Long Censured Poems
Long Censured Poems. Below are the most popular long Censured by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Censured poems by poem length and keyword.
The dawn, after the rain had trumpet its force on the old roof tiles
it ceased to a soft drizzle harmless and tender.
Yes, I know I should get up at seven steeped as I´m a protestant work ethic.
Overcome by laziness, I slept for two hours more.
In my drowsiness, thought about how our freedom has been restricted by the internet,
our thought and secrets are no longer our property but shared by authorities that want
to know our innermost thoughts.
We are prisoners of an all-embracing society that will not tolerate thoughts
other than banal comments about a friend`s birthday.
What we heralded as a great instrument for communication
is perverted and spied on by our leaders.
Free speech only exists for those who have nothing to say and accept living
in the land of the convention.
Nothing can be nobler if we demand our right
not to be censured
and called seditious because we will not be trapped
in the trivial acceptance of perceived lies.
"recently scenes of early life have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown ..."
Quote by _Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Time rewind, loving touch of my mother
Snatched away by the remorseless fangs of time
That also did sadly smother, camaraderie with my brother
Ah, no matter, memory has now sounded it's mystical chime
Misty eyed I recall tender moments of childhood treasured
As through serpentine arduous pathways of life, l climb
How may pristine love and innocence be measured
Heart free from malice, childhood days were so carefree
By grace, feeling no angst or anger, when for faults censured
It was then during childhood years, that my joyous soul was free
I now oft try to rekindle those cherished moments in my mind
Vicariously however, dependent upon my fading memory
As I now flounder about through life, love bereft and spiritually blind
I yearn to resurrect the magic of blissful love and joy, left far behind
06-October-2022
Theme: Memory
Inspired by Constance La France’s contest
New Tyranny
The dawn, after the rain had trumpet its force on the old roof tiles
it ceased to a soft drizzle harmless and tender.
Yes, I know I should get up at seven steeped as I´m a protestant work ethic.
Overcome by laziness, I slept for two hours more.
In my drowsiness, thought about how our freedom has been restricted by the internet,
our thought and secrets are no longer our property but shared by authorities that want
to know our innermost thoughts.
We are prisoners of an all-embracing society that will not tolerate thoughts
other than banal comments about a friend`s birthday.
What we heralded as a great instrument for communication
is perverted and spied on by our leaders.
Free speech only exists for those who have nothing to say and accept living
in the land of the convention.
Nothing can be nobler if we demand our right
not to be censured
and called seditious because we will not be trapped
in the trivial acceptance of perceived lies.
The New Tyranny
I had this nagging headache and went to see
my doctor, his waiting room was full of humanity
with an assortment of illnesses
The table in the middle of the floor used to be
full of newspapers and magazines, it was nude and
didn't even covered with a tablecloth
there was silence, ten patients looking at their
mobile phones while waiting to be called
I walked home took an aspirin and went to
bed in the night it rained
At dawn, the rain trumpeted on the old tiles
I stayed in bed until the rain turned into a soft
drizzle, but I was thinking of the internet.
our thoughts and secrets are no longer our
property, but shredded by authorities and by those
who sells soaps
we are prisoners of an all-embracing society
all thought other than banal gossip on Facebook
be charmed by clumsy dogs and smart cats
what was heralded as a tool of communication
by our democratic institution, who knows more about
us than is good.
Stasi of East Germany is only 100 times better
Nothing can be nobler than demanding our right to free
speech, not to be censured, and called seditious
in the USA, democracy is set aside when students
are arrested when shouting slogans.
George Washington would never believe it and call it a crying shame. I have observed the prohibition of prayer in public schools. Free speech is not free but is for sale to the highest bidder. Moreover, there is an attitudinal atmosphere suggesting that any speech that is not my own should be abridged, censured, or abolished. Traditional norms and family values are dropping like flies under the spell of pesticides. The Bible is considered to be narrow-minded hate-speech. I have seen people terrorized, their civil rights decertified and denied. Moral values have been devalued, set aside, and liquidized; Constitutional rights are diluted, disputed, and no longer solidified. Whatever happened to the great 'thinkers'? I have noticed the terminal illness and demise of noble ideas. Education is being replaced with political persuasion and propaganda.
Abraham Lincoln would never accept it and call it a crying shame. Minority rights are being revised, realigned, reassigned, and redefined. I have witnessed human rights ignored, disregarded, and not prioritized. The cultural revolution is forging ahead in jet-propulsion speed like there is no tomorrow nor time of reckoning. Belief in evolution is man's best hope for a future without accountability. There are no absolutes nor need for resolution. Majority rights are brought into question, unguaranteed, and in retreat. Equal rights are desired but unclarified, undefined, and unobtained. I have beheld the orchestrated disappearance of common sense, and before long we shall be worry-free because 'Big Brother' will always come to our defense. Alien rights are well protected, highly promoted, and unwisely provided. There is a free admittance of subjectivity and the utter rejection of objectivity. I started to weep when I realized that sanity is being burned at the stake. I'm hoping and praying that we return to our senses before it's too late.
07062018PoSoupContest, Personal Favorite Poem Written In 2018 Poetry
Sponsored by: Carolyn Devonshire, 5P
Jesus, no doubt, is my hero and friend,
Till the end.
Was he perfect? Don’t know? But if So?
When he told the Pharisees that they were of their father the devil?
Was he sinning? Was he hating? Such that others could mock and revel?
In their own superiority? And his motives inferior?
My God, I feel wearier, every day,
That I feel the weight of the maternal scolds, and belittling things that folks say.
