Long Compatriot Poems
Long Compatriot Poems. Below are the most popular long Compatriot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Compatriot poems by poem length and keyword.
Thomas Lonigan 1844 to 1878 (34 years old)
Tom Lonigan married Charlotte in the Irish town of Bella Sligo.
He knew for her only the best life to give, to Australia they would go.
In 1871 Melbourne township they did make their way,
full of plans and ambition for the family to make hay.
Thomas Lonigan, don't you ever forget his name,
For not too long and with regret he would make his fame.
A man of principles and knowledge of right and wrong,
he knew what he should do and to the Police force he would belong.
After basic training in the job, to Benella he would go,
with Charlotte his loving wife and four children in tow.
A wonderful life in the new colony, how hard could it be?
To keep the peace and make life safe for people like you and me.
Tom Lonigan and his compatriot, Alexander Fitzpatrick.
Were sent to arrest Ned Kelly a dangerous and escaped convict.
The struggle that ensured, as Fitzpatrick later recalls,
That Kelly grabbed poor Lonigan and held onto his balls.
That scoundrel, Kelly at the time said, and this is very true,
If I ever shoot a man Tom Lonigan, it surely will be you.
The life of this bush policeman was tough to say the least,
low pay, hard work and for the family, no feast.
Constable McIntyre and Lonigan set camp one afternoon.
At Stringybark creek, Sergeant Kennedy and Scanlon to arrive sometime soon.
The outlaw Kelly gang an ambush they would make,
A shot was fired by Ned Kelly, sealing poor Lonigan's fate.
October 1878 the Kellly gang tried to get by force,
the Police to surrender, lay down their arms of course.
But Lonigan the hero, not wiling to submit,
Drew forth his weapon and to death he did commit.
Next time you hear Ned Kelly's name, think of Lonigan instead.
A man with a fine job to do and a family to keep fed.
He surrendered his life to keep the people safe and secure.
Not ever thinking that the honour of bravery he would precure.
"ORDINARY PEOPLE"
In a world full of some billion people
Only a trigger of fear and the heart would be rendered cripple
All men alike, are prone to react with fearsome ripple
No matter the colour, our actions define us as one people.
People need to know people
Those other people need some other people
To fill their rough face skin called pimples
With a smile and a long lasting dimple.
Along the way we strife to know people
All by the way, we go wrong with people
In the same way, we ask forgiveness from people
And we start all over again for we are ordinary people.
Why do people hate their own people?
In like manner people kill people
We hear so many stories of some other people
Threatening to destroy the works of the people
With the brothers of their own very people.
far in the North, I hear the voice of my people
Crying out loud like " oh Lord please help your people"
Save us from the mayhem brought to us by our own people
Re-unite us back in Peace for we are meant to be one people.
Yes, I am dark and you are fair, I know the skin of my people
Tall as the Iroko, short as dwalves, so is the size of my people
Sweet and Soft like the hibiscus, so is the heart of my people
Oceans of wine, vegetations so green, that is the land of my people.
Arise oh Compatriot, in one voice, sing loud my people
To serve our father-land, with love, so simple my people
A beautiful nation , a rainbow coated land, a paradise , no fumbles
Together we can be better again, for we are ordinary people.
I know God alone will fight for his people
And put joy in the heart of his own people
Who follow the ways of his son's examples
And upon the heads of our enemies we will trample
To that place of rest we know in the bible.
THIS IS THE VOICE OF THE INNOCENT NORTHERN CHILD,
WE ARE ONE PEOPLE....
I had a cat that marked his territory right
into our TV – fried the whole thing
But I will not graffiti my alleyways with
crude phalli,
Spewing armchair warrior slogans across the concrete
My best friend growing up was a real whore,
in the kiss-and-tell sort of way
A real ladies’ man... He was a real bastard,
I’ll tell you that
But I will not line the walls of my den with
taxidermied lovers
Nor will I cage my dove for fear of a hawk.
Does the absence of glimmering swords
Take away from the radiance of her smile?
And what good are these powerful minarets,
Without the sweet, sweet song that echoes across them?
I have not fallen in love with a fish in a
bucket.
I have not fallen in love with a fish in a
bucket that will dart away
Never to be seen, if she ever touches the
sea again...
Which raises the question: why the bucket?
I have no interest in the bucket.
