Long Flagpole Poems
Long Flagpole Poems. Below are the most popular long Flagpole by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flagpole poems by poem length and keyword.
Gold is the color in the veins of that ore
and red is the color in the veins of war.
Bankers have bested alchemists of old
and found a way to turn blood into gold.
With a false flag attack invent a foe
to rally the nation around a flagpole.
Then ignite emotions till a vengeance flows
that sends the troops to die in foxholes.
In the business of war you fund foe and friend
with flows of equipment to wars without end.
Allies and enemies, they’re both the same,
destroy and replace is the name of the game.
Equip your armies with bombers and tanks
then deposit the proceeds into the banks.
Blow them all up and when that’s complete
order replacements from the corporate elite.
Those who protest can often be coaxed
to close their eyes and join in the hoax.
Money has power to eradicate proof
and nullify all indisputable truth.
Morals and loyalty have prices and range
that are traded like stocks on an exchange.
As the bribes go up ethics go down
and there’s never a lack of sellers around.
The wealthy think they’re a class of high priests
and the crumbs of their greed are some kind of feast.
They are held in the highest reverence and awe
by those hungry for power and morally poor.
So anxious are some to devour the scraps
they lick up the floor beneath their bootstraps.
There isn’t a lie that they would not eat
to stay in the grace of the corporate elite.
Those who seek justice are told that the law
is a remedy that’s so righteously pure
that it will imprison the vilest of men
to rectify evil committed by them.
Those who believe the rich go to jail
are lost in the pages of a fairy tale.
There’s no happy ending at the close of the book
all chapters are written and penned by the crooks.
The “enemy is” those who threaten the pork
devoured by Wall St. up in New York.
And if you want some bacon to put on your bread
you’d better tear all who oppose them to shreds.
Put boots on the ground with a sky full of drones
to slaughter resistance in the killing zones.
Let oil and blood flood into the streets
for the profit and pleasure of the corporate elite.
An old Ethiopian veteran of the love wars
once told a newlywed Kenyan kid:
If you want the infant marriage to survive,
make it to the golden years Mt. Kilimanjaro side
You gotta keep the giraffe standing up,
when the ecstasy mountain air gets thin at night
When you’re starting the climb,
don’t early reach
for the apex of a lovemaking climax
You gotta stay rock hard,
climbing the pleasure wall for the long haul —
Or don’t even shorty night come at all
Keep the flagpole reared tall;
because the minute your
testosterone stone levels fall,
you might as well go geld yourself
Premature burial ...
put the family jewels in a coffin box
Don’t bother to take off your pants,
might as well keep on your socks
Prepare to have plenty eunuch days
of abstinent nights
Too many failed erections
gonna get you shovels loads
of opposite sex dissatisfaction
Expect a bedroom eviction notice,
telling you to
get your droopy drawers packing
Frequent impotent performances,
gonna get her eyebrow curtains raised
So many flaccid phallic early encore excuses made
gonna get you tossed out of the bed,
and kicked downstairs onto the couch
Premature ejection is coming,
your woman’s been too long frustrated ...
doubts gon start creeping in:
Where you been,
who you seeing ...
Why you keep coming home
with your love sacs empty?
Those suspicions gon start stiffening:
She’s gonna wanna know
whose arms been keeping your bottom mind bent
You’re gonna wanna know
where in the world did your lost manhood get sent
If you don’t wanna lose access
to her intimate-starved heart,
you better start trying harder on keeping it hard
Learn to get a second wind of stamina,
too much soft effort gon get your love privilege barred
Premature pleasure aborted love
will have your armadillo snout soul dragging
Premature love not long enough
will have your elephant nose spirit sagging
Don’t depend on bottled passion,
pharmaceutical extended sex
Too many early evening elongated failures
gonna get you a premature ex
Complete Dependence
“God, the Master, The Holy of Israel, has this solemn counsel: "Your salvation requires you to turn back to me and stop your silly efforts to save yourselves. Your strength will come from settling down in complete dependence on me— The very thing you've been unwilling to do. You've said, 'Nothing doing! We'll rush off on horseback!' You'll rush off, all right! Just not far enough! You've said, 'We'll ride off on fast horses!' Do you think your pursuers ride old nags? Think again: A thousand of you will scatter before one attacker. Before a mere five you'll all run off. There'll be nothing left of you— a flagpole on a hill with no flag, a signpost on a roadside with the sign torn off." Isa 30:15-17 The Message
There are many who profess to serve God,
But rely on their own efforts to obey,
To form a right character
And secure salvation in their own way.
