Long Complaint Poems
Long Complaint Poems. Below are the most popular long Complaint by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Complaint poems by poem length and keyword.
The dilapidated building wavers the hindsight
In a single city
Hidden conformity owns?
A previous creation of economy
Current currency in ink creates no mad article
One must adhere in the thick heat while justice witnesses change
The current volume of water "allowed" from water station
From station to station the ear is clipped in interest if reported earnings.
In this fashion panic has created itself a source of retired journal timing.
Cycle of labor markets itself
Not a new nor another
Speak easy
Speak easiest
Differing reason in seasonal appearance
In the space a forgotten person is left to entertain
The remainder of civilization has been acquired
The unfinished civilized area per "your" affront, complaint, insult
Inflammatory remarks is creation of code
Creating colony
Demanding colonization by war
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Competent exam
when i look in
to a mirror i see
you not my reflection
hating myself i take
my forehead and
break the nose
of the image be
fore me that
opens those
senses
that ensure
me as i bleed
then see
it is me
for i'd
never
hurt
you
it's the
me that
i mean
to be
mean to be
me waking
from a dream
but i sweat
from the
bottom
of me
though
what
thoughts
it should
be a
frontal
lobotomy
so repressed
that i pressed
my genes
again
so no
wrinkles
but with
no complaint
i look upon my
face but it's
not that of
the mirror
touch
and then
begin to shape
what i see
what i want
to be or should
be but
who is to
say more
then maybe
this is the
way of
growing
in
age
Form:
April 07, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Through the serene meadow, we tread,
With mindful motions and hearts full of dread,
It's daybreak; everything is quiet and at ease,
Serene and chilly, the air is devoid of any breeze.
Transfixed, the environment seems still,
Its volition alone causes the light to quill.
Oh, how I long for this to be true,
A white dove swoops into the sky blue.
A fluffy dandelion was in sight,
It anchors your way extremely tight.
Steadfast in their grip,
A delicate dance with nature's clip.
Oh, my friend, your mind dived wayward,
When in the air, they soar hayward.
Pictures that advert beyond hope,
White doves imply freedom and scope.
They provide a fresh start, a blank slate,
floating on delicate wings straight.
Oh, my dear friend, that story you share,
I can tell that it is utterly rare.
Here we are, in this rating place,
He coughed and sneezed in a bitter embrace.
A fresh cycle began, filled with grace,
A lack lingers and aches in my space.
Oh, how I hunger for your presence,
Shivering with fear, ready for incandescence.
Oh, the sooner we confess,
Furthermore, our indifference serves to impress.
Without hesitation, we can unite,
An euphoric antihistamine site.
However, hold on, you insane soul,
I have something superior to control.
At the moment, my heart is sound,
A gleam of optimism and a shining ray were found.
A pure and sparkling treasure was in public,
Do you wish to witness the magic?
The word "yes"—how quaint,
whispered slowly, without complaint.
A single syllable in length,
I implore you twice your strength.
BLIND DEAF AND DUMB
I’ve always felt joy — never been without gifts and the love of family and friends. Busted blind deaf and dumb. I’ve been let in on a secret. I guess I knew they were out there, but sitting so close to me? One has bangs and curved lips, another is quiet and stern.
the kettle so cold
the lukewarm water so sparse
no wrappings inside
One receives a hand-me-down, another receives nothing at all. They most certainly hear the, complaint and warmth, of the surrounding environment. Opening up, tongue and lips speak.
eyes sporadically
blinking and shut tight —
pain unbearable
12/28/2018
Contest: Misery
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
My mother my everything so rare
Like a diamond blooming with pure love
Not to be compared to or bargained for
A very precious and priceless gem
My life giver right from the womb
Before existence even now and forever
A leaning shoulder in times of despair.
My mother my redeemer in times of loses
Comforts with her rejuvenating speeches
Picks me up from nothing to everything
Giving me awareness and insight to thrive
Without hesitating or fear of the unknown
My mantle of grace in all dealings and wins
My anchor in all realms of possession and actions.
My mother my warrior warring my adversary
Leading me to victory over all obstacles easily
The remedy for all my illness or complaint
Supporting without any hidden intentions or profit
Liberating me from any denial, setback and chains
Unique but meek, courageous, wise and inspirational
Words can't comprehend her attributes so enigmatic.
The elementary teachers praise Student C.
Student C is compliant, calm, competent and composed.
She is marvelous, wonderful, a favorite.
She wins awards and trophies, and I mean a lot of them.
Student E is exasperating, on their last nerves.
She is easily excitable, enthusiastic about eels and elephants.
