Long Belittled Poems
Long Belittled Poems. Below are the most popular long Belittled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Belittled poems by poem length and keyword.
I read a poem about
a mother, a saintly mother,
who, with knotted and veined
hands, crocheted blankets
and booties and mittens
for grandchildren,
who made lemonade
and cookies for after school,
who canned and pickled and
made sarsaparilla, jam, and bread.
Certainly not my mother.
My mother was a clubwoman,
member, sometimes president,
often working on a project
while the peas burned.
She fed us meat, potatoes, and vegetables,
but she hated the kitchen
and housework.
Her major vices were cigarettes, quite
often Manhattans and one
we don’t talk about.
She constantly bemoaned
she didn’t do anything “meaningful”
with her education; no one valued
her ideas, especially my dad.
She felt belittled, unimportant, and
clubs fulfilled some of that need.
But who was it that kept everyone
in the family together?
During the Great Depression, who
managed to keep us fed and clothed
when Dad was out of work?
Who took care of her mother and
mother-in-law in the same house
for more than five years?
Who cared for months for my Aunt Carol, flown
home from overseas with kidney disease,
and who took in her three girls for “off-time”
the years they were State-side for education?
Who took in my dad’s brother, wife and
two children for six months
after my uncle lost his job?
Who welcomed children and grandchildren
when the need arose, no matter
how many people were already there?
Who cared for her mother-in-law
in her dying weeks, when her daughter
refused to do so?
Who was always there for us in emergencies?
In spite of a sharp tongue that often stung,
she kept us together when fate
tried to decree otherwise.
In my mind that’s a kind of saint!
when will it stop:
people getting blamed-
for what they did not cause-
all, because the narrative told them so.
when will it stop:
getting told to feel ashamed-
for events my forefathers did not cause-
all, because the narrative told them so.
when will it stop:
delusions hiding behind the invisible truth
And ignorance parading as fact-
all, because the narrative told them so.
when will it stop:
people blindly following a cause-
all, because the narrative told them so
when will it stop:
people being belittled
because their opinion is the opposite
to the opinion of the day-
all, because the narrative told them so.
when will it stop:
something from
the past is cancel or censored because
Because it doesn't conform to today's ideals-
all, because the narrative told them so.
when will it stop:
the double standards,
one rule for one and another for everyone else.
all, because the narrative told them so.
when will it stop:
people being told to conform,
just blindly follow the narrative.
all, because the narrative told them so.
the divide is widening,
and it needs to stop.
NOW!!!
Words hanging from parched branches confused and betrayed
Under a canopy of shadows in the recess of belittled thoughts
A prison of speechlessness bereft of expression and meaning
Letters motionless in disarray fighting lost battles lonely at heart
Starved streams of consciousness as a willow weeps in the wind
Seedless dispersion of illiterate drought at the edge of the tree
Reason and feeling disunited under a regime of torturous silence
Not even black ink on charcoal where fire should liberate passion
A scrabble of incongruence submerged under ashes of emptiness
What if there was no poetry and the writer was shackled and numb
Dead inside an alphabet of syllables refused collaboration and script
Naked to a helpless core of scorched earth void and festering agony
A scribe in handcuffs and the hangman tightening a noose of contempt
For the chorus of voices unable to shout from roof tops and watchtowers
While a tongue tied writer awaits his sentence for the crime of free speech
Drowned in his ink pot like a convicted witch at society’s illegitimate court
Or frying at the stake of burnt books at a show trial of unlettered verdicts
Misunderstood misspelt hung and quartered to the applause of division
A ballade-monger sings his swan song before the apocalypse rules out
The appeal to common sense for an elegist prepared for a final encore
As the final curtain is stuffed in between lips and amphora of metaphors
No one can say that they have not been forewarned of overt perpetration
Were merely following orders to suppress revolutions of evident trespass
That they deemed degenerate what disagreed with a deep currency of fear
And yet if one rhyme survived a single epilog remained on a grave stone
Just one cemetery of unmarked burial sites lived on etched into history
Poetry could not be killed for freedom is much stronger than censure
20th January 2020
Calling oneself a poet takes unmitigated gall and guts
And he or she should be prepared
To throw oneself off a high cliff
Or under the proverbial bus
Whenever the expression of innermost thoughts,
Emotions, ideas or beliefs are concerned
Those who lay it all out on the line often times
Get busted, beaten, belittled or burned.