There’s no deep love of Christ in their hearts,
But they perform Christian duties anyway,
Thinking that by doing so they’ll gain heaven,
Because they’ve done the same always.
When Christ dwells in the heart
The heart is filled with His love;
There’s a joy of communion
With the Savior up above.
Self is forgotten in this communion;
The will of the Lord reigns.
Profession of Christ comes joyfully,
Without any formality or contrains.
Christ is trusted to change the character,
And repentance is sweet;
Pleadings for His work in the heart,
Each sincere soul does entreat.
Prayer and communion come naturally
And a song in the heart does stay,
Regardless of the circumstances,
That for most would dismay.
There’s sincerity of purpose
And upon Christ Complete Dependence.
Obedience comes naturally,
Rather than thoughts of compliance.
There’s no fear of failure
To reach the standards of heaven,
But faith in Christ’s robe of righteousness,
And salvation by Christ alone given.
© Copyright 2012 Maureen LeFanue
www.maureenlefanue.com
BUTT ME--
Oh Jazz Age of prosperity and dissipation
Jazz bands, bootleggers, raccoon coats
Bathtub gin, flappers, flagpole sitters recitations
Bootleggers, and marathon dancers boast
Butt me
Cigarettes, Cigars, Pipes, Smoke, Butt, Snuff,
Bone, Coffin nail, Cancer stick smokes
Looks Like the leaves are chopped up
And are made into forms, that can be smoked we choke
Butt me
Ahh! Unluck me Butt me
In a chance to chewed.
Be unrefused I just wanna smoke ya brew
Yeah! Ok, man light me
Hey, is it just me
For I can’t see
For the smoke in here
Hey, is it just me
Butt me
"Sorry man, I just wanted to smoke with ...man it’s real”
It’s not a joke I’m lit, I’m liken a beggar from Seville
Shredding cigar butts and roll
As the guitar and bass plays tolls
And the drums rolls
Butt me
Them in paper scraps to smoke
Cigarettes as them coffin nails
Got me lungs covered can’t inhale I smoke
Bound leaves called twists instill inhale
Butt me
In and sweetened products called plugs.
The widespread smoking in the Western set
Largely a 20th-century phenomenon set cutting a rug
Butt me I shall not resist the call
Merit a puff, a smoke a before
Nicotine to pick up discarded cigar butts,
Shred them, and roll them up
Given in to it a puff-a whiff
Butt me
As cigarrillos “little cigars” some may say calming does
Light up them sticks "Silent Generation,"
Bee's knees an older man in stellar clothes
A silver fox attractive, charming, and alluring class sensation
Ahh! Unluck me Butt me
In a chance to chewed.
Be unrefuted I just wanna smoke ya brew
Yeah! Ok, man light me
Hey, is it just me
For I can’t see
For the smoke in here
Hey, is it just me
Butt me
9/23/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
From anthology #1 SHASTA JAZZ Dedicated verse for Shasta Simms
Weeds and grass grow in the cracks
of sun-faded, crumbling pavement,
a parking lot that once was full
of stressed parents and cowboys nascent.
A grand sign over the entry
now is rotted two-thirds away,
this old piece of my childhood
truly has seen better days.
It was an old-west town once,
where we learned of the frontier,
now the totem pole is fallen down,
brings to my eye a sad tear.
The old Indian village, long gone,
is now just some concrete pads,
not the grand teepees I explored
back when I was just a lad.
