Long Harassed Poems
Long Harassed Poems. Below are the most popular long Harassed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Harassed poems by poem length and keyword.
The wind is too frail to carry across oceans
the echoes of distant bells,
too wayward to traverse the wild plains
to deliver wolves’ howls
and the hoots of owls,
too headstrong not to tussle with the storms
it passes, and thus lose its cargo
of muezzins’ calls and mermaids’ coos.
Jungles are jumbled with passages from rooftop
saxophonists’ solos,
valleys brim with the arias
it spirited away from piazzas,
and dropped heedless along the way.
The perfumes of rare books and hidden brooks
are lost too,
as are the aromas of faraway bazaars,
stranded on city streets,
harassed by exhaust fumes.
Snowflakes languishing in deserts,
petals flailing in glaciers,
the vibrations from a hundred fandangos,
the thunder of a million migrating hooves,
all were by the wind misplaced before
they could be deposited through my window.
To find them, I must travel forth.
Innocence dies in a world that's corrupt,
addicted to sin
and thrill, of the win;
where suppressed emotions spew and erupt.
Although naught is said:
innocence is dead.
And as children prepare for reality
trading fantasy dreams for hyperbole:
time chases its shadow.
An adolescent adrenaline rush,
sets you free at last.
No longer harassed,
you are the artist, and life is your brush.
Loving all you see,
your world looks pretty.
And yet, the strain of existence takes its toll
subconsciously, weighing the worth of your soul:
time chases its shadow.
As old age creeps like a thickening fog
your tongue tastes like dirt,
and your muscles hurt:
feeling outdated as a catalog.
A frustrated youth
you searched for the truth:
it's hard to believe you were once that naive.
And although it'll soon be time for you to leave:
it's doubtful anyone will notice or grieve.
Time chases its shadow
silently, on tiptoe.
Bookworm, loser, geek and nerd
Words that I have always heard
Young years turning into old
Hurtfulness that leaves me cold
Getting picked on-- always beaten
My happiness was lost and fleeting
Kicked and laughed at
Pushed and shoved
No one cared or showed me love
Never being picked on teams
Crushing all my precious dreams
I heard daily teachers pet
Never letting me forget
I was an outcast from day one
Since my school days have begun
Harassed in every single way
Tears of pain fell every day
Nobody would let me be
They thought this kind of cruelty
Wasn't rude or ignorant
But it was significant
Making me believe this image
Was something that I had to live with
Years have gone and now I'm grown
And I see adults have shown
Traits I thought I would not see
By people who should never be
Just as cruel and mean to me
All because I do not think
Doing drugs and having drinks
Is a way of having fun
So again I'm being shunned
Hoping I could look and find
Someone with morals like me
Who knows what I'm going through
Cause they were living that life too
(This is a fictional poem)
Last year my friend was being sexually harassed.
Every time his boss saw him, she pinched his ___.
She thought she'd get away with it because he was a man.
She intended to make him her love toy, that was her plan.
That perverted lady made my friend strip.
Every time they went on a business trip.
I decided to tell his wife what was going on.
She grabbed her mower but not to mow the lawn.
She ran the mower over that lady's face, it was the most horrible thing I'd ever seen.
Now that ***** makes the bride of frankenstein look like a beauty queen.
That lady may have or may not have deserved what she got.
If you're considering harassing my friend, you'd better not.
We loved the lollipops, cracker jacks, and Holloway candy sticks. We adored the chocolate-coated ice cream bars and the tootsie rolls.
We could not get enough of pop sickles, cool aids, and soda pops.
We sang a love song saying, “Ice cream, soda water, cream on top, tell me the name of your sweetheart”. We had the best-tasting cookies and cigarette candies that eyes had ever seen. We were just poor kids in America’s poorest state, but no kids were sweeter than us. Hot as fire, hassled and harassed by humidity and drops of sweat; but we were sweet, not from
our good-natured personalities but from the sweets that we ate.
Life was hard in my little Mississippi Delta town; But somewhere between hard work and chores; between feeding the chickens and the cows; between feeding the goats and the hogs; between watching TV and doing homework;
between the sun ups and the Sundowns; and between the dawn and the dust;
Yes, in between, we found time to play. Most times we were okay, didn’t go astray, and had lots of fun in the barns, playing in the hay.
