Long Bastard Poems
Long Bastard Poems. Below are the most popular long Bastard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bastard poems by poem length and keyword.
My Mothers Flowing Tears
Crouched up in the corner,
With my hands upon my ears.
My father shouting, striking out,
And my mothers flowing tears.
A childhood full of sorrow,
With hurt that no one knew.
Hiding beneath my sisters bed,
As my fathers anger grew.
He'd lock me in the coal-house,
He'd thrash me with his belt.
Sometimes he'd be full of love,
With no idea how we felt.
I even tried to run away,
Though always back I'd come.
For if he'd found out that I'd gone,
He'd take it out on mum.
When I reached the age of fifteen years,
No more did he attack.
I think he knew that if he had,
I'd have hit the bastard back.
Words on the wall.
Go with Paul.
So profound.
Like a crystal ball.
Okay, all coming back.
Should have read.
Julie, will you go with Paul.
But it didn’t.
Surely a message.
A deeper meaning.
Check the celestial phone.
A message awaits.
You dirty lying scummbag, drop dead.
Should I tell her there's only one M in, scumbag.
Could this be another message.
I enlighten her.
The other M is for mother-F
But is it.
Is there an even deeper meaning.
The celestial phone bleeps.
I peruse the heavenly text.
Actually, there should be an extra B with the extra M, bastard.
I see pain in her text.
I feel it myself.
There is a wanting.
Flowers and chocolates.
I feel comfort walking through the graveyard.
Knowing random people are helping me in the pursuit of love.
I throw a pebble up to her window.
Holding my mixed bunch of flowers.
Old Mrs Jones looks down, smiling.
If I was seventy, I’d do, I digress.
I bade her in, throwing the pebble up to my true love.
Who opened the window maybe a tad too early.
She screams my name.
Which was comforting in a strange way.
Old Mrs Jones looked out, recoiling in horror, knocking herself out in the process.
I realised I had forgotten the chocolates.
Darling, could you lend me ten pounds.
Something in her one good eye told me no.
The paramedics told me to go.
The Police read me my rights.
Putting me up for the day, and the night.
Still, as the Community payback man said as I was scrubbing the wall.
It’s not like you’re Banksy, is it, Paul.
I felt a deeper meaning.
A thought had occurred
It would take a lot of paint.
But would be worth the pain.
I worked through the night.
Such a delight.
I threw a pebble up to her window.
Old Mrs Jones looked down at the naked mural of me, and dropped dead.
Julie sort of squinted in dread.
But the gun in her hand.
Well, enough said.
The police charged me with indecent exposure.
Though the court said that wasn’t quite true.
Still, the Community payback man said.
I’m really impressed.
I mean, it's different.
Maybe you should have added a verse.
He stopped me scrubbing.
We bowed our heads.
As old Mrs Jones passed by in the hearse.
how many times have i told you
You are worthless?
How many times have I pounded your head into the ground?
How many times have I thrown you into the psych ward?
How many times have I looked at you with scorn and derision?
How many times have I rejected you?
How many times have I tortured you?
How many times have I told you in so many ways to die?
You stubborn bastard
You won't leave
You have to get that damn truth out of you
Can't you see this world doesn't want you
Can't you see this world doesn't love you
Can't you see this world isn't ready for you
You stubborn son of a b*t*h
And you keep going
So what the hell do you want?
You have my attention.
Over the Middle Passage of Time
(Apropos of Trials and Triumphs)
In the crypt of the ocean’s deep
Lay ivory bones
Of screaming ebony souls
Drowned in due seasoned journeys
Across middle passage sojourns
Of pilgrim’s progress
Yoking labor in the wrinkles of the earth
From the fresh dawn to the tired dust thereof:
Nothing fertilizes like wet sweat and dried blood.
When the instructive tongues of ancestors
Tap at the door of attentive ears
Spirits scale skyscraper yearnings of home
Parachuting shackles of mind and body
Drifting in earthy fields of rusty ways;
No, the last supper will not be here.
The lit torch illuminates the new summons;
The passage of time forgives but never forgets;
The Supreme Master of the Universe spills His cup
Into the Saucer of which we now sip:
Because of His amazing grace, we shall not
Sup the tainted bastard blue blood of disgrace.
Come the morning, we will shed
The tears of infants, painted red.
Mother's love can save the child
But not the mother from her death.
