Long Disapproval Poems
Long Disapproval Poems. Below are the most popular long Disapproval by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Disapproval poems by poem length and keyword.
Trump not a Thoughtful Tweeter
By Franklin Price
1/23/2017
Trump, not a thoughtful tweeter
Doesn't filter words to say
Whatever pops into his head
Is coming out that way
When thoughts form words, within his mind,
He thinks his thoughts are the best;
Must publish them on twitter
And put them to the test
When others choose to disagree
With words he has to tweet
Immediately he jumps on them
And stomps them with both feet
It doesn't matter what he says
He always must be right
And others who conflict with him
Must be looking for a fight
His tweets cause disapproval
In his popularity
Not in what he has accomplished
In most all the news we see
How popular would the president be,
If Twitter was now dead?
Would we recognize what he has done,
And not just what he said?
I can't believe your audacity
Well actually!
Your so consumed with rapcisty
The bling life has blinded you
You can't even see what's Infront of you
Who even are you?
I don't even know you!
You've become a stranger,
The money's changed ya,
Are you even any happier?
Because you seem snappier,
crabbier and on occasion angrier,
So it seems you're more unhappier,
Than happier
Money talks apparently,
And we know all about your currency,
That's your hot topic your money
Money money, Ain't it funny.
Not!
Its really not interesting,
Listening
Again and again as you boast,
No one's remotely engrossed,
About your latest big spend,
Or your new rich friend,
How's the air up there?
On that high horse, ne'er
Even the horse can't bear it,
It would appear I'm now a misfit,
I no longer fit, Your new adylic life
I'm unfit, oh dear god the strife!
Unfortunate isn't it,
Because if we rewind just a bit,
Once upon a time we were close
We were tight knit as apposed
To now!
You were my hero pow,
I aspired to be just like you!
I worked so hard to,
Just to get your approval,
Yet all I received was disapproval
But when I really needed you,
You didn't care, it's true
You weren't there
I'm still suprised,
That I was surprised,
But What did I expect,
Mr Scrooge
Too swop in and interject,
Yeah right that's funny in hindsight,
But!
I soon realized and saw the light,
And I guess that's just how money,
Talks! money money money
Apparently
In a rich man's world, only money talks
therefore you only talk,
You guessed it About your money
Hunny! Ain't it funny,
Not!
But that's how it goes,
In a rich man's world! I suppose
Timmy developed bad hay-fever
He saw the doctor for some tabs
No medication seem to work for him
He tried everything the pharmacy had
Another problem soon arose
For all and sundry to see
Each time Timmy sneezed
He would get a woody
His hay-fever now out of control
Sneezing constantly
His woody was up and down
Getting weary as can be
His woody stood to attention
In the most embarrassing places
The town folk were disgusted
Disapproval on their faces
The doctor rang Timmy to say,
Please come and see me
We have an amazing new medication
From your hay-ever you will be freed
A miraculous new antihistamine Timmy was prescribed
The outcome he could not believe
‘Miracles do happen’ Jimmy thought
No more hay-fever, no longer did he sneeze
The other issue was also resolved
Such a relief for dear Timmy
But now his willy was sound asleep
In a coma permanently!!
Me Mother tucked me in, when I was small,
And made the nighttime monsters run away,
And kissed my cheek, still, when I’d grown up tall,
And broke me down when I had gone astray.
She gave her love through music, art and books
And loved Truth, only, more than us, I think!
She taught us to be humble, by her looks
Of disapproval, when we left a chink
Of falsehood in the walls of Truth we built.
My memory counts but three lies that I told,
And these, I still stain with a smear of guilt.
But she forgave me, once she had grown old.
I made my way, because my mother had,
Because I went forth in Truth’s Armor clad.
9/16/2019
Keep paying your dues when liberalism
packets profits from your sweat;
and don't mutter a disapproval word...
when your stomach growls for an altruism
that enriches the lives of the smart,
while yours is not considered sacred.
The horrifying screams
that were suddenly halted
by an exhaled breath are fragments
of all hope and the beginning of all strife;
they remain inside and make
your agonizing soul bleed:
don't think of possible revenge...
while smelling the stench of the blood.
It's the ultimate self-sacrifice
preventing the horrendous carnage
of thousands who cling to life,
barely making their ends meet,
just picking up their breadcrumbs
and continue the squalid living and ache
for the abundance promised
by a liar who only sought gold.
Is it possible to avoid cruel glances and hatred feelings,
not hear threats that disquiet a tranquil life
meant to be lived by all who seek happiness,
not disharmony, conflict, or insidious rife?
Is it human to break hearts and rejoice
over their grievances caused by malicious deeds?
Mend yourself for the actions that brought ambivalent moods
of distrust, why hurt others and not be punished by the same token?
