Long Called for Poems
Long Called for Poems. Below are the most popular long Called for by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Called for poems by poem length and keyword.
A Mystery of Love
Who can understand. Why would a person
sacrifice himself in such a way. Spat on,
slapped, falsely accused, deprived of sleep,
given no food, unquenched thirst. Hauled
before Pilate the Roman governor. No guilt found
but crowd cried for Barabbas, a murderer and rebel, to
be freed. No guilt could Pilate find, but the throng
called for His crucifixion. Scourged by Roman whips,
hunks of flesh torn and blood flowing in rivulets.
Crown of thorn smashed down on His head, blood
streaming into His eyes. Purple robes of a false king
draped around His shoulders. Forced to carry the cross
beam of His cross until He collapsed. Hand forged spikes
driven into His wrists and ankles. Stripped naked and His
clothes gambled away. Hanging in the hot dry sun his parched
lips cooled by vinegar wine. He cried it is finished and gave up
the ghost. His side pierced by a Roman spear to make sure.
A mystery to me why anyone would allow this to happen.
The only answer has to be love. God loved us so much He gave His
only son to die for us. Only He would consent to this and His ways
are beyond our understanding. His life for ours.
Score's zip to zilch, last inning's near halfway through
at Gettysburg Commons' baseball league playoff.
Champion Graycoats at their posts hitherto -
Blue Jackets hear the pitcher's husky cough -
a clue to the catcher - this batter's toast.
Pickett lobs the pitch from high on his perch,
Meade smacks it past the church house roof almost -
a bolt from the Blue, Gray gets lost in the search
and Meade makes an easy trip 'round three bases.
Hancock is next and takes his turn with relief.
He whacks one to the pitcher of all places
running like blue blazes in disbelief.
He speeds to first base while Meade makes it on in.
Then Hancock circles the field - score is ought-two
As Pickett sits on the ball holding his shin.
In shock, he volleys a few words of blue.
The umpire approaches, a'raisin' his hands,
"I heard balderdash," he bawls with a frown.
"Game's called for cussin', but the score still stands."
Singing the blues, Graycoats hand over the crown.
New "toasts" of the town are Hancock and G. Meade.
They both talk a blue streak to boast of the coup.
Dazed by their disbelief, Graycoats recede.
And for weeks, Gen'ral Pickett's leg's - black and blue.
written 12 January 2015
On this and in many occasions
We've seen him proudly display
His titles along side of his
World Championship.
Tonight he enters the ring a
Battered and Bruised man.
Allowing a non contender to
Best him, and then again being
defeated by the number one
Contender. He was battered and
bruised by the two and took the microphone
In front of an unsatisfied crowd saying it's
Obvious you all don't like me To then have
a guy who has been an upright official come in
To help him after the brawl, to pummel your
Worlds Champion who refuse any help, he wanted
To do it his self
On the gurney microphone in hand he began singing
" I saw it in her smile" to wild the bunch, he got a loud
Standing ovation, to his and the fans delight .
Tonight the Champion enters as the underdog.I have
Been told they have the video ready waiting for it to
Become official. It's believed this is the champions night
To be defeated. He is out muscled, he is out gamed, he is
Injured and wrestling in pain He can't be disqualified or counted out.
Past champions have called for him to forfeit the title and try to reclaim
It in a "rubber match" if you will, or use the series stipulation to have
him who would be champion to commit to a continuous seven series
Where the odds would be in his favored. His opponent can out wrestle him
On his best days and tonight, they say only a fool would go in
Not thinking about himself.
" I saw it in her smile
The look upon her face"
These the lyrics we have heard all evening, we just wanna know if she can dance!
Against de Slate
Reporting
With no specific tone or direction.
And , than suddenly: Whoomp! the tone began to change
it devloped into a"whoomping groove"
it's beleived to dereive from Pickett
the lyrics said
early one morning I ran out and hollered
my voice echo'd down to the swamps
went down to the water wiff my pale
cloudly and humid: man called for strong wind
and hail
I tapped the pipes: siphioned the pumps
way they sounded liked they would work til lunch
grabbed my tools not
forgetting my pale
dip my bucket where wasn't no
swamp smell.
