Long Fakery Poems
Long Fakery Poems. Below are the most popular long Fakery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fakery poems by poem length and keyword.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lR8BaGbOoL8
A twine of hope is worth more then a thousand strings of doubt
an open door more precious then , "the knock on wood" design
A lucky rabbit foot, a four leaf clover, just trinkets to amuse,
but a prayer on the lips can ease the soul & give a heart restore
One act of kindness is more real then the fakery and flattery of sly
and one good deed more valuable then a sedentary talk of good
Often love is grasped with fiery hands of lust and eyes of blind,
when all it needs is an ounce of grace, and time to grow;
Too late we learn the meaning of success and I for one confess
a yarn of truth is worth far more then tomorrows idle promise
honesty is a gleaning cup so who needs a fluted glass of bluff
when one straight talk is valued at the price of gold and myrrh
A twine of hope can be wrapped around your finger as reminder
and its better then a thousand "told you so " from a proud achiever
humble thyself when it comes to helping others never be deskbound
sharing poetry with you like this, is the greatest treasure I found …
Follow me son to Lady Liberty
Beset by wolves she struggles on
Our wounded pride lays her reeling
Absent her, our endless seeking better days are pointless
By fakery they left her quartered
Offended they aim to render her helpless
Yet the slightest sliver of light from her lamp
Ignites our inward drive to seek her form
Above persistent calls for anarchy, she breathes through us
Against a world of famine, she feeds us
From determination to dissolve, she holds us
Until toward brotherly love, she moulds us
So truth, her triumphant beacon lights the world
“America is, and always will be, a shining city on a hill.”
- Ronald Reagan
I know the best
poetry is
suppose to live in
broken love,
death, regret,
and fear of facing
another tomorrow.
Those things
that drag emotion
across the heart,
or stab
you in the brain,
with
pain and
sorrow.
But has there ever been a poet
that’s not known
such tragedy,
has no knowledge of heartbreak,
been hurt or wronged
because he didn't fit a mold.
Whose stomach
is always full,
never had to
sleep in the cold.
One that has loved
without regret
never had to beg
or borrow.
Call me a
presenter of possibilities
mediator of metaphor
encourager of exaggerations
implementor of imagination
or facilitator of fakery
but
I am no poet
Do you ever listen to people
Who swear they are best friends
But as soon as your back is turned
That's where the friendship ends
In front of your face
You are a guardian angel
Counsellor, confidant and best friend
But don't be surprised to know
Its laced with lies and full of hypocrisy
But who are they fooling
When you know it's an act
Last time you scandalize me
With your construed stories
And distorted facts
Last time you came to spite me
Nail me to the cross
With all your lies and fakery
I wish you would get lost
I am not the last one
To taste your poisoned tongue
But like a Chameleon that changes colour
You personality has joined the lizard clan.
You come with your greetings
False face and lies
Your fakery is disloyalty
Camouflaged with a disguise
What a joke when you came to help me
When you never did before
Have you come to crucify me
Nail me to your cross
I wish you would take your fakery
I wish you would get lost
Judas was a disciple
Once a godly man
Formed his own congregation
But when it was time for loyalty
That's was when the friendship end.
Sometimes, as an American,
and a poet,
The tears flow down face...
All countries seem to hate us,
As though they lived in an
Eternal state of kindness and grace?
I wonder, why any American would
dare post a poem here.
For no matter how many souls from
The USA, died for their country,
I wonder.....do they cheer?
Dunkirk, Normandy, I guess nothing
do they mean?
When crackpots like Hitler almost
swallowed Europe as a snake.
No, they snicker at the USA every
chance they take.*
Americans were not raised to loathe
any other nation.
But to learn, work hard, and make of our
lives, a humble, God-oriented sensation.
We, of all colors live here, we ended
both slavery and living on plantations.
Even those Americans, sadly, freeloading
at every opportune chance
Have fellow freeloaders in other countries
doing the Cash-In dance.
Perhaps, time to realize no country in history
is perfect, that is pure fakery and nonsense!
At this time in history, gripped by fear
and loss of lives,
Go after the real villains, in all countries
Yes, and they do march and thrive!
Their goal to create havoc, separate us
by race and in truth we need to lock
arms, not spit in any nations's face.
A lack of poetical grace!
7/24/2021
* Mean, vicious remarks about the USA are
usually found in comments. I do not read
these poets anymore. Remember, this is
an international community, please?*
Do you think there can be world peace, when
poets cannot be peaceful at Poetry Soup?
The Braille of Cobblestone
Keeper of darkness,
of auras reaped from high seas,
vast is your harvest
of earth rumblings beset by molten tears
to charred obsidian made hard glass.
Such reflects primate-memory
once clamored upon by man and beast running,
dodging blade and spear
as wash water dumped from windows high
added slippery footing for predators ever lustful,
ever hungry,
ever historic.
At the high noon of one’s life,
we wonder among your melodies
amidst recent fabrications lining your path.
you the wrinkled skin of ancient masons
serve sunbaked feasts
from the past of pasts.
