Long Harangue Poems
Long Harangue Poems. Below are the most popular long Harangue by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Harangue poems by poem length and keyword.
...He reformed the routing patriots,
formed a line atop a rise, Perrine’s Hill,
brought in General Knox and the artillery,
commanding the mass through sheer force of will.
He needed to buy time for the main force
to march on and join up in the battle,
the British kept coming, soon to attack,
convinced they still had the patriots rattled.
Before in battle the Redcoats just had
to flash their bayonets in the bright sun,
that was enough to scare Continentals
and assure them the battle was won.
But they were no longer facing such men,
the Americans had learned Europe’s game,
they did not flee at the sight of steel,
gave hard volleys once the foe was in range.
Britain’s field commander, General Cornwallis,
made several attacks to break up the line,
only to run into fire and rage,
with his Redcoats turned back every time.
They he tried to turn Washington’s left flank,
the boldest maneuver of the fight yet,
but the main force had come, and pushed forwards,
striking hard under young Lafayette.
Seeing there would be no quick victory
the British withdrew there forces back,
both armies in defensive positions,
the fight would become a long slugging match.
Soldiers hunkered down as across the fields
artillery thundered and cut loose,
both sides trying to break up the other,
their foe’s ranks they sought hard to reduce.
The heat was such that many of the men,
suffered and even died from heat stroke!
One man passed out and his wife manned his gun,
fighting on alongside all the blokes.
Then Washington sent Nathaniel Green
with artillery up towards Comb’s Hill,
a high position on the British left,
from which the guns could enfilade and kill.
The British saw their hopeless position,
and quickly began an ordered retreat,
marching north towards Clinton’s main force,
having blown their opportunity.
Washington saw his enemy leaving,
and sent Mad Anthony Wayne forward,
to harangue the British as they marched off,
cutting down men despite their good order.
And through the battle ended as a draw,
for the nation it was victory,
they’d kept the field in an open battle,
and matched the Redcoats in soldiery.
This changed the calculus of the whole war,
all knew battles would be more costly now,
England would no longer campaign in the north,
hoping for easier prey down south…
I received a re-invitation email this morning. A ‘come on, why don’t you want to?’ note that struck me as odd. See, I’ve been ‘tapped’ for a couple of final clubs at Yale. It can happen if you earn top grades and interact easily with male friends by day (the crew club scene is ol’ school patriarchal).
Three of my roommates have been tapped - for one thing or another. The upper-crust, traditional networks and secret societies are a huge part of why young men and women choose Ivy League schools.
I’m not talking about frats - I enjoy flippant misogyny as much as the next breasted-American and really, does “Yo bruh,” sloppy binge drinking, and sexual assault ever really get old? Yeah, it kind-of does.
And I’m not talking about the more open and popular ‘eating clubs’ - no - I’m on-about the elite social orders that enjoy a subversive and exclusive appeal.
Some students desperately want to be ‘IN’ and believe those memberships prove they’ve somehow ‘made it’. Let’s face it, someday - if you can’t actually earn it - that skull & bones handshake might open some doors.
I’ve attended a few meetings, meals, and parties in “tombs” (in upstairs libraries and houses) around New Haven, but I guess I’m just not a ‘joiner.’ Groucho Marx once said that he wouldn’t want to be a member of any club that would have someone like him as a member, maybe that’s it for me too.
Anyway, this harangue is sponsored by the glower that that silly email put on my face.
“What’s the matter?” Leeza asked, seeing my expression.
It reminded me of watching people suck-up and ‘social mountain climb’ to get into my grandmère’s (boring) circle. If your club is so exclusive (email sender), why on God’s confused earth would you want me?
Hey, I like parties, dances and hanging out with eskimos - but I'm a pre-med student and the time/value equation just doesn't stack up for me - I’ve got the M-CAT tests next summer and prepping for those has taken up my life.
It’s ironic though, how by day students at Yale go-on about ‘elitism’ - in stylized outrage - and then by night they strain to join these crew clubs.
.
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slang...
final clubs = elite clubs and secret societies
eskimos - really cool people
crew = elite
Formidable flourishing fiends...
harangue since landing
yours truly immersed
in a dream-like
fiercesome state of war,
not quite a dream
can be described
as a "hypnagogic state"
while virtually in Singapore,
where Katy Perry
namesake of a lion doth roar
noise amplified courtesy dissonance
while nine inch nails synthesize
scraping across chalk board
evoking discordant soundcloud
foo fighting beastie boys
comprising a quatuor.
Socked away within
cerebral nooks and crannies
house mailer daemons
inconveniencing yours truly
i.e. an Indus das scribe
hub bull mendicant
bullying jimmying,
jump starting, joy riding
junket at breakneck speed
disregarding dangerous signposts
warning reckless (heedless) highjackers
speeding stolen heavily
sedated body (mine)
slap happily, obliviously,
jauntily (devil may
care attitude) careering
across rubble strewn
bombed out stone age terrain
gunning engine like
there's no tomorrow
zipping past crumpled
suspended abridged abutment
jarring sole abducted,
bound and gagged one tramp (me)
hurling over edge of cliff
temporarily free of gravity,
(albeit an infinitesimal eye blink)
between life and death
rapidly descending in accordance
with laws of physics,
when suddenly motion stops
as if thee Earth stood still
freezing all life forms
held as if invisibly tethered,
when ghostly debut appearance
courtesy Rod Serling
rattles of his trademark narration
"...fifth dimension beyond
that which is known to man.
