Long Discrimination Poems
Long Discrimination Poems. Below are the most popular long Discrimination by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Discrimination poems by poem length and keyword.
What if you were an inhabitant of a world
Where there's no hate, greed, jealousy, envy, and pride;
And one is not enraged by the prosperity of another?
What if conceit and enmity are erased from the course of history,
And malignity is perpetually swallowed in the deepest of pits,
Sinking to rise no more?
What if your subconscious ideate a world
Filled with love, peace, and harmony?
What if Seven Billion human beings could live together under one canopy,
Tending to and upholding high esteem for one another
As benevolence becomes the ultimate act,
That reigns over all timelines?
What if we put aside the destructive comparisons and competitions,
And every individual follows his or her own path
While uplifting all others at the same time?
What if the promotion of individuality and self productivity,
Was the niche of every human —one to another—
And every gift and talent was equally consequential to society?
What if there was no lust for power
And political leaders as well as government officials,
Assume offices not to seek their own selfish interests
By misappropriating public funds, and embezzling state owned belongings to enrich themselves?
What if they had the sincere dedication
To ensure the welfare and security of the state and its citizens?
What if this world was a sanctuary of peace with the nonexistence of violence,
Where nations were aimed at building, rather than destroying one another?
What if unity becomes a compelling force
That binds the Earth to its core,
And compassion remains the lifelong element
That keeps the Universe in motion?
What if the globe was entirely void
of racism, prejudice, discrimination, and partiality;
Where each and every human was afforded equally the same opportunity
Regardless of their race, sex, ethnicity, culture or nationality?
What if we could finally dwell in a word once dreamed of by Martin Luther King Jr.,
Where "humans will no longer be judged based on the color of their skin, but by the contents of their character"?
There is an extreme power in these questions!
But what if they were a reality, can you imagine what we could all achieve?
What if you allow that imagination to create pictures of transformations?
What if you act stepwise from these unceasing questions,
And give it a chance to become a momentous action,
To make this Planet a better Creation?
Carmena was born in Bolivia
but left that place at seventeen,
after three years of waiting for the chance
to live out an American dream.
When her folks finally got their green cards
they moved up into old Santa Fe,
Carmena finished out her high school years
picking up on all American ways.
She’d known some English before she had come,
but her vocab expanded real quick,
immersed in the tongue every day
her accent softened and became less thick.
This helped a lot in her father’s new shop,
he bought a gas station in a franchise,
Carmena waited on all walks of life,
and the experience opened her eyes.
She’d chat with truckers and travelers
from all over the fifty great states,
lefty Californians, southern good-ol’ boys,
northern Yankees and Texans hauling steaks.
Mid-westerners who were so crazy nice,
New Yorkers who always sounded pissed off,
good-natured rednecks looking for more beer,
even some Yoopers with their funny talk.
Learned more of her new home on that roadside
then she did in any public school,
what would divide and what would unite,
but the one thing that really stuck her as cool
was that Americans, the better ones,
made everything subservient to choice.
Culture and skin, ethnicity and faith,
you had the freedom to ignore and avoid.
These facts struck her as how things should be,
had not every person a claim to these rights?
Here force of law was meant to make free
people to be the driving force in their lives.
And best of all, she heard all sides of things,
good for thought, both the grease and gourmet,
when seven years passed, and she took that oath,
she became American in so many ways.
But then something happened she didn’t expect,
it came about in an election year,
talking with her friend Sue about the vote
she was greeted with anger and fear.
Carmena was confused,"Why the harsh look?
I was just sharing the thoughts on my mind.
I believe in gun rights, and low taxes,
My father’s shop has been having a time—”
Sue interrupted,”Do you hate yourself?!
Don’t you know that you’re a Hispanic?
You’re betraying your own kind, voting this way,
colored people should vote Democratic!”
Carmena was stunned, struggled to reply,
“But I see nothing good in their beliefs.”
Sue just fumed,”You’re a damn race-traitor,
or brain-washed by fascist enemies!”
CONCLUDES IN PART II
The people of this world are like the three butterflies in front of a candle's flame.
