Long Amoral Poems
Long Amoral Poems. Below are the most popular long Amoral by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Amoral poems by poem length and keyword.
Once upon a tragic, forsaken love,
A wish miscued from somewhere above.
So incorrect,
I could not detect,
Nor should expect,
Our bond fit like hand to glove.
A sour lullaby, sang a love you couldn't feel,
Naive to believe in honesty,
Or a sense of dignity,
For this love was not real.
Our chance together,
Never! (Heart from my body severed!)
And so, the fate of our demise was sealed.
With help from His Grace,
Perfection put to face,
I delivered to you a precious child.
Eyes shed tears of rain,
Along side labor pain,
Our daughter's cries were mild.
Yet you cast me aside,
No guilt or pride,
Goading me to confide,
In my own gutt, wrenching exile.
Forced to swallow with discreet digestion,
Your lies,
Like flies,
Became an infestation,
Invaded my soul with demoralization.
Such avoidable, emotional harm!
With the destruction you create,
This heart did break,
From my mistake,
Of adoring your alluring charm.
So sure
And secure
You were my cure,
Now the source of my remorse, anger
And alarm.
Irking,
Jerking,
Ever Lurking.
Illusive,
Reclusive,
A devious disposition conclusive,
It was all but conclusively foretold.
No vision will ever compare,
To the bed you did share!
A nauseating display to behold!
Like an infection,
Visual unintentional confession,
My heart's rejection,
Plaques me like a committed cold.
Spreading like a disease,
Your amoral flees,
Crawl with ease,
On my back of discontent.
No more weeping,
From your creeping,
For I permit the deepening
Of my detestation to ferment.
No tear from my eye,
For I would not cry,
Nor utter a sigh,
If you fell off the face of this continent.
With all that I've gone through,
With you,
I let my body lie.
Once love dies,
Time will only revive,
But no renew,
Will ever be there for you.
I lay still for love...Until,
I'm ready to give love another try.
But this is my Vow,As of right now,
My heart is content not to fly.
Form:
Tomorrow is an illusion
It relies on assumption
Of the planet’s rotation
On the seasons’ migration
And the moon’s revolution
On man’s innovation
And his evolution
For his interpretation
Or insinuation
And theorisation
On Law’s of gravitation
Using invention
And his powers of investigation
And logical deduction
To step into a new dimension
Tomorrow is a delusion
Near fiction
The mind’s naive projection
Ideas in a flight simulation
To an unknown destination
An unsure predetermination
Existing only in the imagination
In faith and inspiration
A trust in Creation
The end and Armageddon
In God and salvation
In hell and eternal damnation
In the atheist’s condemnation
In the calendar’s punctuation
The watch’s precision
And space’s expansion
The diaries memorisation
A woman’s intuition
A mother’s preparation
Sessions in competition
Promises in dissection
A man’s anticipation
A father’s frustration
About the son’s relation
To a boy he doesn’t care to mention
And how this affects his maturation
His future and direction
His love and affection
And his own stagnation
His failing career progression
His future contemplation
Deserving some consideration
In a 24 hour formulation
Tomorrow is today in suspension
The now in detention
Willpower in dilution
Efforts in relaxation
Laziness in expedition
Creativity in isolation
The soul in prison
The imagination's manipulation
We have planned constructions
And demolitions
Holiday vacations
And our children’s graduations,
But tomorrow’s nomination
Is an unguaranteed estimation
A naive procrastination
A false realisation
An amoral actualisation
To our conclusion
And finalisation
Tomorrow the motivation
The fear of extinction
Of the earth's desertification
The world in motion
A noble notion
The only reason
The leading question
Forever our mission
Tomorrow's aviation
Tomorrow an exploration
A tattered, ragged leather bag
hides faded photos wrapped inside;
both black and white and kodachrome
reveal lost dreams once held with pride.
An older, colder man made weak,
by sojourns made so long ago,
has paid with shame a painful price
for bitter seeds he chose to sow.
Consumed by youthful avarice,
success became amoral lust
for things of want but never need;
a soulless loss of love and trust.
He cured his life in lurid greed
so strong it tore apart his soul
as truth imbued was flung aside
and grand illusions took control.
He chased the dragon of deceit
along with every reprobate
deluded by corruptions face
foresworn to conjure riches fate.
Today he stands a naked man
reflected in the full length glass
of one more sterile penthouse suite;
bath fixtures proud old polished brass.
He opens up that leather bag
to gaze upon the photos there;
a smiling girl is gazing back
with jade green eyes and skin so fair.
She wears a bridal dress of white,
her face aglow, adorned with life,
to greet a future purpose proud
this loving girl became his wife.
There standing next to his young bride
a man exudes pure confidence
to conquer all life's challenges
without the slightest reticence.
