Long Commoners Poems
Long Commoners Poems. Below are the most popular long Commoners by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Commoners poems by poem length and keyword.
Have they yet arrived? The throng asked; they looked like a mob.
Who is it? The Queen Mother? Queried an elegant snob.
Better than that, one said as a limousine pulled up; a cat strutted out.
It‘s John Singer Sargent’s Madame X and Monsieur Z without a doubt!
Monsieur Z turned to give the commoners an elegant gracious bow.
Then he gave his paw to Madame X, who emerged looking like a wow.
The crowd went wild, throwing carnations and roses in their path.
They took their time, trying to ignore the cheers and aftermath.
Their evening out was the talk of all London, for it had been awhile.
The Examiner had the best photo now of Monsieur Z with a huge smile.
Madame X’s photographs were mostly of her sweet luscious behind.
Her satin black dress draped so low, these photos would be a find.
You are beautiful Madame X assured his comrade, Monsieur Z.
Expecting a forthcoming compliment, but it was not to be.
She did not want to give him false hope, for she loved another.
She was actually thinking of pawing him off on her mother.
He was seven years old, so in cat years that was forty-two.
Whereas she was twenty one, and had lots of living to do.
Let’s go home early, he whispered in her ear, with cat-like hope.
She thought it was a great idea; with her mother he could watch a TV soap.
Can you hear what I'm hearing?
I hear a cry, loud and clear,
blowing across the nation from sea
to shining sea; from the lowlands
and valleys in the east to the
highlands and mountains of the west.
It is the CRY OF THE SOUL!
From New York City to San Francisco,
Miss Liberty feels a threat. Her bell rings
out far less Bill of Rights. I hear cries
of agony dressed in fear and protest.
It is the CRY OF THE SOUL!
Such a cry can only be sounded by those who.
have tasted the sweetness of freedom and would
rather die than live without its liberty.
It is the CRY OF THE SOUL!
Such is not a cry encumbered with a thirst for
things material, but rather one from the soul,
bleeding red, white, and blue tears enough to
fill the nation's lakes, rivers, and reservoirs.
It is the CRY OF THE SOUL!
Hear ye well, every social class, rich or poor,
educated, elites, or commoners. We do well to listen
to the soul's cry. Such a cry cannot be bought or sold,
will never go on vacation, be placated, or evaded.
It is the CRY OF THE SOUL!
Chase them away
Freedom of the mind
Is what we need
Captivity of the soul
Is dangerous than dangerous
It is not easily notice
Until the unknown is obvious
Chase them away
Freedom of mentality
Has become our obvious
Wars of no end
Cos everyone mentality
Is the formula of there opinion
In life
Everyone one wants to
Be right
Especially mentally
Yet out there
Our mentality portrays
Mental control
We are not able to
Think on our own again
Nowadays
Chase them away
Our world is corrupt
From the top
Like the pyramid
Commoners at the bottom
Remains helpless
And captivated
So when those
Hypocrite in shade
Of your savior
Show around your neighborhood
At another time to get
Elected at the top
Never forget the Genesis
Of your struggle in life
So please do your life a favor and
Chase them away
Deep in the forest
Outlaws lie in wait
For well off noblemen
Their monies to take
They steal from the rich
And share with the poor
How long can they hide
In their forest so pure
This band of commoners
Go against the grain
The Sheriff of Nottingham
To have them slain
The followers who follow
These outlaws so bold
To introduce them
Your about to be told
There's Little Joan
A girl so large
She bowls men over
With the strength of her charge
Then there's Touch
The Miller's daughter
Who keeps doing things
She shouldn't off aught to
Willena Scarlet
Demanded clothing and a horse
If this never happened
Her language became coarse
Not forgetting
Nena the nun
Whose amazing beauty
Made the enemy run
And the last of the gang
Butler Bill
Whose amazing weaponry
Made this leader shrill
You've met her gang
Now meet their leader
She's Robyn Hood
An out and out heart bleeder
Dressed in black leathers
Low cut front
Cleavage guys die for
Which makes them grunt
It's not the poem
You thought it was
But why the change
Och, just because
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/humour.php
I strutted a bit on my branch as I surveyed the others
They were commoners mostly songbirds, and two of my brothers.