I have no interest in being the fisherman.
I bait no hooks and reel no lines.
I would much rather be a sea horse.
We can all learn a thing or two from the sea
horse.
So enough with this nonsense of honor and
chivalry
Enough of this predefined manliness and
rhetorical dick-waving
Enough of cages and lures and foxes in the
chicken coop
I see a lioness and her fawn under acacia
shadows
While my thirty-something year-old
compatriot playboys
Are on the prowl for pretty young things in
search of a fantasy
Wearing cravates of woven chest hair resting
over shirts not quite buttoned,
With Ralph the Polo Player getting bigger
and bigger
I have no fur coats, and I won’t sport any swag
I have no car horn to honk at your skirts,
No sly comments to mutter as you pass
No scarves to force around your heads
No honor to vest in your purity
I have only my faith in love
And whatever flaws that may bring
So what is it then,
to be a man?
Sugary mix roiling in a saucepan in the heart
of the house: a light-filled kitchen where family meals
were taken in lieu of the dining room, thought of by me
in two words: 'formality' and 'dark', whereas, windows
and a glass door in the kitchen let in light, led out to a porch,
then into a fenced backyard where chickens ran free, and
Yes, necks were wrung for the kitchen pot in not
a rural setting, but a beach-town, in-town backyard---
not at a cottage, calling out to salt spray and seagulls,
but a Victorian house, looming gray in memory, large
with a wraparound porch, its rocking chairs
facing a quiet street framed with sheltering trees:
maples of the intricate bark and heart-shaped leaves,
providing play place for games of Red Robin, May I,
Hide and Seek, until at summer dusk the welcome call
of Come Home, Come Home. No small screen there
to distract us, not yet the turbulent news of a world at
war A World Away. Instead, candy making in the kitchen.
Taffy pulled and twisted into ropes, cut into pieces and
left to harden on waxed paper. Then, Margaret, two
older sisters and a brother, upstairs to bed, a ramp
leading to bedrooms for them, an adjoining room below
for Margaret and me, her best-friend guest. Bathroom
to share, old-fashioned claw-foot tub, enameled in
porcelain. A doomed wasp sometimes caught in
golden window light between glass and a cream colored
pulldown shade. Past our bedroom, an enclosed
porch rose over its downstairs compatriot, meandering
the entire length of the house. All things unneeded
and used-up there, for the playtime delight of
Margaret and me: Not used-up yet
In this green land,
We do not breathe Oxygen,
We breathe fear for we do not know
where and when the next bomb or shot
will fall,
In this green land,
We do not speak the language of love,
It's ethnic hatred that oozes from our mouths,
We hide like Chameleons,
for we do not know when ethnic differences will snatch a soul away,
We are not one, but we can be one,
We can allow peace to spread like a sea over a shore,
We can choose to speak the language of love and honour,
Consider the flowers before streams; they differ yet unified in beauty,
Consider the human body; it stands despite its parts and duties,
Consider the universe; it's vast,
varies in function yet together like ants,
Come, compatriot, come!
Come, gather the fragments of ethnic differences and knit them together,
Come, let's hold our coloured hands in unity
and replace this country's grief with Glory,
Come, let's purge corruption,
uproot colonialism's whip and harvest peace,
Come, let's uphold this flag and refuse the labours of our heroes past from being past,
Come, compatriots, come!
Come, let's green this green and whiten this white Come,
let's replace these wreaths of thorns,
with joy, for diversity isn't a road to disunity but unity in uniqueness.
August 12th, 2022
FOR A 'STRONG EMOTIONS POETRY CONTEST
BY : EMILE PINET
Emotions: Fear, Despair, and Hope
Poem:
LET THEM BREATHE
Every single girl sings in a different tone
Some dance to the melodious lifestyle of their family
While some show their teeth to portray fake smile
In their heart, they keep bleeding in tears
Some feel 10? of the gifts of happiness the world can give
When they are with their compatriot
For their house is like a living hell
Let them breathe
When they opt to lay on the bed of culture and dance to the tune of morality
They become vulnerable prey to predators
When they are our daughters
We taste our soup
And when they are our step's
They feel the sharp blade of our body
Their backs become our drums
And their cheek our cymbals
At a young age, they hug stigmatization and torture as close buddies
When they're academically down
We forced them into marriage
Be it early marriage or not
Where they can face physical and emotional agony
Some flee from the unbearable threats at home
to enjoy the street's picnic
This was how some turned into sex workers
Please let them breathe
Even a small comment can leave a deep wound in a girl's mind
Their dress code is not an invitation for eve-teasing
We should guide them
We should love them
They should confide in us
So let them breathe
Allow the girl child talk
Let the girl child talk about what pains her
SLaDA says let girls talk
They call me Moro,
not the Moors of Africa,
they insult me more,
and I assumed adore,
but in a good way ...
