Long Foist Poems
Long Foist Poems. Below are the most popular long Foist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Foist poems by poem length and keyword.
Can a man – all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it’s only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
mahayanist-theravadite
shintoist-zen-chan
agnostic-atheist
A…. is Great!
In the begining there was no VERB for him
In the end
from
"brahmana" Himalayas to the "asurya" Deccan
from
Ghazna and Kabul to the spent chugged mouth of the Ganges
where bloomed the Allah-Upanishad
One common language
One uncommon religion
One classless society
One mutually nourishing art
One scientific quest
and the sweet music of friendly disputation
within then the world’s vastest book and art collection
though knowingly
took to wife an Hindu princess
chose his prime counsellor from among the Brahmin élite
where within hearing distance lithesome nymphs bathed in scented milk
his victoriously wearied warrior limbs back from punitive expeditions
through Panipat Delhi Agra Punjab Gwalior Ajmer
Gujarat Bengal Sind Orissa Baluchistan Ahmadnagar Kashmir
Khandesh
to circumscribe the sub-continent
a Ceasar at the court of Fatehpur-Sikri
Akbar is ___!
Who would parse and complete or conclude the syllogism
For « One » who dared abolish the jiziyah
Note: Jalal ud-Din Muhammad Akbar (1542-1605), the third Mughal Emperor, edicted that muezzins should herald the rising of the sun by the call: Allah-u-Akbar!
The « jiziyah » , a word of Arabic origin, meaning a tax levied on non-Muslims who wished to conserve their own property, and imposed by the Moghul sovereigns – on and off - in India, was abolished by Akbar in his seventh year of accession to the throne.
©: T. Wignesan, March 13, 1992 (from the sequence/collection: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent")
If ever I had to have a country victim of pedophily : LXXXVI
[Note: 216,000 cases of pedophily, perpetrated by the clergy, have been recorded by the Catholic Church in France since 1950.]
If ever I had to have a country, would that it be a country where no infant boy or lad need ever fear of being the victim of pedophily
Let it also be a country that sent no Albuquerque or Vasco de Gama, Drake or Raleigh, Cortes nor Dupleix to undermine the « street arabs » and « orphaned » heathens under seal of the Papal authority
For, remember how I was persuaded to assume the rôle of Ministre d’État Plenipotenciary without Portfolio or Duty, the Saviour of down-trodden Womenkind (O, « A Daniel come to Judgement ! »),
for I’d turn Torquemeda, revive the Inquisition, the Ace of Papacy
Will I let fresh-cheeked choir boys nor novice sacristans in strict page-boy linen, candle or Cross in hand lisping psalms disappear in the dense stench-filled folds of priestly « soutanes » behind pillars under Roman arches or polished teak encrusted encasements their stifled cries for help choked through holy promiscuity
Nor will I let Henry the VIIIth behead his wives in the Tower for failing to provide him with a male heir nor let no Archbishop lie bleeding at the Cathedral at Canterbury nor no politicking murder
stain some Florentian cathedral to foist the House of Medeci
You guessed right alright, I’ll take over the Tower of London as my foremost torture dungeon, call out the Swiss helmeted Guards with their spears and while I keep puffing at the Havana cigars (a chest-full gift from Fidel Castro, in grateful acknowledgement of inestimable services rendered to soft-ball gals in shedding excess weight on the ground) and keep crying out « Habemus » Pope to drown out the squeals yells and screams issuing from pedophiles pierced by Swiss lances in the rears of millions of priests found guilty
You bet that’s what I’ll do even if the entire Order of the Malte forgot about the Crusades against the Turks and Saracens - and poor one-armed Cervantes – during the Battle of Lepanto just to crucify me
And so what even if I never ever had no country with orphaned infants and laddies to pity
© T. Wignesan, Paris – Octobre 14, 2021
As if a child should understand an adult’s muddle,
putrid oil slick puddle,
the dreadful pain we foist on wide-eyed offspring.
Robotic elders crush with rigid slabs of Portland censure whatever spark remains in those tiny rosebud cheeks before their prime.
Those innocents should never have to wrap their nascent minds around the wanton desecration of intertidal lakeland wetness gradients,
the callous douse of velvet purple algerita berries,
blighted by the stark timbre cloud forms
that recklessly pour bile on every genus.