The first one went closer and said:I know about love.
The second one touched the flame lightly with his wings and said:
I know how love's fire can burn.
The third one threw himself into the heart of the flame and was consumed.
The alone knows what true love is.
Rumi
I sit alone in a silent field of fairness,
under saffron rays kissing sunflower serenity,
among dawn's daisies and dusk's dandelions -
watching buds floating away with whisking winds.
Fate does not favour my quest to soar freely.
In a meadow of humanity's betraying breaths,
our buttercup souls become ambushed by a suffocation of sighs.
When there is no justice in spiteful judgement,
visions of Basilisk slither with a deadly gaze.
Envious eyes poisoned by potions of venom,
abuse the selfless mistress of my garden's muse -
but without Eve there would be no Adam nor Eden.
Weeping on the grave of her past self,
her fatigued spirit struggles to fight and rise.
I watch darkness ascend in springtime,
when her mind portrays a veil in the misery of mist.
I feel like a helpless flame burning in ivory wax.
Untreated wounds with time festering
into an ebony existence of self deprecation.
I can see butterfly hunters with their narcissistic nets,
chasing my imperfectly perfect empress of empathy.
Her heart hungers for a plethora of petals,
to hover from a ruby rose to lotuses of liberty,
but predatory birds like harlots and hussies,
have lured her into a withering winter colony of thorns.
Sorrow stitched her eyes closed with merlot thread,
as her sanity sits upon the edge of heaven and hell.
The Devil wears a hat with an emblem of her sins.
The bewitching conspiracy of his crimson eyes,
tempting to massacre the magnificence
of her invisible crystal wings of bronze and gold.
In a martyrdom of self-sacrifice,
love reminds her that kindness glows softly like fireflies,
as she tries to find light in a tunnel of lost thoughts.
The universe echoes her cosmic whispers of life,
as psychedelic ink shimmers like starlight in her veins,
pouring compassion into a selfish blank canvas of hearts.
Cherry blossoms tint the air pink
and she's looking at the world through their gaze,
but knows like everything,
their fragile beauty is only momentary.
She frowned at him, still dressed in his skins,
then cast her gaze upon sweet Nell.
“Why do you bring a savage with you?
Long, lost, little brother, do tell?”
Prent knew this would be a hard sell.
“She’s your niece,”he informed,”My little girl.
I came home so she could learn the ways of the world.”
Annabeth laughed, then she glowered at him.
“If only our father could see you now.
Consorting with whores, laying with squaws,
that’s how he figured you would turn out.”
But Prent would let no one talk down.
“I came here to settle, and do right by Nell.
If you don’t want to help me, I’ll do it myself!”
Annabeth sighed, and motioned them inside,
but the scowl never did leave her face.
“Mother, I’m afraid, was laid up by a stroke,
I’ve taken over running this place.
I guess you and your…child can stay.
But I’m telling you now, just so you know,
I’m not associating with folks in such ratty clothes!”
The days that came transformed them both
Into good facsimiles of civilized folk.
Prent wore waist-coats, Nell put on a dress
With a high collar that nearly choked,
So tight it was that poor Nell spoke:
“Daddy, daddy! It huwrts my neck!”
Said Annabeth,”Child, you’ll get used to that.”
Days went by and a tutor was hired,
to try and teach the irrepressible girl.
Annabeth grimly took it on herself
to impart on her manners of the world,
still scowling at her like a churl.
While Prent went to his brother Ike,
to see if the banker had a job he’d like.
But luck was not with him at the bank,
owned sixty years by his family.
He still had no skill for business talk,
or keeping the customers happy.
He found his spirits soon flagging.
Plus, when it came to finding a love,
it seemed he was cursed by Heaven above.
Some would walk with him if he called,
but most ran when they learned of Nell.
One was so shocked he’d married a squaw
that she loudly condemned him to Hell.
In truth, it was all just as well.
A mother, he thought, Nell needed to grow,
but none of these women would make that so.
A month passed, and things grew strained,
Annabeth seemed more and more disturbed.
