages painless drift,
In gyms, later in combats swift;
From one's chest problems cleanly lift...

Quartered in us all sorts of gifts
We cannot sell like mundane gifts:
Success in flushing out a rift,
Millions making from Roadside Thrift
Samson's had kept making him swift:
That of Messi the World Cup lifts...

Try one should to discern one's gift,
And when one has done, The World briefed:
Yes, Gifts classed as Talents could hide,
If you choose to them deride.

Flanders Red

This was once a sea of mud
Where thousands bled! 
Before it reverted to!
A field of Flanders Poppy Red.

Do lines of ghostly squaddies! 
Plough through ethereal mire! 
In an endless quest to! 
Charge the enemy barbed wire.
Do Mill Bombs explode!
As machine guns bark! 
Sending many of the brave! 
Into death's final dark.

How many bodies sank
Into that glutinous paste
Just futile victims of 
A futile war's waste.

Do those shades fight bravely
Or do they fight with despair
 Knowing it was sheer folly
That they were ever there.
 The Flanders Poppy thrives
It's vivid scarlet red
An enduring tribute to those 
Many brave but wasted dead.

And the massed white tombstones
In their precise lines and ranks
Are tended with love and care 
In sincere but inadequate thanks

17 October 1916 the Battle of The Somme enterd its 109th day and had 32 more to run.  It lasted 141 day in total.  It saw the first use of the tank in battle, and extensive use of air power.
Casualties: British and Empire: 420,000,  French: 200,000, German: between 434,000 and 500,000.
It was classed as “inconclusive.”
100 Years On I feel like crying/

Mexican Food

I may be unpopular in this thought
But I’ve considered this more than I ought
And the conclusion has presented itself
It comes  from my extra ordinary culinary wealth
So I’ve put an exclamation mark at the end it all
I don’t like Mexican food, I’ve said it and I will take my fall!

The meat looks like brown paste
With no taste at all oh what a waste
And guacamole so slimy in the throat
As it leaves a greenish covering coat
Most things are wrapped in a corn tortilla 
That is classed as finger food implement freer 

So you have Chilaquiles, Pozole and Tacos al pastor, 
Tostadas, Chiles en nogada, Elote, Enchiladas, Mole and Tamales more
All hard to pronounce for an Australian now
For those that like them it’s all up to you
Chow down is what you can do
But don’t wait for me I don’t like it too.

© Paul Warren Poetry

Pettiness

Pettiness,
It comes from the French (petite)
Petite means small
Anything compact and neat,
Can be classed as slight,
Small of no significance,
Small-minded people might
Be blind-sighted by their magnificence,
And fail to comprehend
Or defend the importance,
Of the word petite,
And feel a need to compete
To prove a point that immense
It makes more sense,
To think and act big.

Pettiness
Has no place in society,
It breeds impropriety.
It makes people gruff,
So let us all blow a big puff
To rid ourselves of,
The unnecessary small stuff!

Being Frank

Frank Spencer’s so accident prone
He’s a walking disaster zone
‘Oooooh Betty’ he cries-
She covers her eyes
Frank shouldn’t be left on his own!

8,8,5,5,8
*shouldn't classed as 2 syllables

Frank Spencer was a character in a programme called ‘some mother’s do ave em’ When something went wrong his catch phrase to his wife was ooooooh Betty

On a Lim Poetry Contest

Sponsored by Joseph May

04/01/22

• Short Classed Poems
• Famous Classed Poems
• Best Classed Poems
• Read Classed Poems
• Long Classed Poems
• Classed Quotes