Soon the child will grow up hated,
then the voices soon abated,
when he finds wickedness in pleasure
And in blood, he finds a laugh
He is lost, they say, abandoned
Bastard child who fathers misfortune
He is crooked in his stature
Out of his jaw leaps a lie
Yet he carries out the sentence
Righteous man endures the torture
Of this world without a Father
Where the love of God shall die
Fear the son, lest he be joyous
In your twisted castrato chorus
Separating joy from voices
So that you can only cry
You will burn and starve and vomit
And your terror will be voiceless
Unless you embrace the hatred
And become as loved as I
Touch me in silence
Remember the violence
A golden teddy bear
Sees the look in your eyes I so fear
In a cup sits a lonely daffodil
And I pour in my tears to watch it fill
But I'm arrested by the look in your eyes
Torn apart by all of your lies
I'm not the man I once was
My head aches from the constant buzz
Nauseated from some black narcotic
My reactions to your touch are robotic
Your love is a curse
A replaying and broken verse
I can't live with you
But I cannot live without you
Every time you kiss me
Liberates me and sets me free
Only to be reeled in by your drugs
Because you're a thug
I'm just some ugly thing
With numerous scars that sting
The wounds of our long romance
Always giving you another chance
Touch me in silence
Remember the violence
You're just a bastard
Seen only through broken shards
You're just a fragment
Used up and spent
I loved you, I loved you
I've broken you, I'm through
If Hell makes u relive ur Greatest pain repeatedly
The pain of Lost Love is what mine would be
The Devil keeping only sad love songs on the jukebox
Watermelon Sugar is the beginning of his playlist
The Devil is a cheeky bastard
The silence of the record switching draws her memory
Her voice sounding like echoes in a cave
Bringing her back into my arms
My memory turns it to reality
Her soft lips & cold skin vanish from my embrace
As the next song begins to play
An old black man's blues riff plays like out of the jukebox
Drowning the sound of my heart breaking again and again
Yet, screams of tortured souls who reside here are heard
The Devil tortures my soul with flashing memories of her face
Going insane with grief and pain losing her over and over
When the next song ends
My hell begins again
The memory of her on the porch glowing in rays of sunshine
Gazing at her neck as she disappears into thin air
The needle sets onto the track of the next record
Leaving my heart in the last memory
The whine of an old steel guitar accompany my sobs
Lonesome Blues strums my heart strings for an eternity
With no end in sight
No comfort is to be found
When the Devil owns a jukebox
He can play whatever song ur heart desires
I will accept my hell
Because it is the only place I will ever be with her again
Even if it ends after every song.
Iam looking for two pieces of silver! Willing to go downtown for that blue paper! Iam talking a doughle bag filled with dead presidents rest in peace to the leaders , Teachers not dealers!
Dodge a bullet!
Dance in the rain!
Smile with the sun, you are David conquer the giant within that wants to destroy.
Hug the trees for comfort! Blow tress for a steady thought , strengthen your heart these are cold nights have sight!
Tick tock the alarm ringing,
What is your wrist telling you to do?
One life , one heartbeat , two hands oh yes you blessed! Keep fighting , dive to greatness be the shark for life can be a bastard!
Bastard= child born from unwed parents
*****= female dog, wolf, etc.
Men are called BASTARDS and women are called *****ES
So with that in mind- I’ll put this into verse and rhyme.
There was a bastard named Bill, who would walk
His ***** named Jill.
Now she would love to lay or play
And this would go on every day.
Then when his ***** would go into heat
He would give his ***** a treat.
He would allow her to put her scent all over town
So that the others would know that she’s around.
Now Bill being a fatherless child- would sit around and laugh awhile.
(With the definition of these words being known) I must ask this!
Why would you put your ***** on the street?
When there are so many others she’s bound to meet.
She will leave you in a flash, because she doesn’t need
Anyone to wipe her ass.
YOU are fatherless and what are you about to do
Is creating a litter just like you.
So why do we use these words as profanity?
That is not the way it was meant to be!
HA HA ENJOY YOUR DAY
He made his way across the pond
when he was twenty-three,
an upper-crust Brit who even spoke
the finest, English R.P.
His name was Albert Framingham,
but to all the people here,
he’s the posh, English cowboy,
and lord, he knows no fear!
The first time he ever rode,
he fell off seven times,
got to the point that half the town
started rolling their eyes.
But Albert was something special,
a true, determined man,
and before two months was up
he’d been hired as a hand.
Ride, Albert, ride,
you magnificent bastard.
Ride, Albert, ride,
ride out and cut that herd!
He soon got a reputation
for never once getting tired,
he’d ride for days across the mountains,
that boy was cut from iron.
Though he liked a spot of tea,
he still went out every night,
with his pards to Randy’s Bar,
and drank everything in sight.
He soon had himself some sweethearts,
three in just one small town,
and in truest cowboy fashion,
not one could rope him down.
He had himself a wool slouch hat,
and tall boots for riding,
God forbid you ever lie to him,
he sure was cross when mean.
Ride, Albert, ride,
young man of steely nerves,
Ride, Albert, ride,
ride round-up with the herd!
One day he decided he would try
the local circuit rodeo,
roping he knew, the rest he figured
he would learn on the go.
His first time one a bronc lasted
a mere second or two,
but by the end of the season,
he rode eighteen seconds through.
His parents once visited him,
and could not understand
why their son sat by a fire,
eating beans from a can.
He’d gone to prestigious schools,
earned himself high degrees,
Albert shrugged, saying,”Mother,
this is what makes me happy.”
Ride, Albert, ride,
to the life that you deserve,
Ride, Albert, ride,
the greatest of cowherds!