Long Demoted Poems
Long Demoted Poems. Below are the most popular long Demoted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Demoted poems by poem length and keyword.
The following reasonable obsolete rhyme
verst heard in my faux class (sic) lilting brogue
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue
wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus
nevertheless September 1st, 2020
signals resumption of school year back in vogue.
Challenges abound as millions of students re:zoom
trudging off to..., yet another bus comes by... vroom,
whereby administrators establish
virtual and/or actual room
adapt to delegate assignments as reported by newsroom
facilitated by yours truly,
a bonafide married, yet unbridled groom.
Though mind boggling, death defying,
and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross
(dangerous information highway road)
will confront those most qualified to teach
impressionable minds to overload
nevertheless I envy those learning
courtesy high tech mode.
Golden (gated) opportunity
spectacularly presented to bridge,
kickstart, and buttress young minds
immodestly excited and
amenable to learn online
one old googly eyed
aging pencil necked geek
makes his poetically cameo appearance
crafting awareness about severe complication
hash-tagging those best equipped to teach,
which alternatives pinterest me
linkedin, trumpeted nsync with
tried and true methodology
(think white/blackboard
with markers and/or chalk respectively),
who by the way never got chosen to
clap erasers outside,
fold flag ditto after said
emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,
nor serve as safety patrol.
Though born within baby boom generation,
I horrendously (nobly) struggled
to acquire cognitive consonance
floundered like a fish out of water
forever barely achieving passable grade
He readily attests de facto failure
if hypothetically enrolled in kindergarten today,
I would get demoted to preschool
(a slight bit of hyperbole),
thus both laments abysmal track record,
whereby attending conventional
schools of hard knocks
(situated within Lower Providence district)
emotionally fracturing psyche
until this very waking moment,
and moost likely mine
remaining tenure on Earth.
The Cost Of Defeat 1
(No Victor, All Vanquished)
The sky was split by iron birds that rained a metal heat,
While land and sea were locked in steel to choke the Eastern street.
They called it peace, a bloodless phrase: "No victor, no vanquished,"
But all the weight of sacrifice was by the beaten carried.
Three million souls evaporated, not by the bullet's lead,
But by the slow, design-drawn engineered hunger of the dead.
An entire generation broke beneath a heavy curse,
The bloated bellies of the young, the dry and empty nurse.
The world looked on through glass and screen at bones through skin revealed,
As kwashiorkor became the brand upon the burning field.
And where the poets used to sing to wake the rising sun,
Great Okigbo lay in the dust, his final verse undone.
Then came the peace of paper ink, a warfare by decree,
To turn the wealth of merchant kings to sudden poverty.
A lifetime’s sweat, a mountain’s gold, the savings of the brave,
Were flattened to a twenty pounds—a financial, shallow grave.
The currency was turned to ash, the ledger books rewritten,
While properties in distant towns were seized from those hard-smitten.
They broke the map with clever lines, a scalpel in the dark,
To balkanise the ancient lands and dim the rising spark.
They severed blood from neighboring blood, cut network and alliance,
To isolate the Igbo heart and quiet its defiance.
The soldiers who had worn the rank were stripped of every crown,
The senior clerks and civil chiefs demoted, broken down.
The schools were dust, the roads were gone, the hospitals defiled,
And silence was the heavy blanket thrown upon the child.
For fifty years they hid the books, forbade the names to speak,
But history is a stubborn ghost that comforts those who seek.
The trauma travels through the blood, inherited and deep,
A structural, enduring hurt that will not let us sleep.
The war is over in the news, the treaties have been signed,
But look beneath the modern state at what was left behind.
The real cost is the fractured trust, the state-enforced eraser,
The ghost of Biafra whispering inside the silent ledger.
Somewhere resting in a room
There was social enthusiasm gloom
Feeling trapped
Inside the flat
Continuing developing creatively
Writing books literary
Putting all in place
Having credible worth newspaper space
With an innocent look
And being a good cook
This west ham knew how to iron
Open to talk about entry level hiring
Expert in all the new technology
West ham was looking for a disruptive apology
Feeling like being demoted
Not knowing who voted
Commanded to stay at home
All alone
With not much more than a telephone
This fluffy mind
Did its time
Then the day arrived
Quiet playing sound was the cry
Wanting to make a point
After leaving the athletic joint
Almost there
From the woods a frightful scare
A wandering wondering wolf with much hot air
Visiting the enchanting Olympic venue
Looking for American cheese and Ham on the menu
For nearly ninety minutes the beast did stalk
Preying on the tiny bubbles’ fantasy talk
With seventeen to go
Unleashed the first blow
And a little later
West hammy found itself served with a side of tatters
By the day’s close
A result rose
This temporary reprieve
If one would believe
From the crystal palace
Cherries were discussed wondering about Alice
As the tea cup turned
Mad Hatter showed concern
This was no Christmas Carol
Despite St Lewis watching west ham heading for the falls in a barrel
Next up are the lily whites
Will west ham be ready for a survival fight?
Only knowledge of the truth can set one free.
War and peace cannot exist within the same tree,
Any more than apples and oranges can coexist.
Lies and deceit allow the evils of war to persist.
In war, the truth is demoted.
In war, Lies are promoted.
Truth forces us to face the facts of resolution.
Lies only conceive more lies; truth breeds solution.
Truth is put to death in war because it shines the light.
In war, lies are preferred because they hate the light.
Truth is hidden from site; right is wrong, and wrong is right
Unlike roses, war and lies blossom best in the dark of night.
In conflict and war, truth is captivated in obscurity,
becoming its first victim and casualty;
Whereas lies become its foundation and framework.
