Long Flogging Poems
Long Flogging Poems. Below are the most popular long Flogging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flogging poems by poem length and keyword.
Blemishes
My body’s mistakes
My wounds of disgrace
Injected by faith
In science and progress
Flogging myself with second-guesses
I have given myself away.
to uncaring men, pressed jackets
white jackets, packets of sympathy
baskets of fruit set upon the writing desk
in solitary confinement, padded walls.
haunted halls, bathroom stalls with locked doors.
Linoleum floors
Poor, poor pitiful me
Cherry pick my favourite reasons,
depending on the season
Why do the patterns keep repeating?
serve them up on a platter!
for delicate devouring
and just desserts
some things are generational.
inherited
bestowed
I cradle my worth.
In my own wretched hands
Once delicate
Here I stand.
Not stolid
Nor stoic
I am not put together.
Not sorted
I am apart.
Electrical currents running through the pieces,
stringing them together
Making a woman out of angst and energy
The sheer will of being.
I have nothing to live for
Only these words
Hospital gown flowing in my rage.
Windswept, like a mage
In the middle of casting a spell
A sorceress in distress, in peril
Fighting to remain
In the moment, present and tame
But wild fear presents itself at my feet.
The wolf is ready to eat.
I stay indoors to hide from the chase.
But at the end of the day
When night falls to the ground
I heard the call.
I wish to respond.
To howl back at the crack of dawn
Rolling in the sun with my wild baying, panting, praying
But I stay put.
I hold it back.
Inside my skin that cannot contain
My ancestral blood
This is the flood.
The flood
I drowned in the flood.
The wolf is not only animal.
But avatar
for gods too abstract to see
with the naked eye
It growls it snarls.
It bites my legs.
It promises peace.
as it gnaws on my pride
the alure of freedom,
teasing me to leave my comfort zones
knowing it will crunch my bones.
the first chance it gets.
when I trip over my intentions
into mud
face first
ruining my escape
I do not outrun the wolf.
I do not outsmart the gods.
I do not escape the flood.
I fall—
not like a heroine,
but like a relic dropped mid-ritual
mud in my mouth,
bones in the wolf’s grin
the spell unfinished
The door still locked.
the howl still inside me
rotting sweetly
like fruit on the desk
Sudden snakes in my brain
what a waste are my inaudible cries
mental welts I give myself
because I made you leave
now you hate me
screw my life
it's all just too hard to believe
Inaudibly I crumble and fall into the dirt
don't bury me, just leave me here
dead inside, inert
I died the day you left me
I'd never felt so hurt
Hope in the shape of Zoloft
just doesn't do the trick
I read our chats over and over
and the flogging bud of failure
knowing how much I lost
leaves me feeling sick
you said I was toxic maybe that's true
I only know
I've never loved anyone the way I love you
my mental mosh pit, my hodgepodge mind
I feel so much, but I'll never say
and the snakes in my brain
will probably never go away
The Caribbean sky instilled magical dreams in her soul’s
Safest, darkest, happiest, most exciting recesses.
Pink and orange jet streams of pure joy zooming across the sky.
Maggie, the fierce and furious pirate queen, sitting on deck
Stared into the sunrise of The Marigold Queen, pondering her crew.
Chuck, her first mate had been out of line yesterday flogging the cabin boy
Without hard evidence. She re-thought her decision to make him her successor.
Walk the plank at dawn. He had been compassionate toward others,
But for some reason, he had given no mercy to John, this new boy.
She saw a little frenzied activity under the seas this morning.
It looked like sharks had found something interesting.
What was it?
She stood up to get a closer look. Saw a blast of black blood stream,
A full-grown human leg and a pirate’s hand, but only for a second.
Turned when she heard a bit of laughter.
Looked into the eyes of Cabin Boy John.
“He was always doing me wrong,” the boy said.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
The pirate queen knew she had found her successor, in the form of a child.
“Not at all,” she said. “Let me show you how to read maps.”
John was a quick learner, and loved the sea which they both greatly admired.
For many years she showed him as much as she could
before she was feeble and tired.
Knowing one day, she would be the human cargo
that he would throw into the sea
And when she reached that time,
she was not disappointed in her prodigy.
Pirate recognizes pirate.
Witches and warlocks marching their truth
Pouring discarded spells on poor Sister Ruth
Laughing as they dance and run on her head.