...This is the dimension of imagination."
I resort to aforementioned loose analogy
to approximate mental state of limbo,
asper...this man falling to Earth
minus parachute on par
with crash test dummy
an absent firmament
to feel securely grounded
held stock still,
when moments before plunging
pitched head over heels...
only to find this mortal,
either entering or exiting
somnambulant state
only groggily awaking
out of deep sleep
falling out of bed
singing hup bout poor lovely bones.
From "rare earth for aid" to blank check security guarantee, Zelensky recently made a series of blind concession to Trumpery, who trumpeted long and long for a "peace" deal with the invader. Everybody has a clear judgement that buckling to such crapola will wipe out all of Ukraine's previous resistance efforts and prostrate their strength in reserve. Although Zelensky didn't totally say yes to these absurd malarkeys, but he and his guys did waste their breath singing psalm for much of them and even waste time delving into them. Behaving so meekly before an actually unwelcome negotiator runs counter to the previous pluck against Russia's ongoing assaults and atrocities.
To keep their homeland intact from Russia's roughshod, Ukraine has fought for three years with bulky bleeding and mass martyrdom, in no way shall they give up their principle of sovereign integrity. At this juncture, when Putin is trying to play off the Pro-Ukraine camp against each other and set the situation in his favor through rigging Trumpery, Ukraine must assert its sovereignty over not just the territory, but all the extant resources. Indiscriminately humoring Trumpery's any cracky claims equates to surrendering to Putin; And losing courage to defy Trumpery's dirty discourses and deals equates to losing courage to defy Putin.
All the Ukrainians now need to hit the nail on the head: Produce and procure more weapons, found and field more fighting units, take more effective actions to shatter Russia's brash brutality as well as their US puppets' reverie. More over, let those puppets get this picture: Only by continuing to provide Ukraine with weapons, ammos and other necessary supports, are you entitled to speak upon the issues concerning the war, to tell Ukraine and its allies what to do, how to do in compliance with US's will, and to bring each concerned side together for talks. If not, you're no longer entitled to harangue this way as a superfluous kibitzer. Simply get lost and get a million miles away.
Form:
I walk in the shadow
I shore up my doubt, behind a loosely bound hope
Which in turn is propped up without foundation
Cynical of a life, at the mercy of luck
Collateral damage feeds my reservation
I shore up tomorrow with what I see today
Without conspiracy or investigation
I place trust in all that’s completely unfettered
For fear, I’m left to this present resignation
I shore up my life with whatever came before
Not hindsight or academic education
The oblivion traversed until I was born
Strings along primal echoes of information
I shore up my conscious with bliss and ignorance
Interspersed with indifference on occasion
It’s not I don’t care about suffering and death
Rather, I’m desensitised by their pervasion
I shore up my denial with an open mind
Which is nothing except raw interpretation
This planet spins correctly, even though tilted
Not by wishful thinking, but strange gravitation
I shore up my boredom, trying to fall asleep
When really tired, will attempt hibernation
Anything to forget this human condition
After remembering, I’m long past salvation
I shore up my heaven, by creating a hell
Balance looks more appealing, in an equation
Gaze upon purgatory, and share what I see
Not because I’m kind, it’s more my destination
I shore up my poem by claiming it’s my own
But in truth, it’s an open collaboration
I conspire with the musings of all that’s unclear
They dwell inside me, in flawless aberration
- - - - - - -
Horrid little raindrops
Hopping upon the ground
Hosing down my windows
Hoarding inside the clouds
Hanging around my head
Holding my spirit down
Haul your ass off elsewhere
It’s in the dictionary: disambiguate.
It reminds me of Bush’s misrememberate,
a word that always makes me hyperventilate
and sometimes even makes me discombobulate.
They’re words for those who want to circumambulate
proven facts. Politicians overcompensate
with sesquipedalians to overcompensate
for ideas they’d rather not disambiguate.
They also tiptoe as they circumambulate,
or say, “Oh, I guess I must misremeberate.
That liberal press just makes me discombobulate
and more than once it’s made me hyperventilate.”
It is not abnormal to hyperventilate
when one’s stumped and trying to overcompensate
while working so hard not to discombobulate,
worried that someone’s going to disambiguate
his harangue. Then he’ll claim to misrememberate,
or convolute the truth and circumambulate
it if he can. If he can’t circumambulate
embarrassing stuff, he might hyperventilate,
which sometimes causes him to misrememberate
the lies he’s spewed. So then he’ll overcompensate
and slip in some truth that might disambiguate
the ambiguity and discombobulate
his campaign. Then his hopes to discombobulate
the electorate and to circumambulate
the truth will be dashed. If folks disambiguate
his thoughts, all he can do is hyperventilate,
although, he doesn’t want to overcompensate
and say he’s been known to misrememberate.