Colonial mind say;
"A good Moro is a dead Moro",
in a slur way,
and the Compatriot slaves;
says, a Moro-Moro ...
And anyway,
I call myself Moro,
I was a Moro,
I am now a Moro,
a Mawarao for Moro...
The Slang spoke on my name,
they heard me wrong,
they write me wrong,
they make me slur,
and they called me Moron ...
Still I stand for Moro,
a Mawarao for Moro,
an adjective word Brave,
a noun word Warrior,
in a local Lingua origin...
It is a right choice,
to commensurate Moro,
In a bravery Memoir,
a Maranao for Warrior,
a Maranao for Brave...
Moro as they may call,
Is someone who installed,
when someone wished,
in a level upwarded,
or in the top and high...
Moro as they may call,
Is someone who cornered,
to hunt of an animal escapee,
in the no exit zone,
That means a good hunter...
Bangsa is a Nation,
a Malayan word people,
with a royalty tone,
and historic nobility,
a collective unity...
Now my name is Moro,
and I belong to a Royal,
a fierce Warrior of the Orient,
in a society of Moro,
that built me BangsaMoro ...
By: ditadawayen sa ranao - Khadaffy D. Mangondato
VOYAGE
we got to the shore
with a common goal to score
who sees us through the vast?
the lot was cast
it fell on goat
to paddle the boat afloat
never was such a story told
but who could be bold
to question the rat-arsed gods
whose empty heads are wisdom
pods
yea the gods were too wise
never to have thought twice
to know a goat can't
concentrate
when a bag of grain is a
boatmate
deep in the water's deep
all passengers left to weep
the grains. o the grain
got goat's sight drained
the water gave a wink
we were about to sink
anytime the water frowned
goat sat down for a human
compatriot to drown
insane goat leading poor souls
towards a common goal
left some souls to perish
for mere maize to flourish
the journey. dreadful journey
was to the island of honey
we started long ago
but not even a fourth way thro
to save maize is goat's aim
forgetting the reason why we
came
we were deceived
we were deceived
our fathers thought on seeing
the gods we've seen the
Supreme Being
the Supreme Being never lies
He, the Almighty One never dies
the deceitful gods lie
the mortal gods die!
I'm the monkey on your back, I'm the whisper in your ear.
I fill your heart with want, stare, covet and leer.
You think I'm not a part of you, believe that I'm not there.
And then I curl up on your lap and take you unaware.
The cattle always crave to graze the grass beyond the fence.
No matter who the landlord is no thought of recompense.
Likewise the dog will gaze upon the bone chewed by his mate.
It must be worth more than mine, no reason for him to wait.
You think that you are the one who is always in control.
Insidious as it may sound I can get to you, right to your very soul.
Incongruous it really is I don't like to be known.
I plant the seed, water it and wait until it's grown.
I'm sure you've worked out who I am and the work I can perform.
You convince those close to you and even yourself, that you do not conform.
I make you wish you had it all, then drop you feeling empty.
I'm not your friend, compatriot, you know my name is envy.
If I were the president,
in our fatherland, no citizen will be a bastard
and mutual respect, our networking web.
If I were the president
the people will be my senate
and their satisfaction my template.
If I were the president
all sectors will be cycled with excellence
all human needs will be met with kindness.
If I were the president
cremation of human disasters fully executed
our mentality will be built in love.
If I were the president
good ideas, I’ll romance
into reality, I’ll convert.
If I were the president
life will be a comfort zone
with every compatriot a beneficiary.
If I were the president,
the simple flow of Life would be applied;
basic made basic, luxury made luxury.
If I were the president
health, mobility, literacy and justice
would be rights, not privileges.
This third world I see
would be transformed to the first, I dream of,
so God……… Make me the president that we need.