The rug rats at our feet may never know the joys of sap-addicted sugar gliding nocturnal possums, whose acrobatic tree to tree mirror ball exploits mock Isaac Newton,
or the kinkajou of tail grip fame who flaunt their tan glow wooly fur coat in broad daylight,
or the dawn to dusk fennec fox, that doughty eagle owl and jackal dodger whose kissing cousin dens pockmark terracotta forests. But not alone in wider worlds are children being deprived.
A heartless milieu also asks our clutch and clan to dwell in
alloy girder mousetraps, those pale decor rat infested tumble downs gouged out by scrimp and scrape rust bucket caterpillars.
Beyond belief we tolerate the nick and hoist elevator,
that pressure cooker transit flight abduction of the harried wage slave parent,
those cotton garment dress code senseless
dragonfly stand-ins that hover in mid air.
There’s every chance we’ll leave our nursling’s ire to future bands of mutant stem cell rockers who are duty bound to sculpture rimshots meshed in suckling chimes,
when validating rawhide rattle chainsaw fret board anthems
at crowd mosher mud fests,
where rivers of apocalyptic visions burst the bank.
If only grown ups listened to that inner vocal quiver that we
may not yet have cast into plastic resin folly for the generations weaned in toxic smoke rooms,
we’d pollinate a luscious fairground acorn dotted garden with childhood zest its one and only buzzword.
A sweet treat gift with natural flavour pending,
eternal life for baby planet daisy chains of tender petal linkage,
who‘d finally experience pure clutter free environments,
an eco world that values new born thirst for natural realms
Because some troubles and faults left by last administration, the incumbent can try to restore or redress. But for some other questionable moves beyond recantation, the incumbent can only conduct limited control on their irreversible tracks or bring petty patches to their honeycombed surfaces so the detriment and jeopardy caused thereby can be diminished to the lowest possible level. Anyway, it seems to be faring much better, at least in terms of psychological consolation, to lock the barn door after the horse bolted than to get nothing recuperative done at all. Yes, they may deliver a lot of efforts to assuage home scars and mend fences with allies, but it will be a herculean task to minimize the negative influence of that dead hand and to make good on head starts lost in many fields over this period. Having freshly taken over a nation severely depleted due to a series of adverse factors including the abovementioned, though, the incumbent are in the mood to resort to immense currency watering for instant stimulation of internal economy without precautionary preview for future moment of reckoning; in the mood to tackle both major rivals simultaneously without worrying about spreading themselves too thin. They're still overestimating themselves, they're still overextending themselves. Around the arctic sky, strategic bombers project their dark wings onto angelic white snows, from Barents Sea to Alaska; Near the equator belt, flagrant fleets foist dazy turbidity upon placid streams, from the Strait of Malacca to Philippine oceanic trenches. The rifts between allies yet to recover, the ruptures between adversaries already widened. An all-around arm-wrestling between a few superpowers in which armament race and hi-tech competition oriented thereto take up quite a considerable portion will inevitably strike out massive involvement of many other countries. The third decade of the 21st century is now under way, gradually unfolding deontic deterioration, shifty shakes and perilous portent down the pike that are bound to overshadow the peace and prosperity of the entire human community. History will bear it out.
Murderous Sprees...
sinister Population Control, Sans Cosmic Creator?
Maybe,... I shudder to think
up the sleeve and ornate cufflink
of divine maker, a deliberate pitch
to foist *****sapien on brink
viz self destruction,
asper bedlam upon Earth that doth stink
a hellish conspiracy linkedin with tragedy
namely sinister predestined plan to shrink
terrestrial realm usurped by ink
king a pact of devilish destruction, demolition
denunciation, et cetera doth stoke
unslakable thirst of bloody drink
sucked out the flesh o' every body electric
as zombies and vampires quench
fifty plus shades of deep pink
drain liquid of life courtesy of chosen thugs
incognito golem aliens to kill and sink
civilization, until every person extinct
cold comfort (from this Yankee of mortal fate
lifelong resident of Keystone state),
one day extraterrestrials, (whom might
inhabit planet teeming with billions)
will excavate and then curate
a sorry lot of creatures, where bullets did eliminate
an arrogant, haughty, narcissistic...peoples
(a handful of exceptions to the contrary),
whose various tribes never adapted to integrate
sundry superficial differences among themselves
instead chose to allow, enable and provide
(Putin shill) collusion did willingly corroborate
with dopplegangers i.e. "FAKE" guardians
whose real not so impossible mission
to feign friendship, at heart..a pie rate
but sole outlook to eradicate
coercive, self immersive,
passive, et cetera species
and blithely earn blind trust, unwittingly mutate
into their likeness only to trump
pet gentlemen's agreement brittleness did break
as "FAKE" and devastate
democratic and constitutional compact
(utilizing bribery to swindle elite schools
so crazy rich parents could manipulate
levers of prestigious academia) to satiate
egos bragging about brilliant offspring
only to undermine the complex edifice
spoiling promising futures via golden gate
bridge of studious grads,
who exercised sweat o' their pate.
