Long Flogged Poems
Long Flogged Poems. Below are the most popular long Flogged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flogged poems by poem length and keyword.
Word challenge, early life challenges
I now look back at the insanity of going to an all girls school
where in reality the christian sister's teachings reflected a
harsh brutality of a group of women, dressed in black, carrying
votive candles of tempers filled with volcanity and fatality. I
mourn those past days, where my mentality took profanity
from their voices and urbanity masking their calling, as they flogged
me for my sins with belts and paddles striking my soul to the core,
my vitality. I may have morality sinned. Yes.Yes, I do concede
my inanity at scourging the sister's landscape, filled with their
mundanity of tenets. Yet the scars in their faces of humanity,
scars of pain left on me, where just a sad formality in their eyes
and teachings.
connie pachecho
1/22/17
I once was a farmer
I worked the land
I reaped the corn
With a scythe in my hand
I ploughed my furrow
I sowed my seed
I grew my crops
My family to feed
One day hot and thirsty
With the sun going down
I went for to drink
At the alehouse in town
As I was a drinking
There at the Inn
Without any warning
The press gang came in
So I was taken
I was taken so fast
And told that my future
Was before the mast
So in my fields
I no longer plough
Instead the wide ocean
I must plough now
From hauling on ropes
My hands are all torn
Sometimes I wish
I had never been born
Our captains a hard man
If one of us fails
He'll have us flogged
With a cat o' nine tails
When I climb the rigging
I oft times will find
I think of the family
That I left behind
One day I'll jump ship
And I'll stay on shore
I'll serve the Kings navy
Never no more
I'll return to my loved ones
I'll go back to the land
Once more I will reap
With my scythe in my hand
I've sailed the wide oceans
Seen Paris and Rome
But nothing compares
With my humble home
Denis Briggs
Raise the flag and let it fly high
On every mouth of joy they cry
File unto the street with dance of many styles
This is a special day for a mankind
Raise the sword in the air for the hero
For he conquered in many battles yet without shedding a drop of blood
Three scores and one salutes to the warrior of the desert and forests
For he won his wars beyond the tropics, temperate and savannahs
He is the god that made me
The hand that molded me
The stone that grilled me
The iron that crushed me
Yet the furnace that refined me
Give it to the lion whose roar tamed the beast in me
I love the running waters whose splashes soothe and bath me clean
Blessed be the hands that helped heal my wounds.
He is a brickman who laid me and mount me up
He watched me set, rise and take a shape as I age
He helped correct my mistakes
He's a blessing to me even when he was in rage.
Those rags you wore in the farm as you clear the shrubs
Yet I rocked my sweet conductor style in the city
When the wasp stung and the stumps tore your feet
I cream my "Stella pomade" and laced up my "koko shoe"
I know you flogged me in rage
But the love behind it was never hidden. Just to correct the craze breeding in my rib cage
You list those fine textured hair on you
Just to raise heads fit for crowns _ The Ades.
Yes I know you aren't perfect
But you give your best as human
Yes I know you didn't built mansions
Yet you raised us for the future
You may think you aren't the best
But, when we count our blessings, we count you twice
You are worth more than a million prize
You have our eternal respect
And beyond the graves we vow to love you still
Happy birthday to my beloved father.
Mr. J A Oloye
I love you Dad.
(FM CONCEPTUAL)
i wish I could take this pain away
looking down
feeling so cold
cos the world
keep getting colder
each sunset
it only get hot on calamities
so I look down
cos above is so cloudy
and polluted
always my pen bleed
cos humanity is dying
is so sad
too many heavy hearts
in places
feeling cold in a cold world
I feel this soul as
I wish I could take this pain away
I wish I could take this pain away
am not perfect yet
I can see the world
all I see is not pure
either are they perfect
their are so many miseries
with dark realities
this is so sad
no more respect for humanity
no more fear for life
in places
how can children suffer
how come we still have
a lot suffering people
while the world is richer
than our quest
no wonder too many
heart are heavy
no wonder their are too
many skeleton in too
many cupboard
cos when you truly
look at the world
you will cry for humanity
as always
I wish I could take this pain away
I wish I could take this pain away
we are free but in jailed
we have no chain on our neck
yet we are not far from slavery
we are not locked up
but we can't cross the boarder
we are dying always
but still no care
no more whip on our back
yet we get flogged by
the system
is there an escape root
cos all doors are closed
down on us
no wonder my pen bleed
no wonder too many heart
are always heavy
no wonder always
I wish I could take this pain away
Great American Literature
Our bookshelf groaned under the weight
of American Literature, and my mother was
principally a communist.
An American Tragedy, I read at fourteen,
and my fascination with A Bridge over San Louis Ray
was endless, and so it went on.
I joined the youth wing of the communist party
of Norway, it lasted a month; they kicked me out
I knew too much to be useful.