The admission that he might misrememberate
could lead voters to think he’ll discombobulate
under pressure. He’d rather overcompensate
by making up stuff that will circumambulate
the simple truth and make you hyperventilate
and just too distracted to disambiguate.
Politicians overcompensate, misrememberate.
If you disambiguate, they’ll circumambulate,
discombobulate and then hyperventilate.
Rile up the rifling rowdies
at the Red River rawhide rally
A new Mustang Sally came rip-roaring muscling in
from the lower Staten Island end of Stalingrad
Treachery forged American made profit wad
Wearing a commie armband,
purporting to be party repping
concerned Russian citizens
Whose sickle and hammer banner
is the sacred “Right to Bear Arms”
This appears to be quite duplicitous foul,
but no Second Amendment harm
Nary a single peep tweet harangue itch heard,
no tick-ticking trump false alarm
Not one cricket sound of a silent chirped word
Rhetorical rebuttals are on a verbal snooze,
POTUS is on a Love Boat pirate smooze
Using Alexandrian charm
and Torshin money laundered ant mandibles,
oligarches buy a Republican bite-size piece
of the NRA capitalist farm
Those loopy lobby duped sons of guns
will sell the hangman’s rigor mortis rope
that they’ll soon be swinging from
Such a sad, illegal traffic plight —
Serve them ultra-nationals right
to be privately tricked in plain sight
Let a little Soviet savvy spit salve
gleam the brandishing barrels bright
Invitation extended to the “good old boys” club
Purchase credit secret blended ...
trigger shout
some Badlands ruble noise with a lead nose snub
Rowdy Ruskies in the midst
of an all-American association rifle rally
Such a strange, strange sight:
Those duped sons of the gun
butt kissing their Politburo Putin pal-lies
THE MONSTER YOU DREAD
i can’t handle rejection,
the unhug of perfection.
a piercing scream of perplexion —
my complexion streaked
grouted and piqued.
i backhanded you by
closing the splintered door,
vainglorious to the core —
now you can’t see the open sore.
you never uncovered, never looked,
never came to find me, i’m overlooked.
hiding beneath the bed, i’m the monster
you dread — tear-salted tongue, the martyr
with claws tearing at my skin - my fear
that she sips her coffee carelessly - oh dear...
the suicidal stripes down my cheeks sear
as my mother wanders through her year.
if only a look, a hug, a kind word spoken
to me would tear me from this sea forsaken —
this torrent, harangue of waves, haplessly
dashing, against heart and soul. if only a creak,
a scintilla of light would peek into
my claustrophobic space, saving me from me.
but i, only i...must resolve, unhinge the lock,
step out and see the clearing of the crock...
all alone on my private island - its unsecured dock.
i pretend it never mattered but carry the doom
within my flesh, my invisible childhood looms.
ready at turn to rear its misshapen head, its claws
digging into a buried past — all my flaws...
jealousy pops up in the middle of my joy
i stomp the frenetic beast, clawing its face.
i refuse to be that monster, that disgrace!
6/14/2019
Move me Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
The employee took out these pizzas and put them on desks at the hall. No sooner had the pizzas popped into the gofers' eyesights than seething salivas (imaginary or real) bursted out of their mouths, and subsequent scenes were a vivid illustration of how these mostly duplicitous gofers actually preferred adversaries' cold comfort to their own leader's hot air, exactly through their relinquishment of proper positions one after another in a short while. Miraculously, throughout the corridor, both up and down the stairs, all around the SCIF site, pervasive predominance was handed over by previous hustling, hectoring, harangue and huffishness to straightaway slurp, maundering, digression and dissipation.
Uptight mobile devices, boldly swayed and swirled by their respective handlers as flagrant confidentiality solicitors, shifted their universal characteristics from fussy flash and light to monotonous darkness and dormancy before slipping back into each pocket, together with carefully or cursorily recorded footages. The storm receded so fast that Hauptman Mutt Gaets could find favor with no timely niche to set in any redemptive steps. He turned to preparations for media slot instead, in hope of smoothing out the unanticipated anticlimax.
Form:
The Truck Driver
By Elton Camp
Bruce had a job he wasn’t wild about.
He drove a big truck on a regular route.
Then on one fine summer day,
He stopped at a café on the way.
Bruce was sitting at the bar on a stool
Minding his business as was his rule.
On a cup of strong coffee he did sip.
So he’d stay alert for the long trip.
From the parking lot came a roar.
The sound the waitress did abhor.
“It’s that horrible motorcycle gang.
As always, I’m in for a harangue.”
Into the room they stalked with a smirk.
Each one appeared to be a dirty jerk.
Their cursing and sneering was a disgrace.
Each had a scraggly beard covering his face.
“Hello, baby, you cute little miss.
This time, how about a big kiss?”
Bruce looked the thug in the eye.
“A little courtesy you should try.”
The thug threw the coffee in his face.
“A little man like you is a disgrace.”
Bruce just calmly wiped the coffee away.
He went out the door with nothing to say.
To the waitress he spit, “Not much of a man, is he?
With that, even a **** like you will have to agree.”
“He’s not a very good driver I’d have to say.
He just crushed ten motorcycles on his way.”