Showing her what will happen when she is dead.
But I am a nun she yells, thinking it will stop their play.
Not realizing they are determined.to have fun today.
A ornery old ghost in the corner joins in on the fun.
Ebony bats in the belfry fly toward the sweet nun.
I am writing it down laughing loud like a loon.
When suddenly it gets quiet. The whole third grade room.
Mother Superior looking at my paper now.
I try to hide it but she is tough, this old sow.
I am in trouble big time. I am going to get a flogging.
I run home in the rain, and my paper is slogging.
Witches and warlocks and Sister Ruth. What was I thinking?
Why did I not smell her perfume? She is always stinking.
There comes the EAST, against the SOUTH
The WEST against the SOUTH
Again the NORTH, all against the SOUTH
Just to use, manipulate and enslave
our minds, One said music is all
I say
The growth of a country
Depends on the knowledge Of the youths
But money makes everything worthwhile
Them songs; Bursting Up the speakers
The knowledge birthed, connections for elevation
My money bossing up, Mi world
They call me
A LAZY GOLD DIGGER NO i am
A POET, I was a once a hustler
Here comes another, they said...
Laughter is everything, It keeps you entertained
I said; Laughter without, happiness and contentment
From within is Forgery, For social connection
Money makes it enduring and complete
Them jokes and movies, all over the NATION
With Global recognition
My people Living La vida loca (the crazy life)
La Bella vida (The beautiful life)
Amidst all hate and denials, they labelled us SCAMMERS
No we are messengers of Love, Oneness was our message.
da vida (life-giving) vida Feliz (happy life)
There came
The other, boosting of their. strengths and powers
I told them
It's not by power, neither myth but
Consistency without resistance
Money makes whole, It adds honor
We all will die one day, but not certain
Now they got
The military With armed forces, ARMY
Forcing, forging lies and flogging us to
Move their ways, my people
Still showing love, amidst the tortures
They call us vultures with cultures
No we are healers and seers
Which they keep seeking, Unknowingly
Silence and discernment was Our weapons
Their perception of us, Was a reflection of them.
All them wishes On us was to be their
Sheep for slaughter
Copycat to navigate the negative poles
Propelling the heroes, Within
The Sleeping LIONS, they awakened
Now My people roar for;
Absolute freedom, greatness comes from it
We SOUTHERNERS also deserve power
We want to own our resources
And Our Fundamental Human Rights
JUSTICE and FREEDOM IS THE SOUND
AS WE ROAR FOR GREATNESS!!
Beyond the wave-sacked,
lie the pockmarked dunes, heaps dug
by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, my blood kin
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers.
By a shoaling shale and monochrome spray
one brine-splattered small fry.
A boyhood caught in a swirling freshet,
he whales barefoot in the flounder,
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
a slippage of tugging surf.
Her demeanor soggy at last, mother
goads to be led to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea.
A toppled thermos and leftovers
scooped up and lugged away.
Windswept, the lingerers
trudge from the chilly churn,
while a soused and hectoring bay
records a working-class holiday.
Love does not rejoice in iniquity but rejoices in the truth
words taken from the bible that fires an arrow deep
We are living now in a world where people have departed from God
tolerance is needed with prayer and fasting
Socrates hits the key note in this where fascism takes control
When the debate is lost slander becomes the tool of losers
Many are so shortsighted blind when it comes to standing supporting sin
Do we look to the bright side of humanity
instruct ignorance springs to mind when it comes to fault
Under a veil where darkness forces its agenda
silencing the victims from having rights to an opinion
Every slave has become chained in words to chaos
deeds served as caring take away certain values
Living has little meaning when vanity takes the reins
hard hitting facts are hard to ignore in these bullies
Victorious individuals rise above the storms of life
because we all can see the burning anger is internally fused by hate
triggered by the deepest burning turmoil
even when forgiven it pushes so far beyond belief
In some cases in the end we are flogging a dead horse
so to speak good without judgement
I am a sinner forgive me my life's errors
we are all guilty of remaining quite at times
the time to speak is now and defend your birthright
no good comes out from evil ways
Life means I can talk to my friends and others,
When the untravelled sea fills with brothers,
Pleasure rushes the uninhabited areas we just don't sail,
And when we semiotically emit our meaning, we will prevail;
Freedom rings with resonance resounding and pervasive,
No need for more traditional others to be abrasive,
No bears or wolves, no chides, jibes, and no probes obtrusive,
Your identity is your construct, your speech is conclusive.
