Long Griped Poems
Long Griped Poems. Below are the most popular long Griped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Griped poems by poem length and keyword.
SOP OF A SONGBIRD
At the labyrinth of life
Fear of its complex nature griped our heart
Like a stranger at a tripartite junction.
Worries came afterward , humping us high and dry with impossible mission
Life became humdrum in a fixed gyration
And like a gyro, our earth revolves
Sonorously , we are made to sing : the songs of the slaves
How can a fire burn without fuel and hands functions without bones
Then you can tell, how the life can function without divine faith
Now! Let the ear that hears hear
the songs of a humming birds
A song of hope , the tune of faith
The faith that fires fear
A true reflection of hope, treasures of our rich universe
And the saviour of mankind
From the chagrined and chary of life
Form:
'Twas time once again to saddle up for the annual world tour,
Another flying trip around the earth that they must again endure!
"I'm a-gittin' too old fer this flyin' business!" declared Prancer!
"That fat old man is sure gittin' a burden to tote!" exclaimed Dancer!
"The old man gets the treats - all we git is oats!" grumbled Vixen!
"And them lazy elves load the sleigh far too full!" griped Blitzen!
Donner complained about that upstart Rudolph with the shiny nose!
Dasher agreed, "Yeah! He's Santa's pet and that ever'one knows!"
Comet avowed, "Why don't that old poop let us fly the jet stream?"
"I'm quittin' after this ride!" said Cupid. "He just makes me steam!"
They complained about the cold weather and landing on slippery roofs,
Ice forming on their antlers and the fear of breaking their delicate hoofs!
Jouluupukki and the other elves waved and cheered as they flew away,
With sacks of dollies, trucks, bikes and coal overloaded on the sleigh!
The only thing the grumpy reindeer considered their greatest joys,
Was the privilege of delivering good cheer to all the little girls and boys!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
The man in the elevator pushed button number eight.
The car lurched; then it wouldn’t budge. He griped, “Oh, I’ll be late!”
One babbling freak, two clueless girls who smacked gum and played rap,
two men with body odor, and two hoodlums shared the trap.
He wished he had air freshener, nerve pills, earplugs, handcuffs.
He had to quell the urge to knock all seven on their duffs.
At last, the captives were set free. He raced to the eighth floor.
He’d missed the interview, and he was bummed out to the core.
He thought the day could get no worse; then back at home he saw
a beast relaxing in his chair, AKA mother-in-law.
His wife said, “Mama’s moving in, Dear. Isn’t that good news?”
He forced a tiny smile but wisely didn’t share his views.
She grouched, grumbled, griped and groaned.
We complained about her complaining.
She was a pain
Still we lugged her around to all family reunions
She could clear a good story off a picnic table in seconds
Replacing it with something dour, dank, disgusting and depressing
She is our great Aunt Constance Bee.
Here she comes now, watch the relatives scatter.
Same attitude, same gripes, same wheezing and sneezing.
She walks toward us one leg at a time, bearing down with a hard look.
You have to admit she is consistent, mother says.
She has enough consistencies to be predictive, actually.
On a good note, we know if we bring her, we do not have to stay forever.
The rest of them clap as we get up to leave;
which makes it easier to get out the door.
Which may be why we always bring Aunt Constance Bee.
“You must shut off your phone;
Place it into this case
Which we’ll lock up, until
You will exit this place.”
This was outside the theater
And, lo and behold,
No one griped, but all did
Just what they had been told.
It was strange, but real nice
Seeing not one lit screen
In the audience, members
Thrown off their routine.
No distractions from texters
Or people so bored
They must Google the news,
With politeness ignored.
So instead, all were focused,
The whole multitude,
On the actors, with some scenes
Performed in the nude.
That was likely the reason
No phones were allowed,
But I loved being part
Of an old no-tech crowd.
Man Dangling
The jump was from a 12 story building roof
Glass bursting out from intense heat
Below, flames enveloped each floor
Engulfed them, every room, fire and flame
An aluminum pole stood adjacent to the site
A ghost like image leaps in desperation
Fear motivates those covered in fear
Griped in panic with shaky hands
Grasping chance
12 stories down don’t really tell the tale
He climbed up to reach the pinnacle
14 stories high he stood alone
Too frightened to look down
He balanced on the cylindrical top
Narrow but firm for an awkward foot
Anchored on one worn out shoe
Torn laces and large hole in the sole
Held him in place against a rising wind
Not favoring him to win
As he watched his home burn down
Neighbor’s lost theirs as well
He swayed from side to side from way up there
Concrete held the pole in place
Shoe laces simply dangled and so did he
Contemplating everything the eye could see
On the pole, firmly in his place
SOP OF A SONGBIRD
At the labyrinth of life
Fear of its complex nature griped our heart
Like a stranger at a tripartite junction.