The plight of the poor concerns me, and I bristle when
seeing injustice, in short, I will fling my arms around
a horse that is about to be flogged, yet one doesn`t
need to be a communist for this. Kindness is not
political and doesn’t carry a flag, you have to pledge
allegiance to, a friendly smile will suffice.
I flogged myself to death
More harsh or worse
Than street stepped on Crystal Meth
An unsightly unholy mess
With a furrowed blank face
No resemblance to the human race
A basket case
You would cross a pot holed street to avoid
For fear eye contact would engage
The hollow of no tomorrow
Shell's burrow inside
Because they walk dead
Wake dead
Sleep is their only grace
Everything else is broken
And nothing can them back together again
Not even friend nor family
Nor self
For some poor soul's
Death is the last semblance of Health
The lost will only ever know
But not in this life
Sadly
Tears wash the pane on the window of the soul.
So how clean can one’s windowpane be?
When I see the future I have no goal.
I ache and wonder what’s to be.
The beauty that I enjoy and the glorious creation,
Cause me to faint and to falter in truth…
I can have no satisfaction or elation,
My walk it stumbles in abject uncouth.
To see what joy is deep with in,
Look past the image and beyond the mirror
Pass through the web of deception,
Walk quickly through the fog, reception clearer.
Can you see what I feel or feel what I see?
Can you touch deep with in, is it really me?
Can you taste the loss of what will never be?
Can you understand that there is no key?
I ponder the way of confusion and conclusion…
I wonder about reality and fiction…
There will never be what never was,
And what never was shall never be…
A loop, a conundrum, a mystery,
Stuck in a trap a hunter has built.
None so strong ever in history,
Bound and flogged, stranded in guilt.
None to follow, none to help,
None to lift, none to stand,
None to give, none to receive.
None to travel, none to stay…
I lift my chin and eyes to the sun,
My feet directed for no one.
I am alone and alone I will be,
In the end everything else is gone…
But, me…
Anne Bonny- Pirate
Anne Bonny preferred the pirate’s life
She turned her back on being a wife
And cleverly hid her womanhood
In buccaneer’s guise ignoring all good
She sailed the seas as gallantly as the rest
Sadistic and callous, she couldn’t care less
She swore and drank with the rest of the crew
Matching strength and skill with energy anew
One day a crew mate spotted her boobs
I’ll kill so I will, he was ready to abuse
Out came her cutlass as quick as a flash
The poor man had no-where to dash
He went overboard to his watery grave
She gleefully watched and gave him a wave
Her sword finesse had definitely paid off
No further hassles, her shipmates laid off
The captain was her friend and lover
who could want someone much tougher
Until one day after a successful quest
In jewels and bounty, they got the best
Too much rum and too much grog
Too drunk to fight, they’ll soon get flogged
A sloop came alongside to retrieve the cache
Anne and friend waded in for a bash
They battled bravely for more than an hour
Alas their fate proved rather dire
The reprisal had been very well fought
But not good enough, they were all caught
The bezzlers would suffer a horrible death
Free, the women went, relief in their breath
They were preggers you see so had a reprieve
Anne’s story rests here, it seems hard to believe
But her ending is still guessed at by all
Now her spirit rides, the waves as are her call
In a fun house called the great reset.
Grace and goodness are often flogged.
While confetti and saccharine accolades
are sprinkled over perfumed hogs.
A slanted house filled with greenies.
Forever bleating from private jets.
Sashaying across the continents.
With their gigantic carbon footprints.
A mirrored house of concocted panic.
Distorted masks sewn to the masses.
While privilege laughs from naked faces.
Inflated parties and mansions gated.
The media ogres with tongues of sludge
Blow dirty noses into the heart pond of God.
While the self-righteous, Maoist and Marxist.
Porpoise side by side with the devil's pod.
I wonder what the people thought
who did not know the prisoner's name;
so many men had staggered by
in public solitude and shame,
what was He more than other men
who had walked outside the walls to die,
and those with tears who followed Him--
do not most dead leave some who cry?
I wonder what the children thought,
who just a few short days before
had waved palm branches in the street,
crying, "Hosanna, to the Lord!"
Why was the kindest man they knew,
who understood their ways and needs,
bearing a cross through Jerusalem
like those who did unrighteous deeds.
I wonder what the soldiers thought
who rudely mocked a silent king;
how many flogged and tortured so
had never spoken anything?
Was only one of all who stood
on guard for Rome to watch Him die
able to say with contrite heart,
"This is God's Son; He did not lie."
I wonder what the women thought,
the ones who would not hide in fear
but followed even to the cross
to watch him die through veils of tears.
Did they not know that He could take
their dreams safely through death with Him
and on the third day rise again
triumphant over death and sin.
I wonder what we would have thought
in our self-righteous ignorance;
what role would you or I have played,
if we had known such circumstance?
Would I have been a Pharisee,
or just a stranger passing by,
Herod, Pilate, a Roman guard,
or a Mary on the day Christ died?
© Faye Lanham Gibson, 1987