Her innocence he stole away
with no remorse for all the lies;
he watched her slide into despair
till one day in his arms she dies.
The ugliness he once concealed,
in time she knew each sordid part,
yet still he chased the dragon's bait
until, at last, he broke her heart.
Next to a picture of his bride
a small revolver lies in wait;
he picks it up and fires inside
a mind that found the truth too late.
You played the game of thrones
with devious glee and amoral passion
Nothing was too low for you to stoop to
Your career-cutting teeth were honed
in staid institutions of medieval bastions
Ruling class initiations helped toughen you,
made you understand
the necessary things you needed to do
But, it was only part of the game,
you always knew
On graduation day,
you were thrust into the political arena
against an old, crafty pachyderm lion
He had tough, scarred skin,
and you had to fight dirty for your first win ...
but it's a different world,
now that you're an incumbent
Some say you were looking rather presidential
A few years have now rolled around,
and your party's touting you for the crown
It seems easy enough ...
you're going up against an unseasoned rookie
So you start off by giving him a sound byte cookie,
hoping he stick his greedy hand in the jar
Then you put a couple of honeys around his hands,
and sent the curious media bees after him, buzzing
That made the amateur millionaire boiling mad,
then you talked trash about his wife and his dad
You was slinging the mud, often and fast,
loaded with plenty of ammo from his dirty past
Made your arch-rival raise the white flag of surrender,
and the path to the throne littered with so many pretenders
Now you're the king sitting high atop all alone,
with all your enemies vanquished and subdued
Cast off to the wayside,
as you penthouse gaze with a panoramic view
Having satiated thoughts of conquest
It was never personal ... it was only politics,
you always knew
The howling wind causes the unlatched shutter
to bang incessantly against the faded gray wood
The upstairs window, that the shutter shields,
has spider legs of cracked glass
A black widow house, if ever there was such a thing
All the other windows of this untended house are shuttered tight,
the ghostly occupants within have no incoming light
The years have been unkind to this old, stately Tudor house,
the once opulent flower garden is overgrown
with nettle vines and weed shrubs
It is in the sabbath year of its abandonment,
fallow is the ground upon which it stand in sullen emptiness
It was dubbed the "House of Ruin" by the local gentry,
not so much because of its baleful outward appearance,
but primarily because of its former residents
They were a disgraced political family,
thrust from the public trough, and forced to forfeit
most of their ill-gotten wealth
Corruption and scandal were the dubious garments
that cloaked this amoral family
The house was auctioned off to pay legal fees;
some family members went to prison,
some went on to work in various seedy enterprises:
Escort services, sham real estate ventures,
cyber gambling and other shady businesses
The house was put into a public trust,
but there was never any municipal funds available
to restore it to its former glory
Thus it now stands,
a blight to the surrounding landscape
Paint peeling off the rotted, intricately carved oak wood,
granite stone abutments crumbling, ornate fence and balconies rusted
A house of ruin with a haunting visage
DRUM CIRCLE
FEBRUARY 16, 2018
Tonight we talked to the earth
with our drums, our pulsating prayers
a rhythm and blues, a galloping growl,
an angry lament, a wretched outpouring
at the new Hunger Moon, at the latest mass
shooting, at a winter of despair in an amoral
era of high-tech and hate!
The Yoruba wail and the Lakota chant,
the bells on the drums and the tattooed dancer
joined with the chorus of tired social workers
and special-ed teachers, jet engine mechanics,
and the mysterious ascetic in the black turtle
neck whose shock of white hair was a bright
moral beacon in a room of the sad, of the
angry, and the mad seeking forgiveness and shelter
in the Gaian Intelligence that is host to our
souls and mothers our wounds when our arts and
our sciences can no longer explain the meaningless
violence, the one-upmanship, and the perpetually
disagreeable political declarations at the center of
our lives!
“Call Me!” She said, and the drummers grew
louder! “I said CALL ME!” she said, and we all
realized that she didn’t want praise or some fervent
demonstration through a ritual of worship, but the
heart of our hearts, the essence of our lives,
perhaps a promise to our mother to stop behaving
this way and to bathe in her waters, build circles of
stone, light our fires in the middle, and then…..
drum softly with conviction and dance with our
neighbors, reveling in the knowledge that
all we can discern is a gift from beyond,
a pulsating, breathing, nurturing anomaly
sacred, somehow, created only for us!