Don't keep spinning your wheel...it will stop and bring you down!
The horrifying screams that were suddenly halted
by an exhaled breath in distress have retained
their fret to encounter more frightful images that prolong
their play of mischievousness among enlarging shadows,
no powerful light will make them vanish into nothingness:
there's no redemption without realizing the gravity of wrong.
instead of crunchy bread.
I left the pub one night in a bit of a tizzy
and saw some kind of being like a tin lizzie.
This turned out to be a polite alligator
now on probation for having eaten a waiter.
The police left it tied to a street lamp, it seemed.
It looked so kind. how its joyful face beamed.
It spoke perfect English, quoted Terence and Horace.
I was surprised to learn that its first name was Boris.
"In life,' it confided. 'whatever you do,
apologize profusely and past failures rue.
Then proclaim calmly the past to be past.
Now is the time to move on at last.'
Its sudden jerk made me lose grip of its leash ,
before attacking an old person whom it ate like a quiche.
"I just couldn't resist, so please don't tell the cops,'
it said, tears in eyes. while licking its chops.
The loss of that gentleman causes me pain.
I promise sincerely not to do that again.'
Then two irate policemen appeared on the scene.
One was fat and the other was lean.
Boris polished them off at remarkable speed.
To discourage this act no plea could succeed.
I wagged a finger to show disapproval
at such a violent and hasty removal.
'I am so sorry,' said Boris 'That's the last time
I shall ever commit such a base crime.
As I said before, it's time to move on.
The past is past. what's gone has gone.'
Who then should appear but Lord James Murray,
whom Boris devoured in rather a hurry.
'Boris,' I cried. 'That's enough. I'm perplexed.'
'In that case,' said Boris, you are the next.'
I ran like a hare for all I was worth
as never I ran from the day of my birth.
I got to my home, rushed in, locked the door.
I hid under the bedclothes, struck to the core.
What a hangover I had on the following day.
I saw no sign of Boris, I'm so glad to say.
Don’t look down on the unfortunate my friend
Because first of all
That is not cool
Second God will teach you a lesson
That you may never forget
God has set everyone equal on every level
Whether you are poor or rich
Happy of non happy
Pretty looking or not pretty looking
Everyone is the same in the level of playing field
Not think you have an upper hand
Lest you are the one who gets the short stick
God does not make you who you are
For you to look upon another person disdainly
In a way that would bring disapproval from the Maker’s eyes
So take care and take heed
Let you shine in the right place
At the right time
And share
Won’t you?
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight.
It clicks like disapproval down the stairs,
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
At seventeen, I ran until too late—
now cartilage remembers every dare.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight.
The doctor called it mild, then moderate,
prescribed his pills and physical repair,
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
I miss the thoughtless body, its clean slate,
the kneeling, leaping, dancing unaware.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight.
Some mornings it predicts the weather’s state,
a creaking oracle that I can’t spare—
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
I’ll walk again, they say, but hesitate
means something now, and trust is what wears bare.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight,
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
(As Galileo left the session of the Inquisition
at which he had been forced to deny his own
discovery that the earth orbited the sun, and
had to "admit" that the earth was static, he
murmured, "eppur si muove" ("but it moves").
It's hard to live in Lilliput, I find.
I have to cross my fingers, play their game.
Their billing, filling, drilling daily grind
sits ill with me. They all trot out the same
tired cliches. Passing a painting, never fail
to comment on the squareness of the frame.
Unprofitable, weary, flat and stale.
You can't earn prizes here. These fools prize earning.
No sweets to eat. It's one long dreary tale
of condemnation, disapproval, spurning.
The Sunday supplements determine taste,
all tearing down, forbidding, banning, burning.
They're sealed in heavy metal, concrete-cased
austerity. They put the "die" in "diet".
What will survive of them is nuclear waste.
Denounce, detract, dismiss it and deny it.
Don't look for clover - look for cloven hooves.
Excoriate it, flay it, vilify it.
They'd love to let life lurch along in grooves,
the gauche, perverse, unruly human mind
trapped tidily in aspic. But it moves.
The cat has your bone structure,
it also sashays and allures.
In an alcohol-fueled reverie
it turned up
as thin as a velvet spider.
However, it died
before our love did.
Pets are obtrusive, not conducive
to good or bad memories,
they play the field
demanding to be relevant
long after their passing.
Your cat considers me a villain,
it lingers on as some kind of
a stalking succubus,
the very model of your character
reminding me (as if necessary),
of your everlasting disapproval.
I overhear that damn cat,
positively purring when I am feeling sad,
and on a good day
its sexually vexatious yowling
warns me
never to take
a good cat for granted.