Speaking straight from the heart
And soul typically involves taking
A road less easily traveled
Or mountain made steeper to climb
From those who read but cannot see
Beauty and truth hit them between their eyes.
To write of an ex-lover may tend to uncover
Bones buried deep in the past
Which are better unearthed for whatever they’re worth:
Sweet memories rarely fade fast.
Or perhaps you agree with riots in the streets
And nothing is worth more attention
Than a poet who subscribes
To every person who ought to strive
Towards the greatest good
For self and other friends
While you might think it better
To mind my own business
And stop writing about reality and make pretend…
Penning one’s personal moments
For others to debate
Is akin to placing their head on a stump
While waiting for the blade to penetrate
Skin and bone and taking us home
To a place where no one laughs
At anything we say or think
And our poetry will forever last.
Longer than the blood-letting
That oozes from our brains
While others stand outside of us
Laughing in the rain
As we foolish, fussy writers keep on
Twisting words and phrases
And the world keeps right on turning
Like our pithy, poetic pages.
12/4/2014
When relationships face
an uphill slog and bike's
battery is flat as well,
take on the four spokes
real deal, bespoken.
The first to speak is 'what'.
What is it, that makes you
want to shout out such abuse?
Describe it in a 'matter of fact' way,
in a single simple explicit sentence.
The second to speak is 'meant'.
What does this misdemeanor mean to you?
What are the consequences
in the tragic story-line, and scream play's script?
The third to speak is 'felt'.
How did it make you feel as the wheel turned?
What did the gravel scrape of tires reveal?
Did it make you feel less happy, sad,
frustrated, demeaned, misunderstood,
left hanging in the lurch, besmirched in some way,
belittled and bemoaned, unfairly ignored, left out perhaps?
Lay your raw emotions out on your sleeve,
revealed to be how they make you feel, deep within your being.
The fourth to speak is 'move on'.
How do you suggest we move on, to get the wheel
turning again, to recharge the battery,
and face the hill climb together.
How can we get all four spokes back in shape,
back in place, all four in turn bespoken.
'what', 'meant', 'felt', 'move on'!
'I think I can', 'I think I can'.
'What', 'meant', 'felt', 'move on'!
meant
|
|
what----|----felt
|
|
move on
A little baby dear Daffodil
Teasing me with her fiddle
Robbing my heart, in my mind
Dancing free, an angel find!
Beneath the way, I belittled shackles
Closing near her, fingers crackles
Alas! A bee, a wilful warrior
Driven me back, a startling barrier.
"Around a month, about an aeon
Waiting for this bud to be born
Away you go, alone that way
The flower is mine, let us play."
Wush! A wind flush my foe
Swirling like a cotton fro
"The flower is mine, away you bee
Longing for the fragrance flee."
While we three, averred free
Behind the tree, the daffodil plea
"Let the wind cuddle my fragrance
And you bee, taste my joyance."
And then the beauty gone with me
Back to home, we walked in glee
Heavenly souls, leaves their virtue
In their kindness, we hold life true.
In all the ways you've hurt me, I still will always care,
But I will never allow you to abuse me again, or take advantage of the words I share,
For years I sat and put up with it, and never stuck up for myself,
And now that the roles are reversed, you think your dealing with someone else,
My heart is still as beautiful as it was before,
But this time I will not tolerate you toying with my heart anymore,
If you don't want the honest truth, you can turn your head and go,
Because I love myself now enough to know you belittled my heart for your own ego,
Maybe this will change your heart when you've realized what you've done,
But until you can face me, and be completely honest, just know I'm not the one,
I can love you, but not your behavior, and yet love you enough to let you know,
If you think this is harsh, and you can't love me anymore, than you need to let me go,
And if you leave, I will be hurt, and devastated, and cry,
Because in my heart, I thought I meant more to you instead of living a lie.
