Long Classes Poems
Long Classes Poems. Below are the most popular long Classes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Classes poems by poem length and keyword.
Bob Robinson had been born in the ghetto,
and his childhood was not a nice thing,
single mother, just a teenager herself,
in a neighborhood known for gang-banging.
But Bob was a truly tenacious soul,
he got his first job and didn’t look back,
determined he’d never let himself become
a welfare case stuck addicted to crack.
Though he never had culinary schooling,
he learned much at the restaurants he worked,
until, at thirty, he opened his own,
his own place, his own menu, his own turf.
He had a great spot right by the highway
near a suburb that housed much big tech,
he just called it ‘Bob’s,’ and soon was known
for serving up the town’s finest Tex-mex.
Bob usually liked to be the bartender,
he met all sorts of near people that way,
life went smoothly, at least it did at first,
until his nephew was sent out to stay.
Jamal was the first of the family
to receive an offer to go to school,
a local four-year gave a scholarship,
since Jamal was anything but a fool.
Now Jamal did not want to wait tables,
but Bob fed him, since he was family,
and not long after he started classes
he began to behave aggressively.
Began to say folks were out to get him,
that the ‘system’ was rigged to his loss,
then pale-skin folks were all ‘keeping him down,’
would never let folk like him be the boss.
Now all this seemed quite bizarre to Bob,
he himself had seventeen employees,
but Jamal kept saying he was ‘oppressed,’
that he would fight as a minority.
For the first year Jamal was quite active,
never missed a rally of protest march,
but then when he got himself arrested
Bob worried the his path soon would get dark.
When he got off with community service
it seemed just to invigorate Jamal’s rage,
he started calling for ‘reparations’
for the actions of a dead and gone age.
He started spewing out Socialist tripe,
said private property only oppressed,
that all who took part in it were ‘slave-drivers,’
it all left Bob feeling more and more vexed.
Then when Jamal jabbed a finger at him,
and cussed out his fiancé for being pale,
Bob threatened to cut him off for his crap,
but his threats seemed to be of no avail...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
My dreams are teardrops from the eyes of the
divine
What I see are liquid visions from the eye within
my mind
Lucid pictures just flow from me so know the clarity
is mine
I'm a vessel of channeled currents & am considered
a solid find
Etheric lessons were taught to me inside a school I
couldn't see
Within this ocean are many classes that are as cold as
winter seas
The life of me runs really deep despite how shallow
life can be
Depth isn't cheap for many fees must be paid through
adversity
I was taught to climb my family tree so I could get a
better view
I built a house upon my visions then watched my dreams
come true
I used the stones that many threw to help construct
something new
These steppingstones were footstools counted as blessings
they never knew
I have a story to tell
How they lived well in the dark age
How freely people studied as a sage
That school wasn't a hell
There was a time
A time when the cheers are true
When everyone is duly sublime
With care far to reach the blue
I have some views to question
All comes out of my suggestion
Why has it become early to school?
Can't there be evening classes so cool?
We all have changes to make
To design a story of our take
In the aqua aura process, grace sees to live
It savoir the best regards for love
Whence unreturnable love is a good night
And chaos greets it good morning; it alerts fright
I know people peopled evil
Plans so disaster don't make themselves
What if earth is empty ?
Can it be this seeming ambiguous in its duty.
Unbearable to some,
Hanging over their collars.
Taking onto challenges that come,
Makes many see it a better ground for scholars.
Growing wings,
Impeaching kings.
But it used to be after the death of one,
Comes another at his turn.
Moments of change
Picture itself strange
The low suffer most the blow of the law
And no better do they fare with its flow:
From injustice to injustice it carries them
But none ever calls this a flaw.
For like that, perhaps, she can’t help to be,
Born of the mighty as she is.
Once, though, every eternity the cords of
patience snap:
Justice is demanded and swiftly she comes.
It's time for revolution, the clash unto ash
between the classes.
By saw and seesaw there'll be newness abroad:
The old system teeters as its sinews are severed
And from cakes of blood springs another;
That long denied by law is now seized by claw,
And from star to tar the mighty tumble
As their thrones are lowered for dwarfs to
mount.
