Long Backbiting Poems
Long Backbiting Poems. Below are the most popular long Backbiting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Backbiting poems by poem length and keyword.
In the bustling halls of workplace,
there lies a quiet enmity hidden in plain sight.
A simmering rivalry that runs deep,
whispers behind closed doors and furtive glances that never meet.
On the surface, all seem polite and cordial,
but beneath the shining sheet of professionalism
lies a devious inferno.
The backbiting, the petty squabbles,
all serve to undermine a collective goal.
We pretend that all are in this together,
but the fact is far more guileful, much harder to bear.
For as long as this hidden enmity persists,
we can never truly reach our full potential or even hope to coexist.
©Chitra Arun
There are a lot of word Smiths on this site
Who pen good poems that are out of sight
Its likened to attending a beautiful feast
Or eating good bread with just enough yeast
However, I must point out, and it's not a myth
I am in no way, shape, or form a word, Smith
But, I marvel at the talented people here
Viewing their various poems fills me with cheer
I am forever thankful I found Poetry Soup
This community is such a fantastic group
Finding the gift of words saved my life
It rescued me from heartache and strife
So, although I don’t cross every “ T” nor;
Do I dot every “I” writing means much more
I know some could care less about my poetry
It’s ok, well all have different tastes, you see
However, we must respect one another
By not saying nasty things to each other
Isn’t this lovely site about sharing poetry?
The backbiting needs to stop; It’s no mystery
Amid a few bad apples on this amazing site
This will always be a place for me to write
Alexis Y.
08/18/2022
We can't stay here—nothing lives in this land of famine, where truth is scarce, and hearts are hollow.
Men are deceitful and corrupt, their lips like wasps that sting and poison.
There is none righteous—no, not even one.
We can't stay here, where man devours man and darkness covers the soul; a people so far from God that no goodness can be found.
We can't stay here—too much fighting, too much backbiting, too much deception, malice, and pride.
Honour has fallen in the streets, and men walk boldly in the way of death, playing with sin, calling it pleasure, until it steals their breath and deafens their ears to truth.
We can't stay here.
Arise—let us come to our senses.
Let us leave this place behind and go to the city.
Though we may live or die, we also might live; let us take the chance to go where it may be well with us.
Let us go to the gates where grace and favour dwell, and bow low to seek the mercy of God.
We can't stay here—no, we can't remain.
Let us cast off hatred, lay down strife, turn from faultfinding and every hidden sin.
This is not our home.
We can't stay here.
Let us go where the Lamb of God takes away the sins of the world.
Let us journey to that place where joy forever reigns.
We can't stay here.
We must take up the cross, for in its crimson flow there is cleansing, there is mercy, there is life made new.
We can't stay here.
Let us make things right, one with another, knowing our past cannot deny us the gift of grace and God's favour.
For God is calling—no matter where we’ve been, no matter what we’ve done.
He calls us to the foot of the cross, where Jesus gave His life for all.
We can't stay here.
If we choose to be faithful, we shall eat the good of the land—but we must move.
We can't stay here.
We are called to be faithful, to be obedient, to become servants of the Most High.
Soon, we shall dwell in mansions where our Master lives.
So arise—let us go and tell the story, to those who are perishing, to those who long for hope, to those who need salvation.
We can't stay here.
We do not belong here.
Let us go to the city whose builder and maker is God.
Lord, we will not stay here.
We surrender all.
We will not remain in this place.
We choose Your kingdom—our eternal home.
We can't stay here.
We will follow You, Jesus.
A holiday that's not the same
Grandma and grandpa held the family together
The family is scattered
Nobody call each other
12 siblings but yet so distant
No more family get together
Nobody bring a dish or two
No family travel to see each other
All there is strife, jealousy, backbiting
And gossip
Granny I miss your dressing
How you made it from scratch
Your collards greens you smell them a block away
Macaroni and cheese how moist it was
I miss you, I miss you so much
I miss doing your hair after you cook
Grandpa I miss your peach cobbler
how the crust melt in your mouth
I miss you calling me fat mama
I miss your wisdom stories
Your knowledge
Your strength
I remember our last reunion
Guess that's what memories are for
You’ll never forget them
When the roots died
The whole tree died
With thanksgiving
Blames and allegations
Conceited self-admiration
Habitual fabrications
Never ending Justifications
Maligning reputations
Backbiting and deceptions
Derogatory manifestations
Avoiding responsibilities, remembering dispensations
Friendships and betrayals
Unjustified humiliations
Killing exasperations
………………………..
This needs proper clarifications
We need moral and ethical upgradation
Focus and proper determination
Instead of shortcuts and distractions
This world is one and we have beautiful relations
Empathising and developing patience
What we are is our creation
Education inspires aspiration
Life is a pledge, we are not on vacation
Race is not just about directions
4/3/2019
(Soliloquoy : An act of speaking one's thoughts aloud when by oneself or regardless of any hearers, especially by a character in a play.)
Mark a book, book a mark.
