Ire Poems - Poems about Ire

It was if they were begging for destruction when they tried to cage immortal souls Silently stoking his internal fire only brought to the surface his bitter cold They were unaware of the binding of their own hands to something that was never meant to break They added links to the chain with every action that ultimately lead to the sealing of...

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destiny like a scarlet ire nestles in a windy eternity....

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I feel the ire grow It fuels my revulsion Needing a repose...

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This piece was inspired greatly by the horrors of the tornadoes that leveled miles of life in this Kentucky and neighboring states, killing over 100 people. The grief I and so many feel, I dare say, was akin to 9/11, but we cannot move an army against Mother Nature or God, leaving us with...

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Are we man or machine Who knows what I mean? You show on the scene As if it’s routine We raise our ire Don’t learn from our priors So you leave me in dire When you see me on fire On this looming tight wire I hang from the spire Deflecting piles and piles Of obtrusive gunfire Then when I fall Will that be all Will you...

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“You what!” I cried, with vitriolic ire. “You didn’t even take the time to ask “Me what I thought?” My eyes burned hot with fire As point by point I took my boss to task. “So now,” I said, “you’re a Director on the Board “And I have been demoted, left to bask “Not in my own success but yours! You...

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It burns deep on the inside, this fire has engulfed my heart Downtrodden beat beat beat of oppression Feeds the flame of my righteous indignation A hot ire, whose flames keep ascending higher and higher Toxic by-products of hate brings me so much ash disgust: Refugee rejection ... Nuclear fear proliferation Hard coin slavery ... Skin separation burns of third-degree severity So much crematoria greed on the rise, as the...

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She’s always lived there A small, small town Where everyone knows her They fear her anger That chills the heart Clutches at their own ire She worked for me for a while Doing a good job, always But never respecting anyone Always difficult to say the least She grated on my nerves Like trickling faucet; on and on Endlessly irritating with harsh Words and rough ways It went...

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There are no snakes in Ireland today For St.Patrick has cast them away They had attacked the wrong dude Which Patrick thought was quite rude So celebrate St. Patrick this day In a forty day fast for his Lord St. Pat was attacked by a snake horde As he shook his sacred staff He said, "I'll have the last laugh" And he drove them...

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*"Whispering Hope" was music to my ears Today's fare sounds like children clashing gears When Eire becomes Ire Extinguish the fire Lest hope never soothes your grandchildren's fears! *1949 "Whispering Hope" Jo Stafford, Gordon MacRae duet...

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Inside a bar in my town I drown brown sorrows, swilling beer after beer Feeling tall in my gaunt gown as I play the clown Wishing I could wipe away her memory into a low gear Which in my Corolla I engage Thoughts tumbling, feelings grumbling As mind and conscience I enrage Fumbling, crumbling, gambling Until eyes get bloodshot Mind goes bleary Brain overheats...

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Circling and spying over aching heads Vultures swoon and pick the flesh Spotted from sunken skies on beds Where distended bellies in a crèche Bellies moan and groan Under attack by bevies of vultures Mourn Lost sanity cultures Hitherto quiet Tranquil On a diet Administered with gusto on a quill That strafing vultures who snatch a widow’s Car, house, kitchen utensils Cash at the bank, a photograph on her...

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Ah Anger! One of the seven deadly sins A scourge that ravages the mind of man, Alas! In an imperfect world only evil wins A tiny spark consumes the forest in fire, Peace prevails when he reins in his ire. So why would I look back in anger to recall with woe my wandering past? No, I’ll not go there to find...

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Quench your desire, to quelch the ire. Squish your wish, quell and welch on greed's glut Be satisfied with a belch of gut. ------------- 21 April 2017...

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Sitting high atop a dining chair, A feast of words tonight, And crawling in the window sill, A gnat breaks through the fight, Giving in or giving out, Seeking all but praise, The end is near, So don’t you fear, This is the end of days. Sitting slouched low below the dining chair, The victor grovels now, Wishing pleading, Biting bleeding, Sweat dangling from his brow. Closing in or...

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