The cavalry fort once rose proud,
a solid wall of rough-hewn logs,
now one rampart remains, broken,
sinking into a nearby bog.
It’s old flagpole still stands tall,
but Old Glory no longer flutters,
trash and graffiti lie about,
the whole place looks like a gutter.
And up at the bank where long ago
the ‘bandits’ always struck ad two,
I can recall how kids with cap guns
always ‘made’ them drop their loot.
Nearby is the big stable
where families could take trial rides,
the roof is gone, it’s been ten years
since any horse was inside.
Finally I see the arena
where rodeo riders ran wild,
wrestling steers, breaking a bronc,
clinging to a bull with style.
The old stands are half-collapsed,
the corral is full of small trees,
hard to believe it ever enrapt
young children in such revelry.
Some say it was P.C. parents
afraid of imaginary strife,
some say the Hollywood now
can’t make a western to save their life.
Others say that the owners died,
and their kids didn’t want to load,
whatever the reason, it was sad
the day the old-west town closed.
I hear that there are now big plans
to turn it all into a park,
a taxpayer-funded state debacle,
as such projects usually are.
They have their designs but we all
know what should really be done,
it should be rebuilt so that our kids
have a place to run ’round with cap guns.
The Yellow Dog
A skinny yellow dog walked 'round
Needin' to find some shade
The dusty little one street town
Was hot as God has made
He eyed the flagpole in the square
No shadow could he see
He raised his leg an' aimed it there
You ain't no help to me.
He laid down in the sand and dust
His chin upon his paw
Didn't move unless he must
Beat all he ever saw
He knew he'd have to move right nigh
The sun would bake his brain
He sighed and put his nose up high
An' sniffed the air for rain
The air was still an' desert dry
No water comin' soon
He headed for a dusty lie
Beneath the town saloon
He rested there with one eye shut
An' wondered how he'd eat
The garbage cans behind the hut
Don't last long in this heat
About that time the batwings swung
An' out walked Booger Red
He looked to see if low clouds hung
Then thought of gettin' fed
An' there he saw the yellow dog
Just squintin' with one eye
He said, "Ol' son, get off that log,
You'll starve there by an' by."
The dog had never had a friend
But somehow he just knew
This redhaired cowboy with the grin
Was somehow somethin' new
Booger swung up in the saddle
An' said, "Come foller me.
We'll get grub out where there's cattle,
An' then, young friend, we'll see."
For five years now that dog was here
No better friend could be
'Til Red was killed by a Longhorn steer -
No better friend than he
The yellow dog hung down his head
An' wandered back to town
He seems to know Booger is dead
As he searches around
Then he heads for the town saloon -
Becomes a watchful dog
He listens to hear one day soon
"Ol' son, get off that log."
May, 2016
For contest Weepy Quatrain. for Laura Loo
Bow down
when you hear the music
Stand up
when you hear the sound
Limber low
when you see the golden image
Babel Tower rise pyramid erect
like a flagpole
Toes arched high,
elbows bent with hand over heart
Eyes swaying side to side,
when the wavy cloth idol music start
Brow pride is palm raised like
battle eagles soaring in the sky
Stripe octave bars ... vocal fawn pull ups
follow the push up bra lung stars —
Lady Libber tease who lyrically demand bending knees
to have total loyalty ... no protest hiccups
Babylonian calisthenics,
moral free exercise of mind control
It’s the Caesar peace diet: Wait-loss edition
for every patriotic war starved soul
Babylonian calisthenics is robotic brain wave pathetic
Cardio wavy instructions will teach you
to know when to servile stand,
and when to grovel, beggarly bow
Know when to voluntarily sweat accept
a mandatory enlist,
give a dog tag vow ab crunch howl
Then wince the bomb music stop,
tap the mushroom bulge of your global warm belly
And ask yourself,
did you put enough prosthetic coin fat in the
Veteran of Foreign Wars lean pot?
