The white man stole their land
now the red man has the blues
the white man sold their families
and the black man's still ill-used
the white man shot the American buffalo
now the red man sings the blues
the white man put their people in chains
and the black man's grief accrues
the white house is to blame
the Government just the same
the white man broke the treaties
now the red man feels the blues
the white man did the dirty
and the black man he's abused
the white man has no conscience
but the red man has the blues
no the white man does not care
tho' the black man's overdue
the white house is to blame
the Government it is too
The white man stole their land
now the red man has the blues
the white man sold their families
and the black man's still ill-used
the white man shot the American buffalo
now the red man sings the blues
the white man put their people in chains
and the black man's grief accrues
the white house is to blame
the Government just the same
the white man broke the treaty
now the red man feels the blues
the white man did the dirty
and the black man he's abused
the white man has no conscience
but the red man has the blues
no the white man does not care
tho' the black man's overdue
the white house is to blame
the Government it is too
Alas it is a chore to write Blank Verse
Unable to peruse my rhyme filled purse
In search for words not better but not worse
A sad lament of poetry’s last curse
To stab the darkness with an ill-used phrase
Twisting the reader’s mind into a maze
Of flaming thought a-dance within a blaze
Torching the rules by which a poet plays
Oh, Rhyme, cold torturer of frigid muse
Why must you heap upon him such abuse
Require him to use words so obuse
That they cannot uncover his shrewd ruse
The truth, perhaps they’ll stumble upon it
If it rhymed the damn thing’d be a Sonnet
" (Two roads) diverged in a yellow wood and I choose the
the one less traveled by and that has made
all the difference. "
Quote by - Robert Frost
I met a drummer in those woods
He sold me all his ill-used goods
He said that I should seek real change
Shake up the pieces – rearrange
The stride and gait of my pursuit
That whistling sound of whining flute
A draping flag they won’t salute
That sound well bent could be a hoot
Reshaped, reformed his useless trash
Now glistens with the sun’s panache
That road I took “less travelled by”
Has often made this “grown man” cry
And yet I still possess that urge
To down that road again diverge
©6/5/2023
Writing Challenge – D Quotes Poetry Contest
Constance La France - sponsor
The surface of the water is filled with pollution, It's sad to see such a precious thing so ill used.
Plastic bags and bottles pollute what should be clean,
Turmoil for animals who live beneath this screen.
Fish are dying in droves, no more food can they find, And wildlife must suffer as we cause them this bane.
Oil slicks cover up their homes as if it were a game;
Our carelessness has caused them all much pain.
A tragedy that seems to go on without end;
Much destruction will come before we amend!
We need to act now or else our world won't mend –
A future of health depends on us my friend!
Heart with Joy suffused,
Later Help refused!
So, No Hopes infused,
It’d remain confused…
A Factory Worker,
For twelve years Dock Worker;
One could not be great,
If one would just wait.
“Who does jams his gate
To walk with poor gait:
Who does ends up ‘Poor,’
About this ‘For Sure’
Denied sponsorship
He won’t sail his ship:
The Refused, Confused!
Confused, The Ill-Used.
Daphne has no plans to cry:
She shall another man try:
Not The Old with hairs to dye
Nor One others think might die…
Asking she has been: Why? Why?
She never for once did lie
To Mac with his Spurious Love;
Mic Mac to Pranks not above…
Mac, who’d call her Animal,
Twelve Times just The Minimal
Daphne would not dare to wait
For another on This Weight
Nor would she for same sigh
The Voice for Sighs never high…
Now, Daphne for Rebellion
Of an Ill-Used Battalion!
A complete neglect of the dirt
On his labored wife’s skirt
And the ugly one on his shirt …
An Ageing father’s mirth
Continues to squirt
From Son’s birth
That challengers hurt,
Intensely enjoying The Flavor
Of procreative Favor;
Happy to father a baby,
Already looking chubby …
Nothing to poor him shame
Now exceedingly safe his name
And that of his Ill-Used Dame.
a delightful
sweetist singer
after the Lord's
heart
with perspectives
under
the shadow of
His hand
at points of need
at points of failure
ill-used
disapponted
disillusioned
distilled
truths&lessons
become
a poem
a voice of honesty
rehearsing
repeating
dwelling
on Him
in the experience
of defeat
blessing
a response
in wonder love &praise
all
pass before our mind
in pleas
to intercede
in devotion
beautiful confidene
that overflow
He
who sustains&
surrounds
an awareness
in a never failing love
in the face of mockery
&suffering
a counsel of hope
a refuge
to the heart
in satisfying mercy
a way of deliverance
by
transforming
power
within
Halloween rogues place outhouse upside down.
Nighttime, white sheets ghosts ride broomsticks sky high.
Felines cry topmost gates - they wail all-round,
while wives, mates make pleas, moans, a grief-worn sigh.
Sweet treats may stay ill used jokes - least homes try.
Porch lights turnoff - no bold gnomes, please, so late.
Take leave, new hallowed year-end night needs wait.
Stone rests upon stone;
They glow in the light
As if to atone
For ill-used power and might.
Column on column,
Tier upon tier;
They weep with the knowledge
Of what happened here.
The cries are now quiet
But they echo still;
They’re heard in the silent
Sighs from these hills.
There's a pile of sullied threads
from our muddied yesterdays
of a life we stripped bare
to be thrown into the wash
a hoard of soiled toggery
too foul to be cleansed
I tried to bury all of it
but the shovel of hurt
blistered my hand
pervading memories
suffused in my thoughts
inured scent of us lingers
unbleached... unwashed
well worn and ill-used
how long before I can ignore them
gathered in an alcove in my mind
these dark stains of discontent
too tainted to be purified
with human hands
Oh, innocence of trust unchecked
How stare you back at me?
T’was you who fled this heart laid bare
Oh, barren calamity
Empty now the heart ill used
So used to gentle dreams
No more to see the flower’s bloom
No song but silence’s scream
Tell me true, reflection mine
Convince these naked eyes
What errant way or walk or word
Did scorn this heart and thine?
Does not love, our love, true love
Still soar above the weather?
Or like Iccarus, did we dare too high
Then, fall to earth unfeathered?
I cast my lot on winds of change
Though the end be hard to find
His siren muse did have her chance
Now...I shall have mine.
The Love of Mothers
Nerve slicing mercury inhabiting breast milk, slashing
the suckling babe, the one who will not walk until she is four
and endure unexplainable pain. Gold piles up, red tag special
on weapons (no questions asked), palms greased, bribes split by cronies,
Social Darwinism raising it’s 1880’s head, uranium mined at the
edge of the Grand Canyon, poisons spread across the land,
trading crippled and cut-short human lives for corporate profit.
Praise life but launch unnecessary war with unspecified collateral damage, weeping mothers
looking for parts of children, their suffering rooted
deep, deeper than roses, than war, un assuaged by cross or Messiah.
Red, white and blue lies — masses believe
sleazy misinformation, the elephant still invisible,
earth measured by bottom-line profit.
There is a massive disconnect between what
our government proclaims and does.
To be aware of the gap and see it ignored
erodes sanity. W’s pimpish mind is too narrow
for history. 2001-2008 is in the wastebasket.
He has ill-used his opportunity for greatness
and wasted eight years of our lives.
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.