Upwards go the erstwhile low
To be class dwarfs no more
But the mighty of the land.
Amidst this newness, though, an old song
soon intrudes:
In voices faint and mournful we hear it sung
By those from star to lowly tar fallen.
In fields and taverns, at work and at play,
It dwells on lips bright and sullen;
But up above behind stately walls where
stands the palace
None but the children dare sing it—
The song they once heard old papa sing,
Which loosened his lips like a wicked brew
But now binds them shut like a glue.
When from frolics they break
In their playfields green
And in palace parlors
At once warm chants from their breasts erupt
Which with glee and charm they long sustain
Till every soul feel their lips beguiled
To render accompaniment in a whistled melody.
Then swirls the music about every ear, and all can
hear the palace ring:
“The low suffer most the blow of the law
And no better do they fare with its flow:
From injustice to injustice it carries them
But none ever calls this a flaw.
For like that, perhaps, she can’t help to be,
Born of the mighty as she is.”
It’s hard to quantify experiences, but to coin someone else's
original phrase, ‘you know it when you feel it.’
Now that I’m living in Paris, at my Grandmère’s 76-room ‘hôtel particulier,’ I find myself on the itchy edge of wealth, influence and power and while I don’t consider myself necessarily of that class, I’m certainly exposed to attempts to drag me into it.
Many afternoons, as I come home wearied by classes and braced for hours of study, there are these silver trays with little white, gold embossed envelopes (invitations), casually placed where they’re unavoidable, and it’s not unusual to find that one of the CMs has laid out a dress for me and a suit for Peter - though we seldom attend these events.
I find myself vociferously defending my schedule (for the thousandth time) - and I’ve only been in school three weeks: “Grandmère, I’m in med-school, I have homework.”
Let’s wax freeversely of the upper-class (as if I belonged)..
In elegant but confined houses
where lives unfold in drawing rooms
and the inhabitants are sharp and snobbish.
They struggle against social and erotic constraints -
frustrations essential to the drama and pathos of wealth.
Let the rabble be messily heterogeneous
and agenda-set “inclusivity.” It’s nothing to us.
It hardly foregrounds harmony or authenticity.
Civilized people are more reticent and buttoned-up.
it’s sexier and more romantic, to drive toward marriage,
where lovers work to deserve each other,
and individuals integrate into couples.
Failing this urbane integration, love degenerates
into solipsist libertinism and eventually, these
sad outcasts catch their deaths - apart and alone.
.
.
Songs for this:
Am I the Same Girl? by Swing Out Sister
It Hasn't Happened Yet by William Shatner
.
.
hôtel particulier = a grand urban townhouse (mansion) in Paris or other city.
76-rooms - 37 of those are bathrooms - do those count as rooms?
CM = chambermaid (I think Grandmère employs 12 domestic servants).
I want to say sorry
For being remiss
I tend to worry
As I look at the list
Of the appointments I
Have to
Keep, every week.
I get such care for the
Cures that I seek.
Everything is fading
And it seems far away.
I have glaucoma
Diabetes as well,
Three types of Arthritis
That hurts like hell.
I see a heart specialist,
And lung specialists, too and
Peripheral Neuropathists to name
Just a few,
IBS that messes with my tum
I no longer have control
Of my bum.
I go to physio classes,
Twice a week.
I have a hoarse voice,
I cough and wheeze when I speak.
I am not writing this for sympathy
Life has been very good to me
I don't know how to explain
In any other way
What I started to say
I have had so much encouragement from PS
It has caused much happiness
I have become very slow
And have lost my get-up and go
So without further ado
I want to apologise to all of you
Who have kindly taken the time
To comment on my simple rhyme
And I have yet to answer you.