“She won’t learn her manners, and only talks
about trapping, horses, and pet squirrels!
That’s no kind of talk for a young girl!”
She threw up her hands, and said,”I’m done!
There is no helping that little one.”
CONTINUES IN PART III...
she carries the child on tired hips rested on chains ‘round her waist
wasted on freedom designed to serve a white man’s lustful desire
branded inferior as time repeats itself and the pain knows no end
a tattoo on her skin confirms her as chattel in self-righteous shackles
festering wounds of Apartheid resemble the foul stench of humanity
as her child suckles from an empty breast and cries out for more
they did not really abandon slavery merely gave it a different name
too sweet are the rewards of exploiting the world as we know it
division of labour and they enshrined her firmly as an illiterate pawn
her soul wrapped in skin and bones and her eyes like rusted steel
an empty gaze almost gave up on merits of justice from hollow eyes
camped in concentration of power domination she is raped daily
of her dignity while she ploughs on in fields of plenty and the dust
of history and yet she never gives up on struggle for emancipation
some got the vote in a rigged system with dice slicing the fortune
disembowled by wolves in capital’s fangs her innermost treasure
has become hope that succumbs to memories of her forebears
born into poverty and meant to stay there she rattles her manacles
in vain in defeat because leg irons and handcuffs are made from
diamonds and gold in the heartland of theft and misappropriation
when her child dies she carries another from the master’s loins
expendable and forgotten her tears are salty and polish the gyves
and just maybe might help to corrode bilboes and unholy bonds
because human emotions do not forget who triggered the hurt
outcast in a so called homelands or locations she requires a pass
to enter the kingdom of opulence in which she serves as a maid
but the young maiden has become old and dies cleaning their dirt
a stolen life is all that her daughters will remember with hatred
and when they rise they too will die by the greed of their captors
but one day the tables will turn and revolve in anger and retribution
20th August 2020
‘Apartheid’ in South Africa was the system of racial discrimination
Workers needed a ‘passbook’ to enter rich suburbs for work
‘Homelands’ were the allocated regions where black people would live
Their abodes where called ‘locations’ to sweeten the tongue of evil
What happened yesterday
Can change today.
When a person understands
His" her" capacity
He "she" can not see borders
To enter some world competitions
Where racism and injustice
Are not principal choices.
Power of beauty and wealth,
Some daughters of some poor in the Competition with some daughters
Of some rich people.
Yesterday when I saw you in miss universe,
I said,"wow! Yeah, they are there
To show their beauties
As other races. "
Participating in such
Universal competition,
It is not an easy task.
From local competition to national,
From National competition
To universal competition.
To have a miss universe title.
Yesterday,
When I heard about black American women
Who won miss America and miss USA
Another black african woman who won
Miss South Africa and miss universe.
Their wins encouraged
More black women in the world
Who were discouraged
By injustice, tribalism,
Regionalism,
Corruption and
Racism in some countries.
Power of beauty and wealth,
A beautiful woman that a man saw yesterday
Can stick in his mind for some years.
Men know what they want,
It is hard to change their choices.
White man marry a beautiful black woman
" or white woman"
A black man marry a beautiful white woman
" or black woman."
Men like the beautiful flowers ...
It is their nature.
Beauty women are like beautiful
blue, black, red, rose, orange, yellow,
white, khaki, chocolate, green flowers
Every man has his favorite coulours.
Power of beauty and wealth,
The style of beautiful women of yesterday
Differ to the style of beautiful women of today
But their attractions don't change in the eyes of men.
Beauty of a woman is
A strongest magnate
Which attracts,
And captures
Millions of men
But
The wealth of a woman
Is a silent
Missile
Which terrify trillions
Of world men.
Majority men are arrogants and
They hate to be dominated
By any woman.
This piece of poetry portraying some truth,
Naked truth about small matters with
Some solutions.
Majority rich women of yesterday
Were so arrogants and
Those of these days
are still very arrogants.
Marriage of two arrogants...
Man and woman
Can not last,
Unless one of them bound.