If not, donate some more submissively supple blood
to the white surrender flag
Which is always scornfully used
as a Babel blues snot rag
So bow down
when you hear the death music
Stand up
when you hear the siren sound
The politically paid peace mourners
will tearfully tell you that you’re physically fit
to be buried in the sour ground
At the end of the day,
it's just cloth and dye.
At the end of the day,
it's personal preference.
Fifty stars representing states,
each one could highlight
historical atrocities.
Each one could highlight
technological ingenuity
The red and white
could easily resemble
the fight we continue today.
Black and white
still quoting an eye for an eye.
She's been about division
for quite sometime
but her earliest endeavor to
describe national policy
began with We the People
and we've struggled ever since
to make it stick.
At the end of the day,
you could lay it down as a rug,
disrespect its blood.
Roll all her tainted fibers
into one fabric and say
the whole of her is bad,
but at the heart of it,
She'll always be seen
flying flagpole high.
No matter how many times
she gets trampled,
No matter how many times
she seemingly does it to herself,
At the end of the day,
Her cloth represents
blood soaked uniforms
and families mourning
a son or a daughter
who didn't get a chance
to say that proper farewell.
The white, an always
washable purity
that allows some to step
on her and still
stand as freedom's bedrock.
The blue. Valor
and more where that came from.
At the end of the day,
it's just cloth and dye
representing Soldiers who died
That's why my feet will never
touch her until she's draped
over my coffin.
Lay it on the ground
or watch her dance in the wind
She's us. She's them.
She's saying We the People again.
The Avon Lady sold her some lipstick in the colour of plum
It was on special offer and she couldn't resist buying some
Then she bought a purple dress to match her purple lips
The purple pirate is about to find, he's really had his chips
He was swashing his buckle and both his eyes were crossed
As she squeezed his nuggets he admits she's the boss
She unzips her dress to reveal violet underwear
The pirate fell out of his hammock and banged his head on the chair
His mistress in dis dress couldn't believe her eyes
She removed his elephant thong and couldn't believe the size
It was like a flagpole but was lying at half mast
To raise it was a challenge if he failed he’d be aghast
She stood before the pirate in her purple underwear
He was really into boobies and boy has she got a pair
He stuck his head between them and she said ' Hey that's enough
He couldn't hear a word she said, her boobs acted like ear muffs
They caressed each other gently, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing
His todger was gigantic, but can he use it for a little more than peeing?
He deftly removed her panties and onto him she did climb
When they finally came together the explosion was sublime
My love you are a treasure and to you I did succumb
We will be together forever and I’ll always dress in plum
No other man can match your love and no other I will seek
You can be my purple pirate every day of every week
10th June 2014
Submitted to Colours Contest Sponsored By Shadow Hamilton
“Do not judge unless you would be judged,”
We are warned but we rarely comply,
And “treat others in ways that feel fair,”
Still we lack what God’s angels supply,
Believe justice can always be fudged
And think our lives are our own affair.
I think this is how judging God starts
So enamored with our own device
We forget our creator is there
And in loving us paid quite a price.
As He ransomed Death’s claim on our hearts
And thus won our release from despair.
The negation of debt leads the way
When we start finding fault with our God
His creation goes right out the door
Random chance is the doubter’s facade
That is heralded as cabaret
But in truth there’s not much to explore.
The dynamic of God that is real
Is God questions reflect on our soul,
If the universe simply exists
Then a flag can't be found on flagpole
And no reason to love the ideal.
Without hope, why would man raise his fists?
The real problem with judging our Lord
Is that we have no ground to stand on
For our gifting is only His Law
Not a scale that is adverse to con
Our worst punishments rendered untoward
And our courts filled with man-made hoopla!
For unhappiness brings out the worst
That a man’s heart is capable of
As we try to shift blame when we can
While still wearing our own bloodstained glove,
Tortured fate that my tale seems rehearsed,
And man’s suffering God’s only plan!
Brian Johnston
Aug 13, 2015