“Get a job!” “Get off the street?!”
“You’re just a burden as you sit there and beg at my feet!”
“You’re not a victim, so leave the past in the past!”
“That’s not nice, my little child, you’d better straighten up fast!”
Jesus, no doubt, is my hero and friend.
Till the end.
Was he perfect? Don’t know? But even if not?
I strive to be like him, and love him a lot.
And just as my Savior, got angry, I too,
Feel the fury of bias and the rage of pointed fingers.
Like singers, singing a song of condescension,
It reminds me of days that I am censured to mention,
When my dad was denied his pension,
Because of the tension,
Of his skin tone and refusal,
To be sheepish and bamboozled,
Am I Jesus, or even much like him?
Not really, I must admit?
But still he’s my Savior, even when I throw a fit.
And thank God he sees me truly,
Even when others scoff and chide.
And thank God he gives me courage,
For I refuse to run and hide.
For those like me, who started from the beginning at the bottom,
Our culture tends to view us as oh just a wee bit rotten,
And at the slightest hint of fury, seek to hunt us like Ben Laden.
So when I lose it? Yes I choose it?
This consequential crucifixion,
For I although others tend to want me silenced, prostrate in submission,
I have a savior, King, and best friend too, who never fails to listen.
hidden intentions
forseen from afar
set in the dark
tracks in the stone
to posterity through cloisters
with empty streams
a desert
of aged rivers
folds of nothingness
now run cold
treasures like rain
in abundance
lies
unnoticed
customs rites inscribed
without counsel
an eternal mandate
to interpret
given honour
crowned by command
by order
from on high
among us
the genteel
giving way
wise to please
acquainted with justice
models in reason
upon their own course:
practised analysis carried out
answers
to this current age:
precarious colleagues
in everything else
so doing
growing in reserve
wisdom mistaken at large
original
sincere
an analogy repeated
appears suspended
derived with censured
motives uncombed
wholly simulated
yet
capable of lasting enquiry
liberty prohibited without a whisper
rebellion in ignorance
opens the door of history
to the impossible
authentic conscience
a theory so many mark
but
do not listen
yet
at the end of it
can only
weep
year later
an obstacle remembered
now destroyed
in affections furrow
a doorway to the cross:
a suitable place
the winged cloud
talked of in conversation
thought to be cast down
yet
an indesructible word
now
still in flower
in the half-light of beauty
bringing light
vineyards of branches
gild the moment
highlights on a scale of importance
bringing equity
from heaven:
declaimed scripture
matter to contend
&advance the picture
with courage
an example for the next time
My people are shipwrecks,
they have faces long crushed by tanks.
Many are landlocked,
a few were too oceanic
they got broken by dry-docked hearts.
Most were blitzed by smokescreens.
The trees and industrial units
are so tightly packed,
that snow can only fall
in thin shafts of squeezed daylight.
You can get silenced or dead in those
cold spotlights.
At the edge of the cut lumber
yearlong tractors unearth muskets
discarded by the few who held fast
only to retreat to boneyards and sweatshops.
The unauthorized have been
censured and cancelled,
mute now the people hide their souls.
We took a road much travelled,
a stream of masked riders escaping,
it was a mad rush
to keep up with the fear.
When we got there, we could only
mill about like sheep behind the razor wire.
My people peer form the margins,
form tented tribes native to junkyards and jetsam.
They are washed up as shoreless wreckage,
gaunt reminders of all things forgotten.
They dream of that slim peninsular.
They dream-walk to the end of its long pier,
grasp the last flimsy rail
that keeps them safe from
the past and the future.
An ancient cycle of storms pounds them,
pounds that rickety quay
as it finger-points to nowhere.
The sea slaps their faces,
until they cannot stand, but must sit
inside their open mouths,
be just funnels
for the unrelenting winds
of dark times.
I wonder how it will spin?
When they tell of that spring.
Eyes will meet with a nod and a wink
In keeping their lies in sync.
Grandkids will tweet
About the time in the street
When no one came out
Neither whisper nor shout
I wonder how would it spin
If enough of us knew
The political poison
They feed us by spoon.
Six feet apart in
A line to the booth
The people, enslaved,
Memorized the truth.
Some ran saying change the guard..
But now..
I wonder how it will spin
If the facts are ever sewn in?
Of how they avoided a war
By diverting our thought
With a global pandemic
That kept those in power
Feeding scraps from their table
In the shape of a dollar.
Six feet apart in
A line to the booth
The people, enslaved,
Memorized the truth.
Some ran saying change the guard..
But now..
I wonder how it will spin?
When they tell of that spring.
Eyes will meet with a nod and a wink
In keeping their lies in sync.
Grandkids will tweet
About the time in the street
When no one came out
Neither whisper nor shout
Clockwise for sure
For time must march on
And the thoughts of the disillusioned
Are censured, then gone.
Image of Puzzle Match Missing provided by Pixabay.
Poetless II
Poetic Form: Couplet
Blank pages strewed, across the desk of pains,
in a tongue-tied state, censured writer wanes.
The silent voice echoes hollow inked wells,
of dying words crept from a mind that quells.
Overwrought grips, scrawl at piles of long since,
mayhaps some gleam ... sort of sign to convince.
The broken clock held, tells that time does not,
while a mute welcomes, what songbirds still got,
Rambled insights ... a house filled in guises,
shadowed bound words, the heart vaporizes.
In rhythmless moments, just proved the resolve,
pen floors speechless, writer's blankness evolve.
2021 May 18