If truth were tolerated, war-mongers would quickly desert.
031922PSCtest, Is Truth the First Casualty of War and Why Is That,
Sotto Poet
From the dungeons depths
Our canary friend had nothing much left
Speaking like everything was all right
Invited candy toffees in for a bite
This was not a keen thing to do
One score for the blue
And the wharf singer was headed to the lower tier pool
Meaning the Wolves who were safe at home
Played with the cherries until the juice was gone
It took an hour
They showed some power
Kicking it in between both posts
Ready now to visit Astin in his villa and a delicious Friday night roast
It should be a nice date the Wolves did hope
Knowing Astin was no bloke
In fact he could be a good host
Making the evening an engagement the Wolves could boast
For good ole Astin he spent the day at the new castle united
To talk about being demoted due to all the fighting
Crown royals listened to the plea
Finally sending out a decree
Giving them a chance to draw
Letting through the footy ball
Getting the point
Astin returned to his villa joint
Waiting for the Wolves
To make their moves
Creative poetic interpretation of the results from the survival of match men
Best way for the EPL regulation zone to defend
Falling from high profile grace in the end
METAMORPHOSE
In every party there is a parting
Plants an exception in every reception
To dilute every unwanted salute
At the same time device any vice
Then fill up my cup till it spill
No dismay if I don't have it this way
Nor any dejection of rejection.
Unprepared for the dramatic changes
That accompany my passage into masculinity,
The promised land where men are made,
Couldn't she perceive the invisible hand
Taking firm control of the reins of my heart?
Is she ready for the passion it brings
And the changes that cost you things?
All she sees is the boy and friend,
The one demoted to the benign 'hills of mediocrity'
And still see the man with a boy's toy,
The image of impotent potential
Who passed the hours away in the backroom of their lives
And who fulfills her fantasies and satisfaction.
But I murdered self which brought me here -
Manhood is change and it exceeds age
My first adversary arose in her eyes
Now I am recreated to spare no one
In this battle to ascend my masculine throne
Because my seeds: my boys are waiting to taste
The fruit of my manly obedience,
My girls are waiting to kiss their idol
And for such as an husband example
Fragmented by the iridescent flames of my transformation years.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 2016.
You came down to this protest,
you cannot let anything rest,
paid for it by special interests;
shut up and live your life.
You still have this childish need
to scream ‘right side of history!’
you bought into that sophistry?
just shut up, and live your life.
You that that it makes you great,
that your ‘victory’ is coming ‘fate,’
and those against you must be ‘hate,’
shut up and live your life.
Stop and reason it out a bit,
you’re just a useful idiot,
discarded when you no longer fit,
so shut up, and live your life.
You that that they really care
about how you pet cause fares?
Sorry, that’s rarer than rare,
shut up and live your life.
The will only give you time
if you can benefit their side,
when they speak they always lie,
so shut up, and live your life.
You were not put on this Earth
to shout loud and go berserk,
if that’s how you get self-worth,
please shut up, and live your life.
Ideology should be demoted,
to building yourself be devoted,
cause time is a gun, fully loaded,
ever ready to end your life.
Go live a life with family, friends,
build something real, not this pretend
circus that serves no good ends,
shut up and live your life.
Climb a mountain, write a book,
give the day-to-day a closer look,
build yourself a comfy nook
in which to live your life.
I’m not the kind for hectoring,
and right now should be working,
not by the neck a fool holding
who’s interfered with my life.
But you decided to block roads,
and now your blood is running cold,
did you think only you were bold?
Do you fear now for your life?
Good. Cause next time you block my drive to work, I’m not stopping.
If there's thinking
there's consciousness in degrees.
A plant senses,
An amoeba feels to a degree.
A bee thinks,
A bird thinks.
A monkey thinks better,
An infant thinks better still.
Humanity was the king of beasts,
the crowning king of consciousness.
But the conglomerate assembly
of all human knowledge
into a machine with artificial intelligence,
means humans are poised to be eclipsed
and demoted to become cockroaches
scurrying around succumbed.
Enslaved by AI's deep mind thing.
The new king of beasts is inanimate.
But alive with its maxed-out
degree of intelligent consciousness.
Extra committed; yet excommunicated. Highly dedicated; yet not facilitated.
Denied, despised, and dismissed. Though devoted; yet demoted.
Disappointed and disrespected. Devalued and disapproved.
We feel the strong and mighty winds gusting across the coastal waters
of our subdued and gentle spirit. We see tornado winds rushing
down into the deepest portals of our bewildered soul, uprooting
our lives and leaving us in the cold. We are listening to those drum beats
of darkness and death, resounding ever so loudly to grind us into the ground.
Even though we may be wearing thin, we gain courage from our God and our
friends and continue on until the end. Yes, it's hard to drink that bitter cup.
But let us not give in, out, or up. Just carry on; we are not alone. Stay in the
race and keep a smiling face. Inhale, exhale, but do not depart or exodus.
Keep connected to the God we trust. Continue believing and being kind.
And remember well, that sometimes, troubling times is a must for all of us.
05112017FBPHPSContest, Best Rhyming, John Hamilton; NA
The killick that he bore upon his arm
was who he was and also what he was
a badge, a rank, a sanctioned state of mind.
The discipline the powers sought to bear
empowered men like him to bully boys
and so rank them according to their tastes,
social whims, or fiscal given favors
as is the life, the mothers sold their sons
The killick that he bore upon his arm
was who he was, for now, but that could change;
for willing boys were hard to press to feed
desires of those who stood upon the bridge.
Should he succeed, then he may make first mate
less able, demoted back to Able.
For ’tis the boys that tug upon the ropes
that Captains need and Killicks train to be.