Lye and cedar soap
will dampen the smell
nealt down to fill up
my pale
looked down the shore
their was a ah Miss Neezer
smiled and flirted
told her I had to leave her
she said you crazy fearful scare chump
I got sumthang you can pump
lifted up her dress
and turned all around
meet in the barn
and we can get on down
He said I'll do ya Lady
I'm kinfa hungry
and I thought you should know
Told me she had sum Gumbo and fried bread
in the Kuche:
But I should be hungry for her P&ss
Slurp mine and I'll Slurp your
fix me some grub
while I finsh the chores
get nough water so we can wash our a$s
hold up lady stop
talking that trash
"Cherry Tobacco smoke filled the air"
He was the tribal elder
A most respected man
He called for a meeting
Of every single clan
And all stood there
In a silence unbroken
Waiting for The Elder
For His words spoken
He talked of the murder
Of the planet of their birth
How a rising new comer
Would poison this good Earth
He talked of His visions
Of a world of strife
And he talked of His ideas
To start a good new life
Away from the coming iron wielder
Away from the coming world of man
And silently they listened
To His survival plan
The green ships were ready
They would range afar
To make another Earth
Around a foreign star
With immortality their ally
Time was no foe
It may be a long journey
But they surely had to go
A decision must be taken
And with no opposition of note
The counting was so easy
In the first and final vote
So Oberon called the order
And he and Mabs led
It is written in their history
Why the Faeries fled
They are out there in the Universe
They are not coming back
While mankind travels
Down his foreseen track
Maybe they have arrived
Maybe the New World founded
Maybe the Green Fleet
Has irrevocably grounded
And Oberon and Mabs
And the clans of their band
Are even now working
To build the new Faerie land
A two faced person could never be trusted,
Vexed, riled, tormented his core.
Emotionally trashed his tender was torn,
So he stood and called for a war.
He screamed “You spoilt piece of ..., you’re a real waste of space,
Get out of my life, from my face”.
Deep down he wanted her rumours to stop,
For this person to stand in his place.
But it was what it was, he took a step back,
He suffocated alone.
Alone by himself he cried with the wind,
He cried with a blubbering moan.
And this never ended, all he needed was sleep,
So he grabbed the pills before going to bed.
And the night was too short, when the sun came back up,
He didn’t wake up, he’d become dead.
He got a speeding ticket on a lonely road in Montana. It was 3AM. He was alone. All the “support” groups were declared “non-essential” by the AI super computer and sent home to “shelter in Place”. A Satellite reported “thermal” imagery of movement around a fire in the woods of Washington state. A “self-driving” EV drove off a cliff. The “accident” was deemed an “algorithmic anomaly” caused by an “unknown stressor”. A body lay motionless in a city park. A police officer called for an ambulance as he administered “Narcan”. A group of “onlookers” videoed his every move. It was immediately posted everywhere. My “cell phone” is a “RAT”. It is in constant contact with its handlers, reporting my every move. If I leave it home “other” handlers search for me. When found I am admonished and told how “important” it is that I always “take my phone with me”. My GPS hates me! I turn it on and then don’t follow its directions. I facetiously tell people it is just another “woman’s” voice I don’t listen to. I am a “GUY”. I used to be a “MAN” but by definition “they no longer exist anymore”. I like to “figure stuff out”. Y’know, like, before GOOGLE. Y’know, like, sit down and think about it, make a diagram on the box, “improvise”, get it done. The TV tries to tell me what I would like to watch. My computer tries to tell me what I would like to purchase based on a profile they claim they don’t have. My mother stopped feeding me baby peas when I spit them out the second time.
Why doesn’t the computer have that “profile” stored in its “algorithm” of asinine profiles? Anyway, I’m off to the Tattoo Parlor to have a “third eye” tattoo placed on my forehead just to screw with the “facial recognition” feature of my allegedly benign “cell” phone. Don’t forget your “phone” and “keep both hands on that freakin’ steering wheel” .
Hugs and Kisses
They Know Who
I'm the sleeping child in the ribcage of civilization
Forgot that I need to wake up for absolute time
It's time, yes, it's high time to write poem
It's time to write a letter of poem on yellow envelop
It's time to write poem on the fallen leaves by new born dews
It's time to write poem to know you and to make know you that-
I'm a poet of catastrophic world!