May 5/2023
Writting for contest sponsored by
Constance la France
Theme: YESTERDAY
O glorious dear sun, sovereign of the day, in the sky above
you’re one whose radiance resembles a little of God’s love;
by nurturing all creatures in the world with your unique rays
and setting such a high standard that homage everyone pays.
The Earth and all known planets habitually revolve around thee
as children do their parents whose offspring they happen to be.
Your emissary in the night sky, the moon, a bright reflection is
serving us as a reminder of thy glory while displaying all of his.
You shine on one and all and no discrimination ever make
regardless of who they are and what they do for their sake.
It is no wonder then that people have worshiped you as a deity in the past
and even now continue to do so in ways associated with the weather forecast.
When your light is obstructed by clouds all seems to be somber and gray
but when the sky is clear your majestic presence illumines the whole day.
The whole world in fact dances to thy rhythmic score which has been set
and plays itself out daily as the dawn and dusk through a yearly quartet.
You have such a strong influence on all life as we know it here
that whether we like it or not you’re a symbol of hope and cheer.
Though it has also been noted that you sometimes have an extreme side
but this depends on the whims of nature to which all things must abide.
All in all to the naked eye you alone reign supreme in the sky’s vast firmament
but to those who see further you’re one of countless others which you represent.
The stars in the night sky are your brothers and sisters no matter how distant they be
some being greater and brighter, but made of the same basic stuff, in the cosmic sea.
There are so many secrets hidden in your bosom which are yet to be revealed
that if and when the time comes much is to be known about life still concealed.
In fact the power and energy that flows to us from you I daresay has a divine source
because you yourself are a center and beacon of a universal benign and creative force.
And just as you really give so much and seem to ask for nothing in return
I humbly offer this ode to you in praise which by your inspiration did learn.
And although most intelligent creatures hold you in such high esteem
please also acknowledge our debt to you for allowing us to daydream.
___________________________
"All animals are equal. But some animals are more equal than others."
—George Orwell
A dozen of chickens and a number of horses, a cat and a raven, a few cows and other hoofed ones—all of which are perfectly silent. Poor wolfie. He can't even find a voice to growl. "Your Honor, if I may request for a short recess," I whisper, humiliatingly like a dying dragon. But my timid voice is drowned by a sly-looking pig's pouring of whisky into Dis Honor's gilded cup.
"Have you no respect or have you no eyes?" Squealing, he deafeningly squeals. He reminds me of that scaled wyvern whose head now sits in my living room. It roared deafeningly loud but breathed no fire. "His Honor is having his brief period of refreshment at the moment!"
With eyes too dry to cry and throat too hoarse to howl, the defendant meekly weeps. But only I hear it; the jury listens to only the silence, loud as a baby serpent's inaudible hiss, of two semi-digested pigs in his gut.
Who on earth build houses with flimsy hays or sticks nowadays anyway? And was it my client's fault that the third genius Doctor Porkchop got killed when some stray earthquake crushed his oh-so-unshakable fort built brick by bloody brick? Just whose brilliant proposal is it again to have Napoleon presiding the trial of the so-called Big Bad Wolf? If only he was a dragon—a pig-dragon at least— I would fain put the beauty that is my sword into good use right now.
Countless charges of premeditated murder, culpable animalicide, et cetera. Of course, do sentence us all to another life. I turn to look at the audience right behind me: a mare, a goat, a donkey. A soft motherly neigh followed by an intelligent baa, then by an astute silence.
"Please, Your Honor," Ridiculous. This stupid courtesy reminds me of tiptoeing past a mother Couatl guarding her eggs. "Shall we resume—"
Slams of gavel.
"Objection! Objection! Objection!" Dis Honor oinks vehemently, his mouth reeking of poorly brewed whisky—and I thought Tiamat's droppings were bad. The way he repeats the slamming of his gavel with every disgustingly pronounced objection gives me a headache as if it was my head he keeps hammering on. For the first time, being hit by the Basilisk's tail doesn't sound so bad at all. "Here you call me 'Your Honor Napoleon' in full," Oh, believe me, the honor is fully mine.
