The pooling dross
Drawn out with flame
He was blamed
It wasn’t skimmed (until it was skimmed)
The old man, the new man’s loss
The Holy Spirit’s vane
In Jesus’ Name
It wasn’t prayed (until it’s prayed in Him)
The incondite cross
Roughly made
It wasn’t planed
It wasn’t finished (until it was finished)
The incondite cross
Ripped his already tattered back
The rubbing of open wounds
Against the raw wood
Vinegar to drink
Nails brushing the median nerves
I make the “crucified clench”
Every pain extends as I gasp for breath
My body wanting, avoiding asphyxiation
My mind wanting death
This is my passion that led me here
I so loved the world
That I gave my life for it
They flogged my back and front raw
I am exhausted from the blood loss
Unrecognizable
You better recognize what I have done
(I am God’s Beloved Son) for you
Do or die got to perform in the eye of the storm
Noise from the boys remember we did deport
Another loss 3 nought a new boss will be sought
The depravity of gravity the reality of this sport
Big Ben’s men finally hold court our Last Resort
Insult beaten twice has the Bazball loon cult lost its spice
Starc’s legend hewn from chumps stumps in clumps strewn
Shredded in the dreaded Ashes vice Last Throw of the Dice
Bogged down in a twit pit will be flogged if we just slog
Stokes spoke about going for broke showing a bit of dog
Aussie boon.. Over the Moon In the Clover lagoon
The Barmy Army will still croon their afternoon tune
As another buffoon’s marooned OZ media swoon
Sucking on their silver spoon our Last Chance Saloon
Last ditch on the pitch must bewitch this is High Noon
Great American Literature
Our bookshelf groaned under the weight
of American Literature, and my mother was
principally a communist.
An American Tragedy, I read at fourteen,
and my fascination with A Bridge over San Louis Ray
was endless, and so it went on.
I joined the youth wing of the communist party
of Norway, it lasted a month; they kicked me out
I knew too much to be useful.
The plight of the poor concerns me, and I bristle when
seeing injustice, in short, I will fling my arms around
a horse that is about to be flogged, yet one doesn`t
need to be a communist for this. Kindness is not
political and doesn’t carry a flag, you have to pledge
allegiance to, a friendly smile will suffice.
taken from home
as young as the age of five
told you don't have a name no more
and your parents aren't alive
flogged and whipped
abused and assaulted
attempts of escape
then years of trauma resulted
changed the way you spoke
being black was a ban
then they question why
you have a hatred
for the white man
BLAME KANE
King Coman didn't win the League title,
Having lost, to Leverkusen, the battle.
Coman, for the ?????????? time in his career,
Aged 27, welcomed Kane who's a trophy barrier.4
Blame Harry Kane.
The trophy-thirsty hierarchy looks on with disdain.
The Spurs' cursed man came with one aim,
Bayern's bundesliga run became so lame,8
Leverkusen flogged 'em with cane,
Now....no trophy rain,
Kane tainted Coman's record with a stain.
2013 to '23, Coman's luck was never in vain¹²
Until 2024 when trophy gain turns to pain.
Now, the dice is casted & reality becomes plain,
Blame Harry Kane!¹5
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©?15th April 2024.
Maude flogged Chip Zien with a hide-tipped cane.
He, ahh-yeah , ooo-ahh, oh with a strain.
Maude turned the script page and flipped;
Dang, boy, please stick to the script.
Ignore the script write and whip me again
5/15/2023
The Cost of Failure
I try my best to do a thing,
and when I fail to reach my target by a little bit,
I am flogged in the street like a mangey mutt,
by my love, so sweet?
Sometimes we all fall a little short,
that does not mean the mission I abort,
to my goal, I slog along,
even though the treatment I receive is wrong.
You can't from the well-guarded escape.
It should be a wonder mouths to gape,
Each warder to think self big Ape;
Maximum security Rape!
You dare not from the prison escape;
All days, after recapture, Grape,
Warders familiar with the landscape;
The things you say, your plans, your cough tape...
Gosh! I can see them all your hairs scrape,
In prickly clothes your flogged body drape
And sweat cause to break out on your nape
You don't when surrendered escape
She knew things were going to fall into place in an amazing way
Of course they did.
She obtained her dream job.
He was certain he was going to be flogged and beaten.
Someone mugged him on the way home
Choices are imperative.
He suspected something weird was going on, but did not comment.