Not every household has the same pattern of backbiting. Not every mother in law mentors the daughter in law in the same manner and vice versa. It is always noteworthy why you are finding the cliches in your own poem. Where you are still a hype in your own school thought, never made the ground , strong grip to label them your own. You just have a pair of eyes that is getting updated with spectacles with each and every new year, and you knew that maturity is process of losing too. Why you could not say you are a lingering thought too, with the fallen leaf.
Think about something simple, butterfly, grasshoppers, chirping of birds and lots and lots of green. I wish for the cat that got immortal in my only memoir. My freezer still has a green container where she was served. The cats roaming in the here and now are two different stories.
Yesterday, leaf was dragging her little head, between my legs. Under the comforter, she was cooing. She has layers of sounds, I can barely touch her. But most of the time, It unfolds in a make belief story.
Clover is a laid off serviceman. He supplicates , for peace and hopefulness. Yet her hands , has a story of the nicest puffy ball, almost like henna, never too much weary, never too much troublesome.
Leaf is the mesmerized housekeeper with a bombarded situation of underdog keys. Her cooing reminds me about a possible interjection,"Look at this mess! O pony tail, just look at this mess!"
And I will think about the next whole milk powdery treat. For me. For Clover. For Leaf.
The time had arrived to dig my tunnel.
My vision was full now, full and complete.
I knew what to strive for, knew where to reach:
I'd dig a tunnel to Understanding, a vision sweet,
A Tunnel where Friends and Lovers could meet.
I'd select my tools with wisdom, with care and delight:
First I'd choose 'Listening with Both Ears,'
and with 'All of my Might'
To fully comprehend everything uttered,
To show each and every speaker
That his words I did hear,
That his thoughts I held dear.
Then I'd pick 'Empathy,' to bond with each speaker,
To walk a mile in his shoes,
To have been there, done that,
So he'd really trust me
To offer support and sage counsel
Because, yes, I really did have a clue.
And last but not least, I'd pick 'Patience and Toleration,'
Two virtues nearly lost in this generation,
But vital to Friendship, to cementing of Trust,
To sustain Relationships that never go bust.
I'd take these tools to the Launch-site and dig
Out the dirt---the gossip, the backbiting,
The Lies, the Taunts, and all of the Slander,
The jealous resentments---replace them with Candor.
And once I had managed to finally remove
All the brambles, all the thistles and thorns,
I'd plant flowers and greenery, sweet peas and corn.
I'd line the walls of the tunnel with soft tenderness,
To ward off predators, to keep out the pests,
Exchanging sewage for sunshine to warm up the nest.
~Yes, using time-honored tools from Heaven Above,
I'd create my tunnel, my vision, of Peace, Friends and Love.
Guess my reputation could be sweeter, but hey-
At least I'm not a skunk!
Backbiting scrounger you say?
I like to call it being environmentally friendly;
No waste when I'm around, I can assure you!
I'm not the coolest looking dude in the bush;
hunchbacked, slitty-eyed and spotty
But those alpha females go crazy for my shaggy back.
And what I lack in charm, I make up for in speed and wit.
You should hear the pack cackle at my jokes!
And my chat-up line works a treat:
'Hey darling, I've got a bone to pick with you!'
Survival in sub-Saharan Africa is no laughing matter
But we all have to let our hair down sometimes!
15.07.19
Pick A Title, Vol 6 - Personification - Poetry Contest : sponsored by Edward Ibeh
If every man, ...ceased to hate and blame every other man for his own failures and shortcomings, we would see the end of every evil in the world, from war to backbiting.
-Grace Metalious from PEYTON PLACE
It happened on the fourth floor
Where there is no one to console
And every man feels sure he’s lost
The heart of his own dancing soul
It happened on the fourth floor
Where intimacy quiets the spirit
And candlelight muses are aware
There is truth beyond their conscious
It happened on the fourth floor
Where gentle waves of compassion sing
To those who share the blessings there
Amid a forest of sweet dreams and ideas
It happened on the fourth floor
Where there are echoes of truths abiding
Creating promises of love forevermore
Praising God for His unending love
It happened on the fourth floor
Brothers and sisters and mothers and sons
All came together to shine in the sun
Beneath God’s touch of unconditional love
The Fourth Floor of Nowhere Poetry Contest
Sponsored by craig cornish
September 15, 2020
I think my muse is dead,
Or chooses to ignore
This aged so-called poet
Who should have died before
Her muse
Because this is a poetic law.
What is the good of a muse
If he goes away
I badly need a younger one
That would be sure to stay.
With me until my end
He would not ridicule me
He'd be my trusted friend
This muse would understand
That my brain gets in a fuddle
This young man would be patient
And help me to undo this literary muddle.
I find myself in.
Not like my old muse
Who thought my every word a sin.
New ideas are needed,
From a younger brain
I am out of ideas
They have gurgled down the drain.
I have not had the education,
Or the opportunities for some,
And at the risk of sounding,
Like I'm beating my drum.
I try to be honest and sincere,
In my writing.
Compassionate and caring,
With no malice or backbiting.
In this poem, I have written,
I have tried to impart,
Everything I write comes straight
From my heart.