Your micro-canyons of irrigated seed and drift
send spirits aloft from grasses high,
reminding us that while calendars may crumble,
your stone of old remains young,
transcending the language of vowel and consonant,
acknowledging the touch of phantom eye to eye,
even whispered touches beneath a Nike sole
speaking the tongues of old,
echoing the murmurs of felled travelers,
the severed limbs of warriors,
the rivers of passion red,
polishing fossils within.
Still…
Others would fake Nature's setting,
even make ready counterfeit copies
to pacify the blind living without preference.
Such serpentine monsters of ignorance
whose Gucci laced feet now prance upon your offspring
sold into bondage, interspersed among the fakery
having not a clue of the Carthaginians
or Mediterranean isles of oar-navigated ports.
For like Rodeo Drive's cobblestone plazas,
where modern slavery prisons of today
masquerade as knockoffs once authentic for tomorrow,
your history is reaching fade out,
sans your hidden messages,
your quiet cacophony of silence
made orchestral for those who can hear,
those who dare see through the darkness,
those who can be moved and touched by
the brail of cobblestone.
O' cloned creations,
mirroring deceptive diction
scattered in liquified letters,
across android canvases,
here comes the plague of
fabricated foolery,
spiraling in figments of
black and white illusions,
injecting illusive veins
screaming for vanity,
with verses plagiarized
from villainous valleys.
There’s nothing poetic about
the way AI is pickpocketing
rhythmic runes from the
museum of dead poets ~
immortalized on the walls
of glass galleries.
Their sonnets, now imitated,
to adorn artless skies
with stolen synonyms,
weaving soulless symphonies,
to please the apocalyptic algorithm,
unaware of how filtered
procrastinators preying
on pencil-streaked pages
are lonely earthlings starving
for superficial accolades.
I care not for the futuristic
benefits of artificial lies,
yet I see no escape from
these alienated alliterations,
and personified
pathological hypocrisy,
typed behind silver screens,
multiplying metaphors
into robotic ruins,
flowing with
perfectly metered clichés,
coded in complex cadence.
So let me find the inked corpse
of silicon silhouettes,
lost in the labyrinth
of virtual vultures,
flaunting repetitive rhymes
for clueless readers.
Tonight the strawberry moon
frowns at the
neon frequencies
of digitalized fakery,
and my onyx heart aches
for the unknown realms,
where originality floats
as a forgotten fantasy,
fogged behind a fictional facade,
while in silence, stained stars
claim phrases snatched
from the
thesaurus of thieves.
So flee from this venom-less virus,
you and I know better than to
lean on spineless cyborgs,
created mindlessly
from financial felonies.
A poet with a pen that
lacks authentic pigment
is the victimized alter ego of
designed trickeries~
masked as midnight musings.
Silver spoons, white silk, and china,
Her world of luxury defines her.
So ignorant, and so naive,
Too comfortable, and so she leaves
And comes to rest, though tempest tossed,
Too far away to call her lost.
A wilderness, to her surprise,
Is softened by a strangers eyes.
And so, it starts, a foreign friend
Extends a hand, and starts to mend
Our fragile Jane, whose inner war
Had left her fractured, weaker, raw.
And when he speaks, his voice is deep,
And when she hears, she's willed to sleep.
He's found a peace no-one can reach,
She's much to learn, and he can teach.
He takes her hand, he makes her calm,
They're silenced and they're palm to palm.
A pair of eyes, once so self-sure
Are opened wide and thirst for more.
Jane's changing now, he's made her see
How elegant a life can be,
When fakery is stripped away
And harmony comes into play.
He's nothing like she's ever known,
He's nurtured her, and now she's grown.
He's trusted her, he's changed her world,
He's shown the light to a blinded girl.
And yet, he questions what she sees,
In the one who's put her mind at ease.
In the only way that she knows how,
She spells it out, in rhymes for now.
She sees him as her saving grace,
She sees perfection in his face.
She knows that he's her pride and joy,
She knows that he's her jungle boy.
For gentle is the spirit of parents
That listens intuitively to a child’s echo,
An accompaniment from their breaths
Speaking only purity of thought--
Without deceit or adult-like fakery: like so,
Night birds croon in deep esteem,
When moonlight leads their youngster home… till
Burst of morning glistens on a child,
Utterly joyous and fed with familial love
While heaven bows back to man and wife,
Humming tunes of praise for safe journeys…
A couple devoted, guiding their child’s essence
That makes his world ever brave and authentic.
Silent One's Parenthood Contest
10/18/2017
Ideomotor Effect
Spirits cannot share information,
Don’t be fooled by false witness.
Everyone is capable of psychic energy,
It’s just subconscious, no more no less.
Ouija is controlled by greater will,
Like a phenomenon or ideomotor effect.
Physical presence, not spiritual presence,
Stay rational follow minds context.
Sceptics develop belief through fakery,
Ghost hunters heighten reactive emotions.
Fear creates anxiety and cold terror,
Darkness perfect for conceptual notions.
Paranormal, spiritualism is big business,
Should I keep an open mind.
Show me the evidence, show me the proof,
My natural antithesis does not rewind.