And my books! Alas my books. They proffer so such contentment,
A breadth of knowledge with no suggestions delinquent,
Nor are there any accusers to accost,
My mind and spirit which upon some can be lost,
Possibilities endless, bringing depth of character,
They glint and glide, swimming in grammar;
Multiple amounts of information councel my hesitation,
Brimming particulars restrain inhibition.
But oh my computer: How elegant is she!
Believing in my easy registrations as well as my errors to be;
Such possibilities, moulded so neatly into my space,
Without the communal glare of uniformity’s trace;
Personalised desktop, memory and input method,
It accepts me unquestioned with no staff or flogging rod;
I program to set the user interface alight,
With the functionality and procedures of the user’s plight.
However, I can also give myself my own system,
Personal software from my own inclination;
Knowing some designers do not have in hand,
The shortcuts that only I seem to understand;
A software engineer’s god complex should not surface,
The digital space is a privilege to influence, place;
I love determining the screen and its sounds,
Where freedom of knowledge and data abound.
But the gift of poetry delights and ignites,
Hurtful regressions lull in its sight;
Its credibility only ever stoops to concede,
That only your introversion may expression impede;
Language caressed, dignity nursed,
You never need to be at all reimbursed;
Its haters are silent for fear of rebuke,
As truth, imagination and love are its hook.
His time was almost done I hugged him
his arms remained dangled by his side
His body stiffened like a board
never within him ever seemed to be a loving chord
Was it his for own lack of self esteem that he found strength
through derision and sneering all his family endured
Persistent anger bullying put downs and teasing
several beatings over time I incurred
The pain of a flogging quickly disappeared
the constant mental bruising it hung around for many years
early days of nightmares then anxiety and depression
adulthood full of irrational fears followed many childhood tears
I wondered if my father was raised
by a father who treated him as my father treated me
never broke a long tradition to learn
the code of self love that could have set him free
My father espoused a strong atheistic view
it seemed from as early as I am able to recall
He was fixated with old age and dying
he'd say there's no hereafter no more life at all
And when he died I never shed a tear
never felt the pain of any grief
Many years before he died I'd found freedom through self love
released chains of past hardship and thus felt so much relief
I would like it to be different but as yet
for my father I've still not found real love
But I do send loving messages despite his disbelief in God
via the divine postie to where he is now residing happily above
Pink and My Buster Browns
My egg hatched north of the border, Pink is my name
I come from a proud line of egg- layers, poaching is my game
I’ve walked a mile of desert, crossing the Texas sand
I’m here to dip my spurs into the waters of the Rio Grande
I’ve come to quench a rumor that started on the Mexico side
A dandy there’s been crowing and winking his beady eyes
He’s got his reputation alright, he earned it long ago
But he hadn’t met this Road Island Red, squatting here in Mexico
They say he’s a genuine fighting Cock and fast with spur or wing
He’s been strutting with the egg-layers and pecking their chicken feed
He’s scratching around in Laredo, I hear it’s the common belief
Even crowing for the pullets, a double dealing chicken thief
I strut into the fouling yard, my eyes shifting around
I’ve come to pluck a chicken “A new rooster’s in town
The yard is quite and still, not a cackle can be heard
There’s no room in this chicken yard for another crowing bird
I see him fly from the roost and land heavy on the ground
He struts in small circles, as he side-eyes me up and down
The time is high noon and we're standing beak to beak
I look at that blood red comb and my legs start getting weak
His feathers ruffles on his neck, his spurs are gleaming white
His wings hang loose and ready, my heart’s not beating right
My beak starts to pucker in the shape of a pout
I’m flogging it back to Texas, I done chickened out
When I was ten years old I was given a little pink chicken for buying a pair
of Buster Brown Shoes for Easter. Even though everything was against him he lived and grew up to be a mean Road Island Red Rooster. He took
great pleasure in flogging all he could reach even to the point of devising a little trick by tossing a pebble into the air and running to fetch it in order to close the distance to make a strike. My Grandpa was always threatening to blow his head off. He finally jumped a dog over a watermelon rime and was dispatched.
Here’s to Pink, the Road Island Red Rooster