We rolled rubber tires like we were driving fast cars; laughed out loud as we sucked whining balls. Money was always lacking, but we did our share of licking, chewing, and sucking the sweet stuff. We bought a lot for the few pennies, nickels, and dimes that we had. We could buy our treats cheaply back then. So, we did our best to stay sweet, chewing bubble gum filled with sugar. We didn’t have a care and learned how to share, and the sweet stuff was always there. 013008PSContest, Childlike Fun, Caren Krutsinger, 2P
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
I don't know how it happened
I tried to fight it
It was too powerful to resist
So sudden to even think of it
I felt the force
That was so powerful
My feet dragged
Unintentionally your lips smoothened
So sorry if you feel harassed
It was not on purpose
But I should admit it was so warm
I hope you felt it too
Did you feel the pulse -heartstrings?
Did you look into my eyes -the stories?
Did you feel the warmth -a kindled fire?
You think it's a child play -no frolic game
Step forward and close your eyes
It is a sign of yes
Lean forward I can't let you down
In these arms, can't you feel at home?
Somewhere in the air
Came a physical challenge for a wedded pair
“You on the ground
Commuting into town
Pick up the pace
Soon you will be pushing a basket with your case
That fact must be faced
Time to hold your beloved honey
Losing any time is not funny
Not many minutes to spare
I want to make you aware”
Looking up to the sky
With a wondering eye
Giving a sigh
Needing to find more from this cry
Only blue
Was shining true
Little pink added too
Continuing his walk
Being harassed by an invisible stalk
“I am telling you
It is not just the two
Of you
Remember that romantic vacation tour
Gazing to the moon on the shore
And the midnight lighted pool
When it was late seemed really cool
As the pedestrian followed his daily path
Getting sick hearing this eerie wrath
Reaching the destination
On time disregarding the mysterious voice’s presentation
Reported to the office and the bloody work
Sitting down outside was the image of a stork
‘Congratulations Dad’ was the message he saw
From his wife who went into contractions down at the mall
Shopping inside the little one’s boutique
Rushed by ambulance when situation was ready to peak
It was then the window cleaner looked inside
Making the sure the businessman was full with parental pride
Cigars were distributed
Acknowledgments attributed
Congrats made the rounds
And the new papa was happy his lifelong bride just dropped a couple hundred pounds
...He and a girl had gotten drunk,
and sure enough did slip outside,
both of them had been caught f-cking
in the stairs on a dorm’s north side.
The outrage brigades went crazy,
the snowflakes all just lost their sh-t,
claimed this woman couldn’t consent,
it was ‘rape,’ and he had done it!
That he himself was quite drunk too
didn’t matter that much you see,
that this woman raised no outcry
did not mean they should show mercy.
They ginned up their two-minute hate,
called him ‘sexist,’ ‘rapist’ and ‘scum,
demanded that he be fired
before he could 'hurt anyone.'
Harassed the fire department
with protests that dragged on for weeks,
spammed the city’s internet sites,
even interrupted a mayor’s speech.
And the media latched on it,
lied boldly, like they always do,
got a survivor to declared
she would not have gone if she knew.
Ed, obviously, was surprised,
but knew his team would stand by him,
yet when the politicians called
saw things were looking rather grim.
And when the mayor explained to him
that the city must protect itself,
he resigned to keep his pension,
cursing public servants to hell.
And now he can no longer save
good people when they might be hurt,
but the SJWs don’t care,
they cheered taking down ‘a monster.’
As I toss a silver coin into the mango contoured fountain, a lilac laden tone
that reeks of flower garden ether archly probes.
“What somersaults bewitch those forehead rivulets when synchronising waves of rhythmic thought?”
Psychic or clairvoyant
on this steamy summer’s day probing quizzically behind her crystal shades.
She really looked quite stunning in her black ink forest hat, and the green leek blouse that flopped upon an indigo blue denim skirt so worthy of those flash iconic catwalks.
Apple blossom cheeks and almond blushes rounding off the very essence of a bubbly new age sprite.
“What unfolds on expressions or the batting of an eyelid can reveal what’s beyond the sharpest mirror, pool or light.”
I meekly chimed in prim delay.
Our thoughts can often harvest dreamt-up pearls, ooze sweat from figment pores, while those inner sensors squeeze a harassed brain set to exude some magic flight bound lantern gem.
Fortunes can be made from noon day musing if one scratches deep enough on mystic brows.
Without an inkling or a cautionary whisper this daughter of dimensions from the eeriest beyond, phantom, spook, mirage, dropped out of sight.
A spotted pale blue purse is all that’s left from where I stood of this early bird ephemeral encounter.