It's time to write poem on the broken wall of the world fate-
Where everyone warns each other about the manhole
But after fall in the manhole none comes to rescue;
Where everyone warns each other about covid-19
But after contaminated by it everyone leaves alone;
Where all leaders confer and conscious about global warming
But after completion of the conference forget all manifestations
It's time to write poem on the tombstone of the departed hope-
Where the expected great life is written in humanitarian white paper
But human life akin to puppet, for the atomic power exhibition by war;
Where everyone is called for the prodigious unity on hidden graveyard
But unity becomes the bargaining products in the market of superpower;
Where every child takes birth to touch the ultra-developed science
But at the end inhumanity makes them the modern child of violence
Oh it's time to write poem to know me and to know all that-
I'm a poet of catastrophic world!
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
26/10/2022
III.
It was near midnight when they came again,
four warriors armed all with flaming brands,
Myron bolted up from a fitful sleep,
and poured out bullets as the horses ran.
He managed to shoot one off of his horse,
but the trio screamed and charged in once more,
Harold said”They’re fools to keep charging in!”
But Myron though hard, and wasn’t so sure.
He called for all to cease firing
and listened close as if searching for proof,
then he heard soft thumps coming from above,
one of them had gotten up on the roof!
The charging men had been a distraction,
and Myron grabbed the shot-gun in a hurry,
fearing that they would set the roof aflame,
he opened fire with a hot fury.
A hole was blasted where he shot the brave,
the dead man rolled off and struck hard on the ground,
the charging warriors roared in anger,
so Harold shot another one of them down.
The survivors fled back towards their camp,
but no withdrawal did the Sioux men beat,
instead they took turns sniping at their foes,
to deny Myron and his family sleep.
Come Morning Myron looked out and saw perched high
sixteen warriors atop their steads,
with lances and rifles and tomahawks
preparing for the morning’s bloody deeds.
But what chilled Myron’s soul more than anything
was the small tree trunk that two riders held
by the branches, to batter down the door,
and visit upon them a living hell.
The others let loose a barrage of shots,
to try and suppress Myron waiting within,
he fired endlessly took down two more,
then leapt back as the riders bore down on him.
The battering tree smashed right through the door,
a slew of war-cries went up, loud and piercing
the shot-gun blasted, two more warriors fell,
the noise left all their heads and ears ringing.
Harold went down from a shot to the chest,
the doorway was a commotions of words,
but standing there clutching his aching head
was the muscled form of Diving Bird.
Myron leapt forwards and drew his pistol,
then jammed it straight into Diving Bird’s ear,
Roared,”If you value your War-chief’s life,
you will all stop, and ride straight out of here!”
The Indians outside froze when they saw them,
none understood the words that he did say
except for an old man, missing an eye,
who spurred forwards to attempt a parlay...
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Young Timmy procured a small lacertilian,
Envisioning quite a grand master reptilian.
It sat on the culinary table in state,
Gulping down the cheap scraps put on its plate.
The reptile expanded twelve inches a day,
And kicked the poor terrified house cat away.
It swallowed a massive, hand-kneaded loaf—
He’s a beast now, no longer a pet or an oaf.
Timmy watched while adjusting his neon-green cap.
It sprouted a pair of scaly wings,
Obscuring the view of all municipal things.
It perched on the roof of the family sedan,
And exhaled a smoke that choked the whole clan.
The populace panicked and called for the mayor,
While Timmy was grooming his saurian’s hair.
"He lacks any malice," the youngster asserted,
"He merely requires a land more deserted."
The city’s high leaders decreed it was best,
To kick the whole mess out into the west;
Now Timmy, astride his draconian prize,
Is roasting the cows on the pastoral highs.
Epilogue
The western frontier is now completely ablaze,
Obscured by a thick and administrative haze.
The boy and his beast have established a state,
Revising the regional tax structure rate.
The local department of wildlife agrees,
The dragon can nest wherever he please.
They manage the landscape with ultimate power,
Extracting a bureaucratic fee by the hour.