Guilty pleasures
has you on a Siberian Ferris wheel,
spinning rapidly
Gulag suicidal libido
urges you to cock the trigger and squeeze
Keep repeating the nightmare:
Six torture chambers
Six gas chambers
Six motel rooms
with five vacancies
It's your last chance to exit
this cursed promiscuous existence;
but you don't beg to get off,
this is how you like to get off
Six bridal chambers
Six bed chambers
Six hotel rooms
Face the sex gun ... spin the chambers,
and watch the cowards run
You don't like to play it safe,
law abiding abstinence makes no sense to you
You love the thrill of knowing you might die
from doing something you love to do
It's the way of a sex outlaw: hell raising and guns blazing
and booties shaking in every bar and brothel
Thrill-seeking junkie cowboy,
you're gonna stay on this rough ride,
try to buck the bronco
You got big macho dreams
of being the head legs-spread honcho ...
sweating beads of lead perspiration
in the fire down below
You need amoral nerves of steel,
if you wanna partner up with the devil
Mete out to the innocent souls much ricochet suffering
Promiscuous criminality don't pay ---
Doing anything with anybody,
then giving it to everybody ...
gonna send you to your grave one day
Guilty pleasures
has sentenced you to a life riddled with
holes in your two brains
Serving time in chains of misery and pain
The destination is oblivion,
for all who board this prison bullet train
On a runup to the past,
lightning lies are striking fast
Speak a little Fuhrer con,
Dollar sanction appease a wannabe Stalin
In the Big Ivory House,
every hussy dictator is welcome
But the Constitution’s first wife ain’t:
Billie O’Righty,
big bloomer free speech suffragette woman,
can’t issue flap on the clothes rap line
with open air liberty
Oh, sista “Hildy”
why can’t you talk like a first wife oughta,
Heard tell
your churlish hubby say,
his hired guns had 2.0 Guccifer bought ya
These be the Apprentice blitzkrieg days
of an American Idol whore wife
Democracy got ruble bought and pimp sold
Soviet shackled in an Oval boudoir war room ...
so, so soul Siberian gulag cold
Blitzkrieg days
be an atomic blast from the past
Aryan hydra-gen purity
filtered thru a Prussian fusion glass
Adolph the Fuhrer ways,
backsliding American trailer trash
Trumpet the **** politics
to the lewd base voter voyeurs,
who don’t shed any amoral tears
Them that love to hear the outlandish lies
being Babel tower sown
Those that bathe in the blood of the false cries;
their Wall crawling, long-nose daddy,
they won’t ever dare disown
Now trapped in a web of covetous deceit,
domestic terrorism homegrown
Ugly American ducklings
be globally cocooned in an isolation quarantine zone
Lovers of the last blitzkrieg days,
this Fourth Reich kingdom will fall just as fast
Much to your toppled pride dismay
Once we created starry nights,
and Mona Lisa with smile slight,
we covered chapels in heavenly scenes,
made David shine in marble sheen.
Now our 'art' make good folks scoff,
smear **** on paper, then sell it off,
mistaken for garbage, devoid of heart;
we need more beauty in our art.
Once our buildings truly soared,
steeples with stained-glass adored,
turrets, gargoyles, and balustrades,
reliefs and sculptures finely made.
Now it’s post-modern eye-sores,
and Brutalist crap that folks abhor,
Le Corbusier-made ugly things;
we need more beauty in our buildings.
Our music once humbled the gods,
here Mozart and Beethoven trod,
here genres rose out of the dust,
symphonies of sorrow, love, and loss.
Now it’s all the same damn chords,
sung by fools who write no words,
thuggish rap and pop too slick;
we need more beauty in our music.
Once we lived by honored codes,
built by lessons learned of woe,
forged by endless, bloody years,
forged to hold off bitter tears.
Now it’s all relativistic games,
we hate the wise, praise the insane,
but amoral words bring costs untold;
we need more beauty in our souls.
Some wish that beauty did not exist,
the mediocre, the bitter, the Marxist.
They praise the brutal as progress,
they claim the talented ‘oppress.’
These types made nothing glorious,
and have no care for such as us,
for beauty they care not a whit,
but we need beauty, so let’s go make it.
A SOMBER SOMEDAY
Someday
someday when blazing blonde turns to grievous gray
yes someday
someday when the wonder which once was has patently passed impatiently away
someday
someday when joyful leaping is replaced by reaping muscles that ache
someday
someday when graceful grins are replaced by smiles i can no longer fake
someday
someday when retribution cannot reinstate the contentedness i believed would never
abate
some day
someday when cheerfulness is changed to chagrin and the challengers of my fallow
fate
someday
someday when my being vile vexes me with violence and vilification
someday
someday when cameraderie and solidarity are exchanged for icy stares and isolation
someday
someday when what i know becomes facts i wish i'd never known
someday
someday when enmity envelops enlightenment and leaves a soul such as mine all
alone
someday
someday when the thorough thrill of requieted romance is relegated retroactively and
urged to take its away
someday
someday when satisfaction seceeds to the seeds of stagnation which defy even that
which sages may say
someday
someday when frailty was birthed by addiction and too many amoral men years ago
yes someday
alas, with surity for me that someday summarily and sorrowfully arrived at least ten
years ago
(c) 2011.....~free cee!~