prosaic prologues bewitch
feeble minded scribe doth undertakes
tend toward lugubriousness ring tone
for goodness sake
echoing across,
a figurative lake woebegone, where quake
shutters latched storm windows,
clapped closed winter season didst make
physical environment lachrymose
analogous to imp pond durable dark lake
where sits inside secluded hut,
this fledgling author named Jake
a former cub (scout) at a loss
to string together an aria
tomb other nature and NOT FAKE,
sepulchral paeon to divine Gaea, Mother Earth
especially incorporating
mutisyllabic (sesquipedalian) words,
which exertion
on par with giving birth
(or so I guess),
a particularly heavily pregnant laden dearth
of help mates, doubling demonstrably
deadly duty devoid of mirth
totally tubular taxing toll,
an essentially unbearable
effort with bulging girth
whereat digestion consumes
latent mental ambition,
especially toasty warm near the hearth
which hitherto unknown to any reader
twas Xmas fabrication and fiction
no crime committed, nor animals harmed
in the making of diction
aery necessary entrapping unsuspecting intellect
to comprehend somber benediction
unless perchance one lone wolf
bait Oven English Major
with Westernization
topped off with a European
debunaire suave acculturation
even luckier if hypothetical personage
dips daintily into forays epicurean,
though careful,
and alert since church fathers
would frown on parsonage
whose natural born ardor,
a spiritual abduction
stealing austerity, complacency, and objection
toward forced irrational schemas
averse to abnegation
unfair imposition
to foist upon pruriant predilection
also impossible
to sequester arbitrary animal urges,
punishing call of the wild,
sowing seeds a beastial accusation
considered averse,
then imposition contrition!
For boys like me,
who think quitting is a better passport
to create dreams, remember Eisten.
For boys like me,
whose brains are fire & water, oceans are splashes of thoughts interwoven.
Its unbroken. unwritten. Unsecured.
Its carnal desires are sore throat hurts.
List your spiritual needs before the wind pilot light & song echoes into sound of time past.
Boys like me don't give up but fight on.
For boys like me,
whose fingers hold dreams daily. Separate yourself from the role the society foist in you to carry like shadow.
I have never give up from a quest to
be better that was why I made poetry a father to help gather my sanity always.
For those boys like me...
On your sisters bodies are another world created by your parents' sarcasm.
Boys like me don't live by that ideology.
For boys like me,
home is a prison yard like schools are but don't you speak ill of it but if you do,
Call yourself a brave man for that is the first step of becoming a man of purpose.
Find freedom & resourceful enterprises, men are men at the crossroad of loneliness and loveliness and liveliness.
Teach your tongue to hold death ransom
I have done that like a million times & never was I burn by it fierce spirit.
Boys like me find freedom and power.
For boys like me,
whose mind is to stop the growth of dead bodies around the cracked world,
Whose dreams are to build more schools that bridge ignorance & stupid monk,
For boys like me,
Whose fingers are learning to beat down our playground which has been turned into a graveyard; your eyes will not see darkness of this ancestry ancient lies told by our leaders to rule wickedly.
Boys like me are not lion running after survival.
For boys like me in their dreams
Words are only our weapon of warfare,
It last longer than time and survival,
Train yourself in the act of wordwars
And let your face be carved on the sky.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Refusing_Frustration.