Worries came afterward , humping us high and dry with impossible mission
Life became humdrum in a fixed gyration
And like a gyro, our earth revolves
Sonorously , we are made to sing : the songs of the slaves
How can a fire burn without fuel and hands functions without bones
Then you can tell, how the life can function without divine faith
Now! Let the ear that hears hear
the songs of a humming birds
A song of hope , the tune of faith
The faith that fires fear
A true reflection of hope, treasures of our rich universe
And the saviour of mankind
From the chagrined and chary of life
Form:
“I hate people who lie”, she bemoaned,
While affixing her false eyelashes
And adjusting her augmented boobs
In the padded brasserie
“People just aren’t honest any more”, he cried
While eating salad off his wife’s plate
That she re-filled from the all you can eat
Salad bar that they ordered only one of
“What ever happened to telling the truth”, he asked
While mailing his tax forms
In which he claimed a charitable amount
For a gift he never gave
“Common courtesy is rare”, she quipped
While holding up four people in the express lane
With many more items
Than the sign states is allowed.
“Kids these days have no respect”, he griped
While sitting on the subway train
With women and elderly
Standing all around him.
I wonder why their complaints are all true?
I will tell you a sorrowful tale of an ancient time
when the turning years carved grooves into vinyl,
a time that changed everything and nothing.
He was a lad, a stripling, knobble kneed and roughly handled.
A youth with a common history told a thousand times
in any slum-clamped town.
A cultural weather mellowed him,
it gave the young a way to be poets, cynics, heedless pundits.
Rainbow children beguiled; they wed their minds
to a street corner weed, past its vows between them.
Then it was that mop haired songsters
again stirred his angry blood; he defied ruler and book,
forsook the hierarchies of the hard boiled,
long hair grew into words that shook as he danced
defying the soft shells of faceless egg men.
The boy drifted, still raw-boned, still trapped
by the rats in his head. Jail house beckoned;
bars griped his knuckles tight.
One night he became a storm in a windowless room.
They held his body down, beat it black and blue.
All he could think of as fists pounded broken ribs,
was if he yet lived, he would write it all out one day
yet still leave out the bad parts.
My son’s name is Dylan, was country raised
in the hills of Wyoming where cattle graze,
helped on the ranch, but never felt fulfilled,
hated his hometown as teens often will.
But he ‘did his time’ until graduation,
went to college clear across the nation,
said by the best companies he’d be employed,
that he’d die rather than be a cowboy.
Now obviously this didn’t please me,
but I waved it off, he was but nineteen,
he immersed into college as young folks do,
bought into all the leftist clap-trap to.
He though protesting would do the trick,
solve everything he found ‘problematic,’
started smoking weed, raved ’bout ‘the man,’
even griped to me that you can’t ‘own land.’
Wouldn’t celebrate Christmas when he came home,
kept spouting slogans that just make you groan,
I sent him to learn, but he just annoyed,
he’d be better off had he stayed a cowboy.
Then he graduated to the real world,
employers cared not for protesting churls,
only got hired by a coffee shop,
where he contracted the damn hipster rot.
Pretentious preening, loved the obscure,
wore the strange clothes to show he was ‘pure,’
disparaged most music, such a killjoy,
he though that was better than a cowboy?
Even that was not his greatest mistake,
Hipster progressed into full-blown snowflake!
If you didn’t conform you deserved hate,
which he wrote up in online click-bait.
Harassed advertisers to silence ‘bad’ views,
your freedom meant nothing, he knew ‘the truth,’
any awful tactic he would deploy,
hard to believe he’d ever been a cowboy.
But minds in their twenties often are blind,
and Dylan’s allies came for him in time,
he said a ‘wrong’ word, took out of context,
before he could speak up his career was wrecked.
With no options left, he traveled back here,
I put him to work riding with the steers,
his sadness was heavy, his pride devoid
at the thought of becoming a cowboy...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.