Long Barbed Poems
Long Barbed Poems. Below are the most popular long Barbed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Barbed poems by poem length and keyword.
Family love is born in little rooms,
around sofas, settees, dinner plates,
with paternal bond that strengthens and grooms,
unswerving link that lasts till heaven’s gates!
We were such family in a French town,
traditional, true, religious us four,
mother was good at making wedding gowns,
father a decorator ran paint store!
Sister and I watched German troops on streets,
Tuesday August year nineteen forty three,
parents held us close, could hear their heartbeat,
that was the last day we would all be free!
Dragged on to street by the Nazi soldiers,
our father was punched kicked and beaten blue,
we wept helpless, clung to mother’s shoulders,
that was the last of our father we knew!
Pulled away from mother and Sis I cried,
screaming imploring, no mercy, no heart,
that day for me when humanity died,
was day my family was torn apart!
Packed in a train suffocating with stench,
alone defeated waited journey’s end,
with dead and dying that made stomach wrench,
four days of thirst and suffering to spend.
I remember that train to Auschwitz well,
journey that destroyed many lives like mine,
where our love and hope to tyranny fell,
to death we were paraded in a line!
Six months past we heard exchange of fire,
that made evil enemy pack and run,
We were all rescued from behind barbed wire,
was still hope and goodness under the Sun!
When God smiles he smiles generously well,
lifts suffering souls from bottomless pit,
That day he was smiling we could all tell,
his eyes perhaps gleaming and face well lit!
Each life and hope with dignity restored,
we were treated, bathed clothed and given food,
In room of people saw face I adored,
sobbing with outstretched arms my mother stood!
United with mother back to my house,
and years of togetherness we would share,
on the wall hangs our striped prisoner blouse,
to tell trappings of hatred and its snare!
The train to Auschwitz took many to death,
guilt ridden, to and fro ran that train,
but tracks remain, hate may creep back in stealth!
train to Auschwitz should never run again!
Premier contest 6th placement
Written 09/April/2021
10 syllables each line (PS syllable count)
based on a true story as related by a 93 yr old Auschwitz survivor
The last train to Auschwitz poetry competition
Kai Michael Neumann sponsored
"Leaders" are sweeping us toward the drain.
Lined with the halos of fractured hope.
They seed the soil and skies with green dragon eyes.
Not bothering to hide their brackish hearts anymore.
They've filled our havens and cities with black-souled deities.
If anything, COVID-19 taught the elites,
that mankind is easily converted to swine and sheep.
Mankind will readily cloak their smiles, stay inside, deep inside.
Mask up and shut up indefinitely.
They'll shy away from funerals and weddings of loved ones.
Under moderate threat and prodding...call it barbed conditioning.
Our nose rings grow thicker-the future grows grayer and dimmer.
Nothing emerges from the drain say for a rouged echo or three.
A new world order, a most unholy trinity.
God is engulfed in his blue period.
Has grown into a blossom of indifference.
Quite scentless and so very distant.
Anti Establishmentarian - hashtags himself as antithetical
I stand, (albeit figuratively) athwart
current mainstream popular opinions concluded
(i.e. swirling) within
metaphorical eddies storied Senate high court
case in point constituting acquittal regarding
good and plenti jinxed
high crimes and misdemeanors
purportedly linkedin quid pro quo
president Donald John Trump,
whereby Republican partisan tipping point
ultimately decreed triumph
able, eager, ready, and willing to escort
kickstarting naysayers, rebel rousers,
and woebegone yawping zealots
(think Democrats) courtesy,
a fictional humanoid robot christened Gort
first debut appearance in 1951
20th Century Fox American science
fiction film The Day the Earth Stood Still.
Smug mugshot depicts
victorious commander in chief with jutting jaw
can now figuratively wring his hands
(more resembling puffed wheat bear paw)
whereat he reveals sharp glistening
barbed freighted, galvanized pointed claw
daring any elected official to follow scofflaw
(think Nancy Pelosi, who got hustled off -
her role as speaker of the House
security details immediately did withdraw
faster than greased lightning,
and/or Quick Draw Mcgraw
after she ripped Trump’s
State of the Union speech),
she definitely decreed guilty of fas paux
undoubtedly wincing how she got raw
end concerning high stakes Art of the Deal.