Où allons nous? Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s “Where are we going” by T. Wignesan
Ils sont venus dans une petite ville
Une bande à moitié nue soumise silencieuse
Tout ce qui restait de leur tribu.
Ils sont venus à leur vieux territoire bora
Où beaucoup d’hommes blancs maintenant vont et viennent
comme des fourmis.
La pancarte de l’agent immobilier dit: “Il est permis de jeter
des ordures ici.”
Maintenant les ordures couvrent plus que la moitié du cercle
de bora.
“Nous sommes maintenant comme des étrangers, mais la
tribu blanche est en réalité des étrangers.
La terre nous appartient, sommes nous les héritiers des
vieilles coutumes.
Nous sommes la corroboree* et la terre bora.
Nous sommes de vieux rites, les lois de nos aïeux.
Nous sommes des contes des émerveilles du Temps de Rêves,
des légendes racontées de tribus.
Nous sommes le passé, les chasses et les jeux qui nous font rire, les feux allumés autour de nos campements ici et là.
Nous sommes des éclairs sur la Colline Graphemba
Eclatants et effrayants,
Et le Tonnerre venant après lui, ce gars bruyant.
Nous sommes le lever du soleil silencieux
Illuminant pas à pas la lagune enterrée par la nuit.
Nous sommes des ombres-épouvantes revenant
subrepticement aux feux de campement qui
s’éteignent doucement.
Nous sommes la Nature et le Passé, tout ce qui comporte nos
vieilles traditions
Maintenant en train de disparaître ici et là.
Les broussailles sont détruites, ainsi la chasse et la
rire.
L’aigle, lui, est déjà parti, l’émeu et le kangourou ont aussi quitté les lieux.
Le cercle du bora a disparu.
La corroborée a disparue.
Et nous sommes en train de disparaître.
*An Australian Aboriginal dance ceremony which may take the form of a sacred ritual or an informal gathering. 'Aborigines living in the coastal Kimberley region of Australia's top end sometimes dance a corroboree re-enacting the arrival of dingoes to Australia. (Oxford English Dictionary)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Girl are born. But not every time they are lucky enough to live. Many a times they are killed by their families who were expecting a boy child.
This poem captures dreams of a girl child. Her dream revolves around getting love, affection, acceptance from her parents but these dreams can never be fulfilled. Her destiny has something else in store for her.
Poem – My stupid little Dreams.
(Some dreams are never meant to be fulfilled)
My dream is to be born cuddling in my mother’s arms and staring in her eyes,
My dream is spending my childhood hopping in my father’s lap,
My father tickling me until I cry out of joy,
My dream is feeling my mother’s soft tender lips, as she kisses me wishing me
goodnight,
My dream is enjoying weekends hopping on my father’s back;
As he play a horse and I a brave knight,
My dream is to fall down, bruise my leg and watch my mother rushing out for me,
My dream is spending endless nights sitting beside my father,
His hands coiled around my neck, re-living my favorite bedtime stories,
My dream is treading on roads shimmering with sun rays escaping from canopy of trees that leads nowhere,
My dream is racing down endless streets crowded with people; teeming with life;
Happiness, fervor and excitement spread everywhere,
My dream is to live, prosper and watch all these and thousand other dreams come true,
But I won’t live long enough, so bye-bye dreams; I bid you adieu,
I have committed a sin, as grave as a crime,
My family needed a boy, but I am born a girl child,
My dreams, my wishes will stay alive with me till I am in my mother’s womb,
Seconds after I am born; they will travel with me to my final destination – my own personal tomb.
If born; No respect, no acceptance would have been the saga of my life,
Thanks to my father, he saved me, by taking my life.
No time for my dreams, I died paying for my sins,
Once born; I was send on a long vacation in some local dustbin.
I was born like a flower that could bloom and thrive
But I was plucked as a bud, never allowed to ripe,
Not only me there are thousands more lying in rains,
Moaning in pain, their blood gushing down the drains,
No more dreams, no more wishes just one cry,
O God! It’s enough. Please no more girl child.