They speak ill of her in the student lounge; she is difficult to teach.
She never places or wins an award in elementary school.
Student C gets married, stays home, raises compliant children.
These children raise compliant, cautious children.
Student E is a visionary, an entrepreneur, a trendsetting CEO.
She develops a foundation to encourage innovative students.
She honors students who have a keen interest in something.
It could be eels or elephants, or it might be ESP and space travel.
Student C’s complaint children try to get into Student E’s school.
They are rejected, for they have not developed their thinking brain.
Of course, they do comply.
They do follow the rules.
They are calm, and they still win the trophies.
Hopefully that will be enough.
My mother was a real winner,
she kept all of her pain inner;
Mom became sick at just thirty,
but still lived a life carefree.
Mom's hobby was bargain shopping,
she could do that till she was dropping;
out for lunch with friends and cooking meals,
and life went on like turning wheels.
Until, her condition got much worse,
she needed oxygen- Oh, what a curse!
But that did not stop her from life,
such courage in a mother and wife;
then, she needed a walker to get around,
I kept my tears inside or I would drown.
She tried to do her best each day,
so fearless- Lord help her I would pray;
then, she needed a wheelchair all the time,
she was my hero because still she smiled sublime.
The day she could not leave the bed I wept,
I held her had while she slept;
she left me quietly without a complaint,
it was only then I could let go of restraint.
This poem my not be fancy or even out of the box but it is
written with all my love and respect for a fearless spirit.
_________________________
April 21, 2017
Rhyme/A Fearless Spirit
Copyright Protected, ID 894237
My Hero
Shadow Hamilton
Third Place
It's odd to realize that ones life is best described experientially, as a series of discoveries in an irreducible phenomenon cast in viscus matrices.
"These Days": The superficial and arbitrary way with which we sever experience and consciousness, yet neither emotionally, nor intellectually, are we cognizant of the ephemeral boundaries.
Time, as a biological value, carries over into our social constructions, but there, its value ends. That it is "a-prior" is hard to argue with. That it does not extend into the intellectual realm is also too plain to deny. How odd, its ready departure in the face of intellectual or emotional pursuits.
"These Days"- fraught with time's non-contingencies; The seemingly unrelated images and concepts merging to suggest something more than their singular aspects would allow ~
a broken dream assuaged by the coffee machine's sharp scuttering; a waterless complaint, and her image; no longer the bright charged view, fading in forgetting's white-grace, but content to become instead, the liquid shadows of empty-spaces, where time floats down in dangerous obedience to an undiscoverable gravity, like the broken feathers of a silent, celestial war
My all-knowing colleague phoned me.
She asked questions I could not answer because she was unclear.
Her communication skills are not the best.
I finally figured out what she meant
which was not what she was saying.
Miscommunication comes easily to her.
She had been called in to the boss’s office on Monday.
Dressed down for not doing her job.
Her complaint is that it is overwhelming, too hard to get started.
We had seven days to get ready before the clients arrived.
I have no idea how she spent those seven days.
I was so stressed, I went home sick that afternoon, she told me.
She has also called in sick three more days.
She told me five times that she had told her relatives about the boss.
They are “all on my side” she informed me.
Her side is unclear to me.
The job she says is too overwhelming to start.
This is the same job that I have been doing for four weeks.
At least you have been relaxing, I told her, trying to be positive.
I've been shopping, lunching with my friends, and throwing axes!
No doubt she has been putting this on social media as well.
She plans to return to the job tomorrow.
I doubt there is still a job for her.
I hope the relatives on her side have an extra room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The toolbox lid screeched~
a rusted complaint
against my insistence.
Inside: not wrenches,
but sepia toned photos~
Granny laughing in her kitchen, 1953;
a grocery list “milk, bread, forgiveness”
a psalm fragment glued to bent tin—
“though weeping tarries…”
words bleeding into rust.
Underneath the tray, coiled like a promise~
Uncle Frank’s fishing line, still knotted
to a hook
that snagged nothing
but river ghosts
for thirty years.
Wedged in the corner—
a lottery ticket, expired,
numbers smudged
by thumbprints
that pressed
too hard.
Uncle Frank never won.
But every Tuesday, he’d unfold
that flimsy paper at the diner counter,
coffee steaming~
“Hope’s a stubborn stain,” he’d rasp,
tapping the numbers.
Tonight, rain needles the roof.
I lay the relics on his workbench~
the brittle psalm,
the lost fish,
the ticket dreaming of jackpots
in landfill silence.
No miracles here~
only the quiet hum
of what endures:
the unpegged certainty
that dawns keep coming,
that love stitches its repair
in the dark,
with thread unseen.