Drama under domed capital suddenly
(hello kitty) meow my
tectonically shifted analogous
to hydrogen bomb that fell out of sky
starring loose cannon shot
supremely above United States government law,
oh my dog I wanna die
versus enduring four more years,
one garden variety generic guy
who doth agonizingly decry
what will become of truth tellers forced to lie
thru their teeth...
er (yours truly) dentures, whereby
that will pose no deterrent for bluetooth to spy
every painstaking action cumulative data
nowhere off limits, yupper even
becoming American as apple pie
plus embedded into skein of ordinary house fly,
thus essentially fomenting grassroots
freedom fighting militia to stave off doom...
analogous as one after another protesters
dangle over the River Kwai.
Entering the Dark Side of a Moonbeam
Entering the dark side of a moonbeam is always very risky
since the cold and howling bitterness of the night escapes,
as a moaning, devilish agony of selfishness devours the good.
As the human heart fills with air, a legion of grieving spirits
in the human psyche is at once intoxicated with the sacred
kissed-gift of this hallowed eve as promised by the Devil.
Cain searches now within Life’s Garden that special hiding
place where unsuspecting Zombies of a grief-stricken nature
dwell whilst being seduced by a darkness as fires burn black.
What remains evident is an emotionless being who is tortured
with murderous feelings that are affected when the dark smoke
blows away all pride and one finds there is no remorse at all.
An agonizing pain is cleared now with the Moon’s eclipse as
the ghosts and goblins of the Devil seek “Hate’s Trigger” that
lies under a deep-dark crater where twilight ghosts cry out now.
These demonic ghosts are known as the “Crying Beggars of Despair,”
who haunt the soul of mankind and are born out of the dark ashes of
unhappy wild beasts who speak with tongues of envy and sadness.
These ghosts now set up their invisible barbed-wire boundaries
that they want to burst later as they begin fighting for their true
existence in the Devil’s own “Dark Netherworld of Lost Souls.”
These ghosts begin now to dance gracefully in the dark shadows as
their deceptive tongues make false complaints and poisonous lies
that throw the state of mind of the demonic ghosts into utter turmoil.
With this evil event, their blood rushes rapidly below the skin’s
surface, as a fear now clings to their throat as an eternal burning
battle gains no foothold to the next following step they must take.
Yes, even for the Devil’s own demonic ghosts from the depths of
Hell itself, their life, their very own existence is incredibly fragile
and vulnerable just like a match is to a flame. Mors omnia solvit.
Gary Bateman, Anne-Lise Andresen, and Liam McDaid
Copyright © All Rights Reserved, December 7, 2021
(Tercet)
Garden of a Meager Harvest
By David J Walker
The rusted remains
of the old farm truck
Remain on the untilled patch
of prairie grass plains
as long as I
can remember
The old Farmall tractor
Planted on the southside of a
Long row to hoe
that I know
All too well
A windmill unused for years
Squeals and creeks in a wind
That still tries in vain to
Turn its blades
For a cool drink of water
Monuments held
captive inside a
barbed wire fence
as if to prevent an escape
The trusted truck stands ready
As if it’s rusted out bed could
Carry to market the fruit of
A summers labor
The remains of the old
Pick-up lost its windows
Long ago
Field mice have nested under
The bench seat and eat
Everything that isn’t rusted metal
How long before its tires
Finally expire
exhaling rust
Giving up the ghost
Of a dusty last breath
Of a garden's meager harvest
His young bride took the Twelve Days of Christmas to extremes it seems!
His true love kept piling on strange things well beyond his fairest dreams!
On the First Day of Christmas she gave him a shovel for shoveling snow.
On the Second Day of Christmas she gave him a fifty-cent jug of Red Bordeaux.
On the Third Day of Christmas he was presented with a scruffy mutt.