Later he was glad, because his ideas were way off,
and mentioning it might have hurt someone.
She was furious with a co-worker for an assumed infraction
And refused to give them a second chance.
It is always our choice, remember that.
She visualized joy because she needed to get out of her funk.
Believing brought happiness to her within a few hours.
Sadly, he could not refocus because he was too angry.
His therapist worked with him, but he did not try.
He was determined to be angry, sad and mad.
He chose an attitude that once again did not help him.
I once was a farmer
I worked the land
I reaped the corn
With a scythe in my hand
I ploughed my furrow
I sowed my seed
I grew my crops
My family to feed
One day hot and thirsty
With the sun going down
I went for to drink
At the alehouse in town
As I was a drinking
There at the Inn
Without any warning
The press gang came in
So I was taken
I was taken so fast
And told that my future
Was before the mast
So in my fields
I no longer plough
Instead the wide ocean
I must plough now
From hauling on ropes
My hands are all torn
Sometimes I wish
I had never been born
Our captains a hard man
If one of us fails
He'll have us flogged
With a cat o' nine tails
When I climb the rigging
I oft times will find
I think of the family
That I left behind
One day I'll jump ship
And I'll stay on shore
I'll serve the Kings navy
Never no more
I'll return to my loved ones
I'll go back to the land
Once more I will reap
With my scythe in my hand
I've sailed the wide oceans
Seen Paris and Rome
But nothing compares
With my humble home
In a fun house called the great reset.
Grace and goodness are often flogged.
While confetti and saccharine accolades
are sprinkled over perfumed hogs.
A slanted house filled with greenies.
Forever bleating from private jets.
Sashaying across the continents.
With their gigantic carbon footprints.
A mirrored house of concocted panic.
Distorted masks sewn to the masses.
While privilege laughs from naked faces.
Inflated parties and mansions gated.
The media ogres with tongues of sludge
Blow dirty noses into the heart pond of God.
While the self-righteous, Maoist and Marxist.
Porpoise side by side with the devil's pod.
Ideas bark and growl
One of them bites her
But still she persists
Punishing herself by not writing
Not painting
Not doing anything she likes to do
She deserves to be flogged, whipped, and beaten
She made a big mistake,
She is determined to ruin the rest of her life if necessary
Why don’t you write something? Another encourages her
He has no idea what she has done.
She withdraws into the small place inside her heart
Where she can drag in her soul and paint it an ugly gray
A hideous brown place with thorns and prickly pokey things
Her enemy has a name
But she is too angry to use it now
She is not human; she is a mistake.
Punishing herself gladly
Not giving herself one ounce of relief, hope or encouragement.
The soul sighs, remembering other times like this
Hoping this time will be different.
pink and sparkles spout
above liberty statue
cloud tauts happiness
fireworks all around applaud
hands clap on soil and sea
the swirl of nations,
a landing party of dreams...
but some from afar
drag chains as if dead, rowing
amidst the cotton
the white plant—has thorns—
placed on Jesus saving crown.
sowed on plantations —
a reaping of civil war
continues today.
plumes of red and black
fume over the green lady;
a gift from the past.
stripes upon the flag’s backside.
hands raised beg for forgiveness
7/3/2020
STRAND COMPLETELY NEW(4)any theme any form Poetry Contest
John 19:1-3 Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head. They clothed him in a purple robe and went up to him again and again, saying, “Hail, king of the Jews!” And they struck them in the face.
To my son
I sorry for my action
I wish never happen
I sorry for pain to you
For which you see
I wish never done
I sorry my son
For I luve you
The truth
Set free me
My action
Was the man
For which I just flogged
No more
For he to
from
Hawkish angels with golden bows
chase away shawnee and wolves.
A sinewy faith built the rough and ready.
We were pleased to claim this land
for Jesus.
Despite the tornadoes,
we continued to raise
Midwest cities
from a leather flogged bible.
We were conceived in closets
where ancestral bones watched.
Buried in leased plots;
stones marked our lack of,
or notable faith in affluence.
Just past Easter, cracks appeared
in a pink painted sky.
An ethereal plaster crumbled.
angelic limbs hung,
caught in a cracked tableau.
Plastic arrows littered marbled floors.
A mall dream, but the dream had legs
unseen, they kept running
on the spot.
Log cabins transported themselves
to Theme Parks.
The Tuesday after Easter
hope clogged casinos,
took root.
God began to fill
storage units
with all His kids
persnickety dreams.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.