Long Despoil Poems
Long Despoil Poems. Below are the most popular long Despoil by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Despoil poems by poem length and keyword.
I've constructed a picket fence around me to keep jackanapes out
Through pickets they can see me, but I never allow them to touch
private parts of me I keep concealed, and don't talk about so much
I keep whitewashing my fence, cleansing it from things left in doubt
When my boards become exposed to prying eyes that shouldn't see
I open another bucket of watered-down paint and reach for a brush
to cover the flaws, my faults within, and I am always in such a rush
to whiten and brighten the facade out front. The veneer veiling me.
There is a gate with well-worn hinges, but usually it's kept locked
to prevent invaders who would dare trespass on my every thought
Those who'd despoil my fence with graffiti and rip my boards apart
Hence, one reason why I keep a supply of whitewash well-stocked
I am the prismed reflection of my surroundings, including my fence
where no webs shall arachnids weave within my weathered boards.
I will apply a coat of whitewash to my palisade as the need affords
It is a beachhead between me and crawlers; my penury of defense
Twining around my picketed railings, grows a vine of climbing roses
The virtuous blooms are never cut to prolong each inculpable stem
They shroud malevolent fingers pointed at me that would condemn
I shrive every foible and failing that my whitewashed fence encloses
May 28, 2023
W T F Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
Humans are quite a deciduous lot.
It's our nature, but not Mother's motif.
We fall from grace without faith and belief
when fleshly flaws make us stumble, besot.
Tousled emotions are tied in a knot
as though weatherbeaten, love ends in grief.
Reddened eyes, the shade of a cast-off leaf
from tears spilled and splattered like an ink blot.
We fall in and out of love. It's a chance
taken, like planting trees for greenery.
Then, we watch deciduous leaves perish,
borne on blustery winds in one last dance.
Windswept limbs despoil Winter's scenery.
Love and lush foliage, we should cherish.
What are these words that rage with hate and war
That scream with bullets’ searing, lethal roar
That slash with livid flames the midnight sky
And with a tongue that lubricates the lie
Despoil the words of men worth living for –
What bloody god, or gods, in truth exist
That suffer men with words for this, for this –
What prophet false with rabid tongue betrays
The son of peace the son of man portrays
By choosing words of fury, words of fist
And worshipping the power they enlist –
A choice of words some men cannot resist –
O friend! O foe! Why still these words of war
That make the living word worth killing for –
A Grinch’s Lament/with apologies
I remember the Christmas I first met the Grinch
his whining, his snarling, his poke, and his pinch
I never knew why - but I liked him right off
his yellowish teeth - his green tussled coif
the way that he moved – a snake in full coil
awaiting the chance to strike - to despoil
whatever the Who’s might be trying to do
the way he loved making the Who’s – go BOO HOO
I laughed when he emptied all the Who’s houses
took the cheese from the little Who mouses
ate all the cookies and took the roast beast
truly the Grinch didn’t care in the least
I felt a slight twinge about Cindy Lou Who….BUT
HE WAS A GRINCH….WHAT ELSE COULD HE DO
I cheered when the sleigh reached the top of Mount Crumpit
urged him to PLEASE….GO AHEAD…..DUMP IT!! DUMP IT!!!
I couldn’t believe he succumbed to the glee
of the carols they sang – without any tree
or his heart would expand – his evil would shrink
he’d clean himself up – tone down his Grinch stink
I cringed when he rode into town on the sleigh
he was the Grinch – it shouldn’t turn out this way
So I tossed the Grinch and his book on their head
sat eating stale crackers – alone – in my bed
John G. Lawless
8/8/2015
Birth: the first step to journey’s end.
We cannot travel and pretend
That our paths will be all straight
And leave the helm to luck, not faith.
There will be chasms full of gloom
Where evil spirits hide and loom
The eerie feelings forecast doom
And wide-eyed flowers do not bloom;
There will be dangers hard to count
So many mountains to surmount
The angry waves will roll and pound
While furious winds despoil the ground
The weary feet will turn to lead
It will be hard to forge ahead.
But are we going to give in
To the backstabbing from within
Become a prey to currents’ might
Or beat retreat and take to flight?
Oh no my friend! That’s not the way
To reap the fruit of our stay
On this domain where life must rise
Above the slime; so let’s be wise
To turn defeat into a win
To put a stop to faults and sin
To change the darkness into light
To not submit without a fight
To find the means to learn to cope
So that we travel on with hope
Till when we give the final breath
We cross the bridge to life, not death.
-------------------------------------------
Author: Paul Callus ~ 16/03/2014
Contest: Life is what you make it!
Sponsor: Dave Wood
Placing: 1st
The language of love is wordless.