With a shade of colourless eyes
Have I looked upon a world of discrimination
My nature is a rare form of uniqueness
And I defile every race by description
Golden hair on pale silver skin
An African white woman of Timbuktu kin
I have danced to the tune of my mockery
With teary eyes have I smiled at victory
Sharp edged stares may pierce me daily
Yet I walk head high and step most steady
Though the sun remains a foe that tortures
Still I conquer it with protective amours
I scowled at the honey tongues of lying lovers
Professing love only to taste my rare fairness
I read through their lines but read in between better
For this fragile,ignorant creature was fully harnessed
I have been belittled, scoffed and shaken
And redefined by several ethnic culture
I have been judged,ignored and broken
I have been worshipped,feared and obscured
But I created the burning hero in Me
And won my inner battle the greatest battle to be
For i embraced my deepest weakness
And savoured every drop of success
I am that nature's mysterious creation
A shortsighted being with farther vision
I betrayed my timidity and trampled its shell
I am a story and this story I tell
By: Adams O Elizabeth
Lizdiamond World Of Poetry
On learning to become a guru...
The following artfully crafted back in the day
(actually poetic endeavor presented below
written a few scant years ago) in response to
unexpected positive feedback received on
the most popular social media platform.
Unbeknownst to this unsuspecting witty mortal,
a reverberation attributed to butterfly effect
linkedin to hotmail twittering Facebook member,
who resides within Bhutan, his dignified volition
accorded me magnanimity titled sage without any
influential collusion from Russians bestowed yours
truly with said honorably distinguished appellation,
which humility of mine humbly accepted without a
protestation, though never would I brazenly adopt
spiritual holiness, yet flattered to share such rare
pronouncements, when unsolicited feedback lobbed
in my direction (way before advent of Information
Technology Revolution) often tendered, kindled, and
belittled this gentle human, sans when bullies slung
byte ting bit torrent loathsome scandalous red zingers
targeting personal vulnerabilities, asper being under
socially withdrawn, painfully shy, plagued with speech
impediment (severe nasality) caused by submucous
cleft client, plus weighing where needle budged from
absolute zero pounds, topped with passive demeanor
susceptibilities conveniently converging to establish
this bruised Earthling ideal choice as scapegoat, no
kidding with dread to endure endless days, weeks,
months...a lifetime channel of opprobrious, noxious,
malicious emotionally demonic, cannibalistic, barbaric
abominable, damnable, horrible diatribes chipping
(dale lee) at what measly self confidence shielded
fragile psyche fast crumbling into grist for hungry
caterpillar, unbeknownst that flight path randomly
followed by a representative of Lepidoptera order,
would ineluctably set very subtly infinitesimal
fluctuations within air (currently supplying biota
with requisite oxygen), also training perturbation.
Patience Young Grasshopper mine alter ego spoke
when yours truly figuratively chomping at the bit
more accurately fretting with anxiousness when
boyhood body of mine underwent metamorphosis
impossible mission to thwart biological transformation.
The Socialist gang leaders,
in the House and Senate still sit.
Not respecting the American
Constitution one tiny bit!
Conning their followers that
Capitalism is an evil way to live.
Hitler thought the same, and to
Germany lied and gave them all
a deathly, lying, shive.
I have to wonder, deeply about our
lost and belittled great history
Universities on down, don’t teach
truth but opinions tangoeing in
fabricated mysteries.
I pray our schools return to decency,
not sex continue as sex change facilities.
And more, yet more Americans, pray
to their God on humble knees!
11/17/2022