admittely i am one treasonous cat
and people everywhere had better take note
i ain't no republican nor democrat
and i don't see any reason for phools to vote
listen up people,
politics are a plague perceived of by desperate men
folks who sold themselves out fora few sheckles or less
and i must confess Jefferson and Franklin, quite frankly, were all fu**ed up
they dictated this declaration that declared us free to pursue our independence
but in the parenthesis they lasciviously limited our liberties
then there are those conventions that follow conventions conceived of by phools
and i'd appreciate it if someone could explain their rules
because conventions are circuitous circuses minus three rings and decorum
a most useless and absurd forum
they do, however, contain clowns that pour out of tiny little cars
and reveal a sick society's scars
they are meetings for a faction of felonious freaks who foist phoolishness on phools in places like Philly that are simply silly
or elsewhere
as they run around willy nilly casting votes akin to a fishing rod aimed at a pitiful pond
well there ain't no flounder in Philly or anywhere else as far as i am concerned
whilst i have been more than twice burned
and methinks the the fishing really stinks
while their constituents constitute a confusing array of idiots who idealize con-artists
men and women who treat candidates like they are Hollywood stars
well if you ask me Jennifer Anniston would make a pretty good prez
says me
she's got the curves for congress, the sexiness for the senate
and tempting t*ts that would make her perfect for a titular head of state
now, have i stated my case to your satisfaction?
so you can stand in line to vote for one of these assh*les
alas as for me i'd rather vote for Jennifer or someone of her kind
i'm sick of your Clintons, Bushes and Bobby Doles
and take this for the Gospel as preached by the undersigned
(c) 2012....PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
DEMOCRAPS AND REPUBLICANTS
Admittedly I am one creatively crazy cat
And people everywhere better take note
I ain’t no Republican nor am I a democrat
And I don’t see any reason for me to vote
Listen people, politics are a plague perceived of by desperate men
Folks who sold themselves out for a few sheckles or less
And I must confess Jefferson and Franklin, quite frankly, were all f*cked up
They dictated this declaration that declares us free to pursue our independence
But in the parenthesis they lasciviously limit our liberties
Then there are those conventions that follow conventions conceived of by fools
And I’d appreciate it if someone could explain their rules
Because conventions are circuitous circuses minus three rings and decorum
They do, however, contain clowns that pour out of tiny little cars
And reveal the scars of a sick society
They are forums for a faction of felonious freaks who foist foolishness on those fools in places like Philly
As they run around willy nilly casting votes like a fishing rod aimed at a pitiful pond
Well there ain’t no flounder in Philly or elsewhere as far as I am concerned
While I have been more than twice burned
And methinks that the fishing really stinks
While their constituents constitute a confusing array of idiots who idealize con-artists
Men and women who treat candidates like Hollywood stars
Well if you ask me, Jennifer Anniston would make a pretty good prez
Says me
She’s got the curves for congress, the sexiness for the senate
And tempting t*ts that would make her perfect for a titular head of state
Now, have I stated my case to your satisfaction?
So you can stand in line to vote for one of these ass h*les
As for me I’d rather vote for Jennifer or someone of her kind
I’m sick of your Clintons, Kerrys and Bobby Doles
And take it for the Gospel as preached by the undersigned
© 2012….copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
Goddess of storm and dissidence, Lilith
begot by spurious legend and foolish myth
in the dark recesses of pastoral histories
where ancient mysteries
were defiled.
Illegitimate child.
Apollo's seed, by Roman Empire
inquisitional rules inquire, to her whereabouts
seeping fetid doubts, in the bones of the survivors.
Submission required by slave drivers,
And the Elite,
now on Wall Street.
Twenty five generations later,
they still hate her...
Yet,
I see her in me, shadows of malcontent,
when passed by for promotion
and toxic lotion is sold to keep us young.
I hear her forked tongue,
when my voice is ignored again,
when single mothers barely maintain
poverty existence led
as punishment for being
un-wed.
Burkas hide the bruises
and we’ve run out of excuses
why so many women are poor.
Our beloved men are sent to war
for corporate profits made
and taxes paid in blood and tears.
Yes I have fears.
I fear her rolling up through me, if they only knew me
and what I hold back, they would attack,
and mark me feminist bytch,
witch
and un-Christian.
Listen...
I hear her whisper from sister to brother
from father to mother, lover to lover...
I feel her emerging with Pele’s fire,
Aphrodite’s desire and Venus’s lust.
We must,
hear her.
She is part of us, the Mother’s curse,
foist in the never ending thirst for power
and dominance over all.
Eden’s free fall, orchestrated, ill-fated,
out-dated and reciprocated,
by us, still now, somehow.
The sacred dance beckons us in the second rush
of knowing... rivers flowing, ever to sea.
What will be, will be...
lost in the slipstream currents of the paradigm whore
who dares seek safe passage
to our shore.