Long Bribed Poems
Long Bribed Poems. Below are the most popular long Bribed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bribed poems by poem length and keyword.
a girl a child a life of 12 years
a by stander an innocent with no sense of fear
coerced, bribed, begged and beckoned
kidnapped, stolen, beaten and threatened
the thoughts now that run deep through her head
is how soon will they find me or soon will i be dead
he gags her, he ties her, he drives her to his lair of death
her heart, her soul, her mind will soon be at rest
he picks her up and puts her in a cold damp room
shes scared as she shivers and ponders her doom
he needs her so he feeds her as he keeps her alive
so he takes her and he rapes her for his sexual thrive
as daylight draws near and the sun starts to rise
all you see are dry tears that flowed from her eyes
with bruises and cuts and blood from her thighs
she was pure no more in her killers eyes
he despised and hated what she had become
unknowingly ignoring what he himself done
his anger and temper begin to arise
as he contemplates death for this young girls demise
he cuts off the cord from the lamp on the desk
he strangles and chokes her until her very last breath
then he drives her and dumps her small body to rest
the next morning they find her with a note on her neck
saying I HAVE JUST STARTED SOMEONE IS NEXT!!!!
And ignoble prize trumpeting hubris awarded to...
Bourgeoisie donning ersatz
overstuffed ego freezer bewigged pate
"FAKE" grotesque humanitarian
bribed corrupt judges will vindicate
jimmied cracked corn
land of "milk and honey"
red hot button he spoils to activate
countdown to Armageddon
leaving nation prostrate,
all the more reason to axe electoral college,
now holds electorate
hostage to bully tactics grate
for dead souls – zombie thriller, viz
Putin on the ritz,
whereby Pavlov's dog will salivate
on cue and pony show will titillate,
and worse case scenario, a far more terrible fate
than death by a thousand cuts
equals his refusal not to abdicate
presidency, should voters
get smart to administrate
White House with progressive commander
in chief he/she will adjudicate
decency, honesty, integrity... and acclimate
government toward amity, comity, equality...
oh,... and most importantly advocate
salutary measures affecting biosphere,
where industrialization didst devastate
contaminate by bajillion beings birthrate,
every square inch of Earth
*****sapiens succeeded to abominate...,
prima facie global warming doth correlate,
hence primary requisite mandate
to reorient modus operandi no time to wait,
where carbon footprint negligible
still preserving technological paradigm
fixing low cussed electricity to generate
courtesy renewable resources
else man/womankind will become footnote
atrophied trappings agglomerate
twenty first century civilization
damned, inundated, ossified bridgegate
checkmated, choked, chucked... wag gone wheels
das spare - tread fully tires fuming primate
jammed fruits of loins going bananas
infuriating, exhausting accelerating
no exit (sorry Sartre) to circumnavigate
hardy lee any recourse to extricate
oneself from madding crowd
self resignation minimally doth alleviate,
whereby impatient broods frustrate
inaccessible jackknifed mobility,
thence spark ignites spontaneous eruption
impossible mission to plug
crowdsource mob frenzy translate
pent up fury once loosed doth degenerate
into atavistic pandemonium cutthroat rage
snarling human logjam foaming at mouth
poised to strike ready to decapitate
any remaining shred of salvation barren feeble
slow vac hoovering, milking, and sucking
every last vestige of bondage peoples extirpate.
My sweet baby sister (AKA the traitor)
Has radars for ears and the mind of a spy,
She eavesdrops, twists facts, and then tattletales,
And proudly serves mom an elaborate lie.
I sweet talked, I begged, I bribed then I threatened,
Locked her in the bathroom and turned off the light,
I secretly hoped that she would get better:
It got better indeed, not sis, but her spite!
She listened in to the private confession
About the boy crush that I shared with a friend,
She posted it promptly on-line, no discretion
No mercy, no sisterhood! Viral it went!
That sure was the last camel back-breaking straw!
Eavesdropped and Exposed!!!- an egregious offence!
Should be charged, prosecuted and punished by law,
With no chance of parole, appeal or defense!
December, 14, 2019
I went to Heaven…..
Why I went there and
how I got there….
now there’s the story.
Went there to plead my case.
Couldn’t afford an angel so
one was appointed for me.
Unlike Clarence this guy already
had earned his wings – big deal.
My dispute centered around
the definition of sin and the
proper interpretation of
biblical references to mercy.
As in, is it a sin to commit a sin
in the act of being merciful
to a sinner?
How I got there? Well, it seems
that Hell has its own version of
the TSA and it is as easily scammed.
The lesser “devils” work for Hell’s
minimum wage and can be bought
for very little. So, I bribed my “devil”
and slipped out of line, bypassed
Heaven’s border patrol, and - Viola!