On the Fourth Day of Christmas he received a one-way ticket to Terre-Haute.
On the Fifth Day of Christmas she graced his skull with a silly beanie cap.
On the Sixth Day of Christmas she handed him an African contour map.
On the Seventh Day of Christmas he received a used Michelin radial tire.
On the Eighth Day of Christmas he was stunned to get a strand of barbed wire.
On the Ninth Day of Christmas he got a life-membership in the Red Hat Society.
On the Tenth Day of Christmas a collection of horseshoes, a most bizarre variety.
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas a parrot that spoke naughty words so gross.
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas he got the Visa Card bill leaving him morose.
He was underwhelmed by all this useless stuff and thought it mighty *****.
He was under the impression that Christmas came but once a year!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No.3 in PD'S "12 Days of X-Mass" Contest - December 2012
Light evanesced upon his leaving
with the final choke of dusk--
the fragrance of orchids wisping softly
and I shiver...vapid, empty
clouds swallowing the kiln of lamppost-
and into the restless clang
from winds booming,
the dirge of hummingbirds stutters
which makes noises louder
than my groans-- the ceiling of sky
breaking like splinters of glass-
and among incandescent stars,
our distant, intermittent rendezvous
withers as my peppered tears grate
the bitter tincture of night's burial
from all his trespasses,
a body language
coiled in stale cocoon...his words
barbed as jailed verses ...
unuttered ,unsaid.
How your lips adored me like sweet Chablis
where paths of seasons were widely gained;
that all I feared dissolved into your arms
taking chances on vows of forever:
But your hidden lies drenched me in the rain,
playing with my vulnerability
through splintered words of a snake’s deceit,
of liaisons drilling nights upon my barbed cross.
Far the separate roads we shall travel then
wilting on grapevines where ardor once ruled,
and now, your dead leaves of betrayal crash…
while I prevail , stand tall from an intent so unreal.
For john lawless: WHAT LIES BENEATH THE LIES
2/17/2017
"Get high on yourself baby
You
The revolution"
It wasn’t Reagan chirping away
That brought down the Berlin Wall
It was Nina Hagen brawling like a sprung spider
From a death crack in the wall
She understood its graffitied brick and steel
Was but a trembling empty web
Before the CIA ever did
She
A wound-up special weapon of orange and green wired hair
"Born from Xixax"
Safety pins looped through her ear lobes
Pull! Throw!
Clamped hair to her armpits tattooed eyelids of Ra
Rants like Linda Blair rising from her bed
To the ceiling
Half a sentence growled German the other harmonic English
Demon angel of Opera Punk and Gospel
Guttural laughs
Lunatic bass synthesizers and guitars
Wishes Mr. Brezhnev a happy birthday reunion from the junkie "UFOs
Who did it
The Holy Spirit"
And "Hans Hans" her lover her anti-christ her double agent
Conjuring LA earthquakes
And her baby daughter to the sun-beamed dust balconies of Mars
The Stasi didn’t know what to do with her
The prophet the chosen one
But to kick her out to the other side
With a good luck to you all
Over there in West Berlin and New York City
It wasn’t an old man with nuclear tips
Who changed the world
But an outrageous young singer anarchist
A barbed wire flower with a forked tongue
Who did not demand to be free
Because
She was
Already free
That’s when the wall came down and communism collapsed.
After the greedily laden cirrus' lighten their loads,
a dog day returns to our suburban sanctuary.
As the mercury ascends like a climber captured in a glass tube,
the heath's heady aromas revoke our remorse.
Tangled brier and spiky scrub emit their balm:
a conspicuously redolent cocktail of coconut and cabbage.
Backlit baubles of liquid sunshine dazzle the view,
while defying gravity on their barbed roosts.
Suspended above the sodden, verdant heath, like an ethereal spirit,
another cloud hangs low, as if a subterranean lava lake -
once dormant - has been aroused from its viscous langour.
The transient torrent which incited the tribes to take refuge -
now passed - invites its flock to flood back onto the pasture.