JACKIE OILY PALMS
I recall them days that i lived
at the east coast of Kenya
then a college boy
We lived at the hostels near customs
in a place near an animal orphanage
Hallers park- near Bombolulu town
Where coastal s loved to partake
sweet palm wine straight from
the palm trees all over the region
Me Georgie and Jackie
then best of buddies
went to try out the wine
Started out on the real wine
before they offered us 'cham'
claiming its oil from the palms
First taste i know its locally distilled spirits
very potent and lethal.. i edge my buddies off
but despite.. they decide to partake the spirit
back to the eatery Jackie now eating
from the dinning table apparently those
who partake palm oil don't need plates
Jackie following day too sick cant attend classes
we did-int tell him the secret that me and Georgie
threw up all we drank from our delicate stomachs
Brave Jackie held it in and Memo had to comfort him
..Sorry Jackie you have malaria fever and your so sick..hic..
we dint let go that twas the palm spirits haunting our Jackie
lewis k NYAGA
The memories arise
from the classes of the catechism
lessons learned with each decision;
teachers bent on revealing all of God's written words
are not the only wisdom I have heard.
Something else reaches for the sky
the blessings of God's love in disguise
and every step I take,
is destiny awakening at daybreak.
Stepping right and stepping left
blends the thought from both the mind and heart
with strength and courage reveal its part;
Questioning every move or decision taken
the spirit, holy is guide unforsaken.
Whispers soft, played on the ear
remain unseen but ever here
all we need ever do,
is let the spirit move you.
for Chantelle Anne Cooke
the Holy Spirit 12/2/19
When I was in college, and in college, and in college, and in college, and in college,
I never thought about my classes by any name except “have to do it” class.
There were so many have to do it classes, that I did not bother to learn their names.
Frankly, I did not care about their names. I had other things to do that I did care about.
To save my soul, when I was in graduate school I took a poetry course.
The instructor kept telling me I was going to flunk it.
I did not care.
Because that poetry class was balm to my soul.
It lifted me up and spread me through the campus on angel wings.
I could sit through all of my nonsensical psychology classes, taught by
People who did not understand people half as well as they thought they did,
As long as I could be in that poetry class at 2:10 on Wednesdays.
I received all A’s and one F, and the F was my favorite class.
That F class was the only class that kept me going in graduate school.
Poetry, you are my kryptonite, and although I do not frankly understand you yet, I love you!
Unorthodox nonestablismentarian epitome
Describes celibate bent aegis.
Mein kampf illustrates gravitas.
Underdog muted lest intimidation
think bully brandishing fist in my face
threatening to buzzfeed me
a brassy knuckle sandwich.
While breezily reading Judy Bloom,
(whose material geared
toward young adult)
book titled Blubber - published in 1974,
(which year found yours truly - me
undergoing amazing transition
classified as puberty)
bemoaned childhood's end - id est mine
interestingly enough romanticized boyhood
livingsocial within Lake Woebegone
(way before Garrison Keillor
named said fictitious town),
purely swiftly tailored
harried styled fabrication,
although that first decade
found torturous growing up years
more so courtesy
self exclusion from reindeer games,
thus during lunch or recess
(two most favorite classes)
bullies turned me into minced meat
taunted and teased
a severely socially withdrawn boy,
who never shared emotional agony,
he internalized verbal slings and arrows
eventually physically succumbed
from brickbats indiscriminately
lobbed at painfully shy
once upon a time happy go lucky lad,
(with a button nose),
when he whiled away days of his life
as the world turned
first at Lantern Lane
for about a half dozen plus years,
then at 324 Level Road
for approximately
one third of present existence
unbeknownst to him
that psychologically dark shadows
lurked within the outer limits
of the twilight zone
haunting corporeal essence
attached to those lovely bones,
now saddled with excess adipose tissue,
especially around belly of the beast
housing hunger artist
starving for knowledge,
and peopling his overactive imagination
with exemplary protagonists
blithely thwarting incendiary threats,
cuz of natural born defense against
gunning character assassination
courtesy fearsome imbeciles
hell bent on nasty, short and brutish fiends,
who did their collective bidding
vis-à-vis cut throat leviathan,
who overshadowed and locked in
propensity to live free and clear
analogous to unfettered noble savage
cannibalizing yours truly (me) as fancy feast.
Soul asylum salvation sought
as if survivor of mental health challenges
akin to foreigner trying
to sidestep gingerly self annihilation.