They were reading me my rights.
“You have the right to remain a sinner.”
“Any sins you have committed will
be held against you in the eyes of God.”
“If you give up the right to remain a sinner
your pursuit of forgiveness and salvation
shall be considered by the court.”
So, here I am – in Heaven!
Waiting for the angels to call my case.
I told them I was taking this all the way
to the top. No archangel was going to
decide my eternal fate. There would
be no plea bargain, no purification in
the lesser hell of “Purgatory”. I was going to
talk to the Big Guy and tell Him he needed
to update his prayer line as many of mine
were returned with the “error code”
undeliverable stamped on them.
Well, anyway, the view is terrific,
the food is “heavenly”, I’m…..I’m….
sprouting some fuzzy feathered wings.
This could sway the jury or at least aid
me in my escape attempt. I hear that the
“devils” are looking for me and “Big Lu”
is really pissed!
John G. Lawless
11/24/2015
submitted to – I Went To Heaven – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Laura Urbaniak
The Lost Art Of Composition
too often my thoughts and the ability to express them
are taken hostage without a clue to the cause
this is an affliction familiar to many a writer
as if madness wasn't enough
it proves to be immune to every method I've used
to relieve my minds constipation
it enslaves your ideas and duct tapes the mouth of your soul
binds your fingers and hands so you are unable to write
I Whiskeyed and Scotched it self medicated with drugs
the addiction that resulted I thought could be bribed
held a knife at its throat threatened, bullied and beat it
poked and scratched at the eyes
Kicked it in the balls
pleaded and begged even got on my knees and prayed
all my efforts were ineffective
it only pissed it off more and tightened the grip
around my Muse's neck
I had exhausted my resolve to this disease that consumed me
there was no other option but to surrender
I decided to give up , knuckle under call it quits
not answer the bell for the next round
I disconnected my computer and turned off my cellphone
the typewriter on my desk just for show
I've had since college every once in a while I have at it
so I stashed in the closet with books by Sexton, Wolfe and Burroughs
Cisneros, Bukowski and Gonzo
I turned down the lights and lit some candles
sat at my desk to prepare my suicide note
what happened when the ballpoint touched the papers surface
was the key opening the front door lock to home
an energy manifested that I had known long ago
before Technology had deadened it's nerves
it sparked the transfer of thought into a word
forming the shape of a sentence
this cosmic electricity flowed into my hand holding the pen
then designed a paragraph the child of chapter
I touched every noun felt each verb envisioned the adjectives description
heard every "ly" in the adverbs reply and ignored the rules of punctuation
I had discovered the remedy to restore my inspiration
the cure I possessed all along
The lost art of composition was my salvation
my own prescription is what I wrote
the poet is an artist that paints in the darkness
a poems words the colors that create light
a writer is blessed with all of the answers
cursed in the search for what questions to ask
Judge Burdon
I see the students of OLSH College, whispering and wondering
Some look lifeless, drained dry of will
Some looked scared, struggling still
I see them travel from grass to concrete
Daring not to cross the street
I see the leaves, the trash, the dirt
Feeling unwanted, discarded and hurt
I see a magpie, flying so free
At OLSH College, I see
I hear the bustling of OLSH College, trying to wrap up the day,
The scraping of chairs, the screeching of doors and footsteps of students who stray
I hear the wind whooshing past my ear
The magpie cawing, brazen, without fear
I hear pencils cry as they slave away
Sharpeners scream as they are forced to slay
Yet I hear the laughter of happy students
Bribed with games and chocolate presents
Satisfied and satiated, I listen as they cheer
At OLSH College, I hear
I smell the odour of OLSH College, sweat slipping slowly under the sweltering summer sun
Perfume masked the onion-like smell with flowers and freshness in one
But nothing beats the intoxicatingly tangy lemon tree
And the pleasant sweetness of the Azalea Charlie
And yet I am lulled into the canteen
Of chocolates treats sickeningly sweet
My nose leads me to the scent as I beg my stomach to quell
At OLSH College, I smell
I feel the bricks of OLSH College, each with its own story to tell
Hard and brittle the bricks are underneath
The peeling white paint that hides beneath
The dreary posters smooth to the touch
Of plastic and paper rough
But just outside the cool windowpanes
Wet, little droplets race down as it rains
Swift glances at those blotches I steal
At OLSH College, I feel
I taste the bitterness of OLSH College, of teachers and students alike
Unmotivated girls, not ready for the world
Eating their lunches with delight
It seemed the bribes they had been given
Of sticky gummies red and blue
Had not changed their minds, to gossip they were smitten
Oh, teachers don’t you wish they were chewing glue!
