Long God awful Poems
Long God awful Poems. Below are the most popular long God awful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long God awful poems by poem length and keyword.
Mum and the Bleeding Knees.
Jimmy was a good kid really. He never caused a fuss
about much of anything.
His Dad tolerated him and never bought him
a birthday present or Christmas present.
That sort of kindness was for the Women folk.
When Jimmy was 12 he got the shock of his life.
His father bought him a bike.
He was over the moon. He wanted to hug his Dad
but he soon learned that Alcoholics don’t hug.
Anyway the next Day Mum and Dad were having a
God awful fight in the kitchen so Jimmy took his bike
and got as far away as he could.
He rode that bike as fast as he could. Sadly he
rode a little too fast and hit a fallen tree that was
over the road. He went head over heels and landed
on his knees. After a few minutes he stood up only
to see blood running down his legs. Without a thought
he started running back home.
He got to the kitchen door and he saw his Mum sitting
down at the kitchen table crying her eyes out.
“What are you looking at? Oh God you are just like
your Father. Useless. I asked you a question. What are you
looking at?
I didn’t want to have you. I didn’t. I took all the pills
but noting worked. You came along anyway.
I was in labour for 24 hours.24 hours of pain. And now
look at you still causing me pain. Answer me.
Oh it doesn’t matter. You and your Father can go to hell
Did you hear me Go to Hell. I could have been a model.
I had the figure. But no I had to get pregnant to your loser
Father and had you. Don’t stand there crying or I’ll wack you
into next Sunday. Stop that crying or I’ll give you something
to cry about. What the hell is that on your legs.
It’s dripping on the floor.
Is that red paint? You little bastard. You are a mess.
I am done with you. You can clean yourself up.
“I fell off my bike and hurt my knees” sad Jimmy hiding his tears.
(Trigger SA)
To think we are related feels like a crime,
Knowing all those god awful things but doing no time,
Makes me feel sick to my stomach,
That you belly ache laugh free of your sentence,
Relatively speaking you are my brother,
But in my eyes,
Your truly nothing but a monster,
To you it's not age, or gender, as long as it fits your needs,
And has no control just fear and recoil under the covers,
Lawfully, Relatively you are my brother,
But every time I see you apart of me wants to put a bullet between your eyes,
You can't hurt anyone if your dead,
You can't control anyone if there's a bullet in your head,
To our mother,
You are my brother,
But to me I wish you were never born,
Because then,
I wouldn't have a brother Monster lurking in others beds,
And I wouldn't feel this sickness we call dread,
Your nothing but a monster,
to me your no brother,
Just souless creature lurking under covers.
We don't like what you're doing
Let alone what you have done
If you continue this quest to bring us to ruin
We'll blow you all to kingdom come
With a peace through strength solution
We ready up the tanks
As we bow our heads thanking Jesus
For blessing us this day
Did someone call for the World Police
To straighten out this mess
Here to beat you senseless
Knock around a few heads
Whether or not you know it
We know better than you
As we send our men into foreign laands
With our own brand of the god awful truth
With liberty and justice
We'll spank you into place
All the while with heads bowed
Continually saying grace
And once we've solved that problem
We'll move on to the next round
Set you up till we've had enough
Only to knock you all back down
These three words immensely tick me off:
"Women of color" sounds frightfully pejorative.
I get very angry, hot, offended and combative,
When I hear these god-awful words that bluff
And marginalize our beautiful and proud women
Of action, dedication, fairness, wit and elegance.
These intellectual and broad-shouldered women
Deserve our love, respect, recognition and reverence.
I hate and abhor this bumptious term "women of color"
With burning passion. Because I love my eloquent sisters
Assiduously. I respect and revere them. I want to honor
These wonderful queens by offering them exquisite flowers,
Golden crowns studded with diamonds, sapphires and rubies.
I'm not at all a happy camper when I hear these tertian words.
Our women of light and dark shades were christened by the breeze
Of an eternal spring; they're as precious as the proud songbirds.
Women are our mothers, sisters, aunts, wives and friends.
Without these ladies, life would be monotonous and tasteless.
Women are the beacons of our world and the helping hands,
Which carry men from the womb to the tomb that accepts no less.
P.S. This poem is dedicated to all reasonable and beautiful women who are united regardless of their color.
Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Where is my husband
please tell me where
he is where have you
taken him I want to know
everything about his
last laugh his last breath
is he still with us I begged
just let me take care of
you now there’s medical
supplies stack bedding
diapers oh why can’t I
care for him you’ve
moved him in such a
fragile state where is he
you tell me where he is
let me take care of him
it is his final hour for Christ
sake how dare you just sit
there wearing that smirk
on your face he doesn’t
have to go it alone is that
really what you want for him
knowing full well I’m here
sent only by god open your
heart allow him to get the
care he needs sit here my
dear he is no more you’re
having a god awful dream
that’s all the love of your
life has now left this world
rejoice with tears streaming
down my cheeks I collapse
oh father where have you
taken him he replied oh my
dear child such a great love
here to behold my dearest
beloved in your grief for you
are not alone the Holy Spirit
has taken him Home
[Away In A Manger - revisited]
Where Dave is the ranger
And Tom is the mayor
The saloon is open
And Milt gambles there
On high in the night sky
A star ’bove the church
The beacon of Soup Creek
To aid in the search
An old passing stranger
Had let it be heard
That a babe would be found
And his name was the word
Now, Mark was the sheriff
He closed the saloon
And Jenna, quite frankly
Wasn’t over the moon
She said find that baby
And find it real soon
My bar can’t be closed
While this night has a moon
In the church they found him
And o what a fright
That poor baby’s young face
Was smeared with Marmite
But Tom said Stand clear men
That God-awful pong
We thought was yeast extract…
It seems we were wrong
War
Is where
Nobody wins
And everybody sins
At the unbeautiful bar
War is hell on earth
At birth
God created humans
To be better than the lions
And the other nefarious predators
That’s a given
War transforms young men
And young women
Into absurd killers and murderers
War is criminal
War is suicidal
The truth hurts. Oh! Boy. Oh! Boy
Vile foragers oppress, attack, maim and destroy
Common sense is absent in wartime
No countries are at their prime
Where they harvest dead victims, casualties
Pains, sufferings, animosities and calamities
War is immoral
War is awful
War is for crazed gangsters
War is for ireful bouncers
Death comes early for numberless youngsters
Families are worrying, crying and mourning
And don’t care about vanity, flags and flowers
Families only care about the living
Love, peace, harmony and humanity
War is wasteful
War is baneful
War is for dreadful pit-bulls
War is for god-awful fools
Premature death is unacceptable and crazy
And cemeteries are plentiful and not empty
How sad and unnecessary to be so strong
And to die so early and so young
How sad and inhumane to be so wrong
And to fail flat to unite in order to sing a fine song
Life is precious on all sides
Intolerance chokes and arrogance divides
Diplomacy is the key to resolving our current differences
Dialogue is the password to open up countless entrances
To find common ground
Better and friendlier sound
War is never the equitable answer to the question
But love is the quintessentially perfect solution
To the human or mundane equation.
Copyright © February 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
It isn’t the incandescence that bothers me
It’s that anyway you spin the arrow,
Whatever goal or mission or path you undertake,
They’re all correct.
The full force of your efforts is all that matters.
A congress of pelicans came to dinner last night
While I swung scallops at the High Mistress.
The miasma! My asthma!
You’ve driven me right down Knucklehead Lane now.
My knee hurts. I should’ve taken Hertz and
Let the engine roar up into a God-awful thunder.
Jumping in and out of mosques.
Carrying news I can't interpret.
Practicing silliness under the cupboard,
Beside the space that has no name.
I am that space with a wicked haughtiness.
I am also however lofty I dare my balloon to rise,
Navigating my own slim spool.
Dr. Thumbopolis is ready for me now.
Time to stop writing.
Don’t dare bring this back to “incandescence.”
(You horrible hack.)
What bothers you if not the flooding light
Busting through baseboards, then?
Go on. Answer.
Now don't read this verse
If you think you're behind it.
(I concocted this poem,
Yet I should have resigned it.)
I just whipped out my keyboard
And I started to type.
The words, they came flowing!
(Are you buying this hype?)
See it's mean in its spirit
And cruel in its way --
But, man, I am a poet
with a god-awful day!
So I'm taking you down
And I'm shouting you out.
(While I'm giving you grief
I am hoping you pout.)
A most ethical guy
Has just sent me to packing --
He was feeling "conflicted."
(Might his courage be lacking?)
Oh, did that make you angry?
I am so sorry dude.
I warned you not to read it.
(Perhaps it's you who was rude?)
And as far as signs go
I have held this one high.
It's your fault you ignored it.
(Oh, yes: "Stop" means "goodbye!")
[Fiction Out West]
A mining town, among others, had been shut down the longest. Long before the mines closed, and all the towns followed. As the story goes; one night, a 10-year-old boy walks into a bar looking for his barmaid mom, and amid some bruhaha, he's accidentally shot dead. Enraged and unwilling to settle down, she's also shot dead by the same gunman--but her's was an act of murder. In his dark attire, he rides off and is never seen again. An odd thing occurred for ten years, there were gunfights, but no deaths since the boy and mom, and as they went on their way never to be seen again, plenty wondered but brushed it off as even-steven since there was peace after every incident--until they learned that they were 'god-awful' wrong.
*The opener of My Ghost Stories in my Short Stories, "Originally TITLED: Surreality"