Is that a great horn? A beautiful red cardinal asked in a trill.
I knew my stance was giving her and her friends quite a thrill.
My brothers began showing off, doing tricks, flying around.
They almost always act totally crazy when females are found.
A notoriously ugly turkey buzzard stopped by for a quick peek.
He flew off quickly when he saw the mouse I made squeak.
There was a rumor that an exotic blue-green peacock was in town.
Unfortunately she never showed up or I would have shown her around.
Is that just a Great Horn or is that THE Great Horn? I heard a robin ask.
I gave her a shuddered look that made her take a drink from her flask.
Intimidating other birds daily is what I easily and happily do.
If you were me, you would probably enjoy being the king, too.
My brothers of course had flown off by now, annoying another.
I heard them getting scolded by the real intimidator, our mother.
For want of full virtuous zeal oligarchs thrive
Against deserving clamor for brighter ideals;
And perennially trampled commoners groan
Under weight no inured villain distantly feels.
Bereft of real fighting energy better humans
Give in to the more determined aims to slay
Life's fairer side and reward villainy's titans;
Enabling winds that fuel evil's choking sway.
Vice is a flightless bird cast in wingless youth;
And his bold victims must know this total truth:
Kind men unwilling to act knit wing and plume
That latently promote all enemy gall and fume.
And culpable crime's not by commission alone,
But by hesitations to clip his spiraling webs too;
They're held to have fired with the outlaw’s gun,
Quiet eyes that see the victim thus cruelly gone.
Even much more to blame is the idle watcher,
Than cold-blooded hands that steal or torture.
Life is not a game that should ever be left to chance.
Days are to be lived joyously; nights filled with dance.
The world should not be war-torn until nothing is left
by would-be kings playing games, leaving us bereft.
We should never be separated; black versus white.
People are not pawns who would rather not fight.
There is room enough for everyone but how can it be
if lives are easily sacrificed when greedy kings disagree?
Oh, what shame when power rules the lives of many!
Riches for nobility when commoners have nary a penny.
Life is not supposed to be continuous battles fought.
Don't ken the color of my skin. Look inside my heart.
Stubborn are those who pretend that life is but a game,
making mistakes but always pointing a finger of blame.
Causing misery for others, too much heartache and pain.
Foolish ones who seek more wealth and material gain.
Life is complicated when heavy burdens we must bear.
We would all be happier if only we learned to share.
No one wants to be the loser, and hear, "Checkmate!"
Life is not a game. Don't give power to those who hate.
Life is a beautiful gift, offered to us by the One true King
We should find something new each day that's inspiring.
Life changes like seasons in which Mother Nature thrives.
If we must make a game of it, let the prize be better lives.
June 29, 2022
Life Is Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nayda Flores
I lived my truth and rode it as far toward the sun as I could
But we got too close and the wax melted
When I fell to earth I fell hard
Realizing there are other truths
You did not have to let me land on my head I told whoever
Whoever laughed, being a committee that does not listen to commoners
It was the first time I realized they cared enough about me to laugh.
This gave me a new sense of purpose.
I will create new truths I vowed
And I will publish them and people will listen
My relatives were on the floor laughing and shrieking.
They are always the last to appreciate me
No biggie
A shimmering siren hovers sixteen feet below the ocean’s surface
Her Macral fins glide effortlessly, as she slows down her activity
The ocean liner is but two hundred knots ahead; she feels humbled.
Cheriche recognizes it by its whistle; her sailor is aboard this ship!
Her glittering iridescent scales flash in bursts of silver, aqua and teal.
Like a cashmere mist, she would be noticed and revered, except….
Her spiritual orbs protect her from being seen by commoners.
Cheriche sees a flash of purple; it is Sashay, her most unique orb.
“He is here!” It is the cry of the romantic, and it inspires the mermaid.
Cheriche wants to lift herself to the surface, but she dares not.
The ocean liner is cutting through waves, directly over her head.
There is a splash. “Your sailor!” Her faerie godmother says. “Go get him!”
He plunges past her, and keeps going, down enormous depths.
Can she save this one? She kicks her dorsal fins double time.
Determined to try…..
we did not Dye in vain!
from “songs of the sea snails”
though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.
i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!
Originally published by The American Dissident
Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” This dye was greatly prized in antiquity and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!