Yet I am putrid green, brimmed with envy
My stomach has gone on a one-month vacation
I wish I were a magpie, eating for free
I would take left and right at slightest invitation
Dear Ramadan, please make haste
At OLSH College, I taste
The God of the east thunders,
the desert walls burst out in tears,
soaking the thirsty earth,
watering perishing grounds,
and welcoming the virgin's birth.
A sudden silence engulfs the room
as they appear from behind tainted grey masks
marching down the deceptive aisle
robed in four years of treacherous lies.
They camouflage deceptive grins,
concealing buckets of emotion
and disguising their internal commotion.
Daily struggles, meaningless fights
They stand in their bribed gown pretending to be alright.
Empty paper with meaningless words,
could not repair the damage caused to innocent souls.
Hugging and kissing, dancing and swinging,
they made a toast in honor of the king.
But just as they thought it was over
a legion of angels walked in
forcing them to pay for their treacherous sins.
©2013 Christine Phillips
That amber liquid far from insipid
Like molten honey but drawn from a tap,
Bitter or dark, the choices quite stark,
God's malted ale, nature's true sap.
Vikings grew strong, strengthened their bond,
Giving them courage for mayhem galore,
A beer in their hand, they pillaged the land
Never quite feeling tired or sore.
The Celts used for curing, Egyptians for luring
Their gods from the heavens bribed to partake,
The English just drank as their water so stank,
Beer their solution to gulp for life's sake.
Wine lovers admit that their glass needs
be sipped
While describing aromas of berries and earth,
No such constraint, nor need for restraint
For drinkers of ale are freewheeling from birth.
So let raise a jug or a frothy filled mug
While watching a game and eating junk food,
Nothing is wetter, more luscious and better
Than a cold tasty beer when expertly brewed.
Solitude is now a trained trait
It’s easier than teaching the selfish to cooperate
Past the lights of yesterday
I see tomorrow fade away
Mundane voices talk with ease
Explaining why we go to sleep
Hieroglyphics carved in walls
Lead the way into our stalls
Different tones above our skies
Give our gods an alibi
Friendless souls still stomp around
Deciding if they own our town
Pristine people right and true
Can be bribed to work four you
Forced in to a governmental sacrifice
Seems to decrease our economical price
My minds been monopolized
Taken hostage by a pack of lies
Our love smothers, we destroy with hate
Emotional providences we can’t regulate
Poison from a broken heart
Can be used to dip a dart
Men have fought on foreign land
War has always been freedoms demand
Fallen comrades buried deep
Buried with the maps we seek
Thoughts not directly from my mind
Take refuge in my memory at times
Strong and educated we are immense
Unable though to choose sides of defense
A stagnate society lies in wait
Watching to see what our children create
Promises made of true satisfaction
Redeemed By investing in political action
The flag though torn still it waves
Granting our freedom, although were not enslaved
We have the choice or so they claim
To play like them or lose the game
Our elders, our teachers, to us they now run
Grappling at their justice; for answers, to us come.
08/02/2021
Imagism
Emile Pinet sponser
To be predicted means that you’re the fruition,
Of a rational process, effortful and determined;
We can all predict that someone will soon cure cancer,
And so Jesus was foretold as medicine’s romancer.
The name Jesus Christ means predicted saviour,
And Isaiah 53 verse 5 states that he definitely would be,
Wounded by the government for the people’s freedoms,
But that because of his wounds society would be superior.
Those who were intelligent just before Jesus came,
Felt a wave of change in the medical field,
Where doctors only treated the families of the rich:
The intelligent said that such a wave would equality yield.
When Christ was stressed out, about to be arrested,
He forsook his medical mind and surrendered all to god;
You can see that the god thing is for trials by government,
Or today, trials by society when your stance is not odd.
Upon arrest, the soldiers wanted Jesus of Nazareth,
Not Jesus the son of god, or the Jesus of any divinity tribe,
And Jesus simply replied to them “I am he,” squarely and plainly,
Unlike at his trial, where for speech he had to be bribed.
The allegation was indeed productivity in profession,
His work skill, which came and grew from his family roots;
He got much social power from his healings and exorcisms,
As he had learnt the joinery trade well, had invented new shoots.
Caiaphus asked if he was a king from the miracles he did,
Miracles of course being new methods and techniques,
And he replied to Pilate that god, the church and he himself,
Determine his actions, that their lee-way is his health.
Jesus was popular at church, not amongst the government,
So it was informally considered to be his validator;
The question was whether the people still saw state over church,
For common order to be maintained and not left in the lurch.
He knew he would die for the good he had done in life,
So inaugurated communion to remember his cause:
Loving the weaker, lower ones no matter who they are,
Saying everyone should know that personally in applause.
The Passion of the Christ film 2004 used.