See that simple yellow and white daisy
in the green meadow?
Go uproot it,
snatch it from its perfect setting
that place Perfection made for it.
Now it is in your hand,
it is still lovely,
but something is missing,
something is wrong.
it was never meant to be manhandled,
even with appreciation or love,
that kind of love is possessive,
selfish, mistaken.
You must seek to understand it,
describe it, know it.
You must investigate, and dissect
its beauty
and so you begin to pull is apart.
petal by petal
you despoil it,
until the flower no longer exists
as a whole vision,
as a perfection of form.
It is only parts now, it is only words,
words for love,
and not love itself.
Why Poetry Must be Read Aloud
The poet caresses the purity of the
blank white page, seduces it, whispers
to it, teases and cajoles, coaxing
from the emptiness a depth of
solace, the fullness of a lover’s smile.
His words are mined, milled, and
shaped by the hammer and anvil of
his heart. Heated to molten glow by
his passion and his longing to be
enveloped, entrapped, ensnared
in the web of whiteness.
Thus, he pours out his metaphoric
blood, his soul, in words. Words –
words that mar the clarity of the page,
despoil its clinical perfection. Words
torn from love, or pain, or loneliness,
unspoken words yet to feel the breath
of freedom.
So is the secret shared without fervor,
without rage, in lust-less, loveless, agony.
Etched onto the silence of the paper,
hidden in the margins of the white bordered
prison. Waiting – to be given a voice, to
be imbued with the passion found in the
speaker, to echo across a valley, to
be shouted, sung, screamed into the
cooling air of life.
It is not enough to be written,
to fill the emptiness of the page,
for paper has no passion.
John G. Lawless
4/9/2014
Love’s Wave and Breaking Crest
And though the lover’s now shared empty cells
o’erflowing with the enmity of loss
endured the curse of self inflicted hells
beneath the towered specter of the cross
the remnants of a love – now prayerful dross
crumbling – dry flowers clutched to chest
unwilling to admit denials cost
beneath fate’s wave and breaking crest.
A darkness of the heart devoid of light
numbing to the core all pulsing hope
adrift in string-less voyage – hateful flight
as fearful fingers ever slowly grope
the promise of the knotted, swinging rope
to which the aching heart has acquiesced
in effort to relieve love’s need to cope
beneath fate’s wave and breaking crest.
As through love’s hand slid harsh Manilla grip
tears dried upon a sallow, sunken cheek
awakening cold heart from endless trip
silencing the quest for dying’s shriek
recoiling from a final act so bleak
as to despoil a love that felt so blessed
strip it of love’s whimsical mystique
beneath fate’s wave and breaking crest.
Thus does the heart renew its rhythmic pace
return full beating flow to aching chest
release itself from memory’s sad embrace
beneath love’s wave and breaking crest.
//rhyme scheme not carried throughout//
//each stanza has own rhyme//
4/28/2015
Lust's Sickness throws off the yoke, of cure?
Defiant in-body, pleasures obscure.
A mask, of pride, a lost soul-in vogue capture, a hell-ride in the belly of a beastly whore.
The salt crystal shines your thirst back to you in a drowning mirror that blinds you.
It's image, in-retrograde.
Worship of false idol,
self, made, self that binds you.
You are tapewormed, pinned at the head,
eating the loop of tale.
A process processing by lassoing,
the masochism of sin.
The Harlot, riding an illusion abiding,
of perverted grandeur, aboding the Vale,
in a warped game of intelivision in the City Dell.
Rally the standard, flags, censors,
sensor a game, of shell, of humanity being played,
like a fiddle, rung like a bell.
Their humanity wanes,
from defiant song in the harmonic scale, of fever.
Their body a signet, of times despoil.
The occulus hourglass abacus mirror waxing cold,
fusion spirit, ether, spell for sale, sold.
Doors closing double
folding into the dimension of troubles.
Shopkeepers of the gates of Hell,
and souls falling onto the other.
Neon is in the blood, signed, *** - 666,
enter, the veil.
Apocalypservices,
the last vomiting throes of Society's-former Dale.
BDSM by Hollywood (wand not for display),
at the demonic re education menagerie.
Self's gallery for sale, while burning,
nativity to ashes,
carbon to polish our looking glasses.
Sold-out to the oil of midnite.
Snaking, on a torch lit by the way
of political prophet-eering incite.
Insight of conscience swayed
by field communications, too near.
Of Olympus-apothecarried by the scales in motion,
weighed by fears'-musings-fear.
By Reptilian, Orwellian, modern, progressive notions caught doing.
Explosive, fiery things.
Burn us to death, in house arrest,
in-deed to fuel one's own un, manifest.
Doing, one's undoing at the behest of the WEF