Long Hellhole Poems
Long Hellhole Poems. Below are the most popular long Hellhole by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hellhole poems by poem length and keyword.
Forget International law we’re going to war
Bloodlet betrayal Israel settles an old score
Rational regret nope they’ve done it before
Democracy trumps theocracy don't be a bore
Ideology analogy rampant hypocrisy the core
Encore beast feasts on Middle East once more
Yanks a bellicose hero no gung ho Emperor Nero
Iran has how many nuke warheads ..yep ZERO
Know North Korea has at least sixty..so hey ho
Tehran has subverted & really perverted the Quran
Mistook a book which dearly above all is about love
Protests hushed and clearly crushed by an iron glove
Vulture that killed Persian culture and became Iran
Recurring theme yes yet another despicable regime
We get the gist of the tryst to enlist be a misogynist
Twist with that insatiable hunger to be a warmonger
Confessed annihilation dressed up as emancipation
Just like the Vietnamese wheeze an illegal invasion
Afghanistan and Pakistan but not always only Asian
Hark back to Iraq those weapons of mass destruction
Iran made up glory story crass Bush & Blair production
No compunction Trump’s voter slump needs a ruction
Shouting we did collar Khamenei the deadly scholar
Flouting drastic snide bully tactic plied again with pride
No better than Hezbollah raving craving every oil dollar
We holler you’re killing women & kids like the Ayatollah
Displaced races & harrowed faces can’t choose a side
Bow & kowtow right now or you’ve got nowhere to hide
Nethanyahu retinue continue with the US by their side
Permitted even after in Gaza they committed genocide
The West rules poor people just tools schools of mules
We’re not fools we know who drools over fossil fuels
But if there is a sliver of silver lining shining in the sky
Defining demise of the ersatz ex pat twa*s tax free lie
Goodbye to the whining rash brash flash hellhole Dubai!
Poems about Poets V
Edna St. Vincent Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
Downdraft
by Michael R. Burch
for Dylan Thomas
We feel rather than understand what he meant
as he reveals a shattered firmament
which before him never existed.
Here, there are no images gnarled and twisted
out of too many words,
but only flocks of white birds
wheeling and flying.
Here, as Time spins, reeling and dying,
the voice of a last gull
or perhaps some spirit no longer whole,
echoes its lonely madrigal
and we feel its strange pull
on the astonished soul.
O My Prodigal!
The vents of the sky, ripped asunder,
echo this wild, primal thunder—
now dying into undulations of vanishing wings . . .
and this voice which in haggard bleak rapture still somehow downward sings.
Why the Kid Gloves Came Off
by Michael R. Burch
for Lemuel Ibbotson
It's hard to be a man of taste
in such a waste:
hence the lambaste.
Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poetry, poems, write, writing, muse, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dylan Thomas, drink, drinking
He sat in the darkness, the room full of light,
And though it was midday, it felt like midnight.
The t.v. was on, the news kept on streaming,
A nightmare in blossom, he felt his mind screaming.
Inflation! A Virus! Wars! Nowhere to hide!
He opened the Good Book and opened it wide.
Feeling hopeless and lost in the news of the day,
Lost hope in the world, not losing his way.
. He now sought the wisdom, of Father so wise,
His heart turned from fear, and the father of lies.
"Surely" he mused "He Who parted the sea,
And provided the manna; can take care of me.
Jesus, please help me" Was all that he said.
He looked to the hope in the Word as he read.
For dread is a hellhole that leads down a spire,
And the whispering darkness of fear is a liar.
The hope that is found in the Truth and the Light
Will usher us onward though day become night.
The world is passing, and life fades away,
But God is as near as the words that we pray.
Written January 20, 2023
For the Fear Is Liar Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
The red sun cuts the gray sky like a dull knife
Morning, after fighting a long fireless night
We need to get to the Hole in the Wall
The Big Horn Mountains are cold in moonlight
We robbed a bank a couple days ago
A small dusty town in Johnson County
Traveled in circles for hours on end
Trying to elude the posse, looking for bounty
Now at the edge of a long narrow canyon
That leads to the Hole where we can hide
Dust in the distance is moving towards us
Time to saddle up, begin to ride
We have one cause, to escape the law
Many a time we've been shot and bled
Rustling cattle and robbing banks our call
If we're caught, we'll be hung or shot dead
Tonight we'll find safety in the hidden cabin
We'll rest with the money we just stole
Drink some whiskey and play some cards
Living life as an outlaw in this rocky hellhole
For Silent One's - Mamma Poetry Contest
Where is the love, Mamma?
Through broken Louvre blinds, you're ever watching
Rosary beads clicking prayers on repeat mode, uttering
Your plethora of Faith keeps me steadily striving
Though, frustrated when peace will be arriving.
Under cover of the midnight moon, hookers seducing
Shady men with illicit wares aggressively peddling
Of changing our situation, I'm forever idealizing.
Enduring every day's trauma, just surviving.
Seeking direction from above, when is enough enough?
Tell me, Mamma ~ Where is the love?
Collective immorality still existing.
A ticking clock morality meekly resisting
Corruption, greed, and deceit still abounding
This life where goodness seems to be drowning.
A depraved degradation of insanity still insisting,
Death, broken hearts, crime persisting
In the chaos, qualms never ceasing.
lawlessness above the muck and mire rising
At the kerbside, a holy man piously preaching
Should I turn my cheek, still beseeching
Amidst their plundering and their leeching?
NO !!
Enough is Enough ~ Where is the Love?
Beyond-repair abhorrence, I'm escaping.
Fervently, I'm hoping and praying.
Please God, Mamma, be safe while I'm gone
I'll be back for you before long
In the eerie darkness, emotions imploding
Sirens blaring, with the sound of guns exploding
My shallow breath quickening, turning back with throat thickening
All the while, I'm screaming
Where is the love?
Back through this hellhole, I'm rapidly racing
All through the panic, still hoping and praying
Please God, Mamma ~ Be Safe, Be Safe, Be Safe
Neon blue-red lights flickering and flashing.
Through my open front door, I'm madly dashing.
Looming through the haze, I hear them saying.
'Sorry, Miss, yet another random shooting
Your Mamma just got caught in the cross-firing.'
The last thing I hear is my own voice crying.
MAMMA ~ THERE IS NO LOVE! THERE IS NO LOVE!
woman, oh woman
even after your
constant, daily
treatment of abuse
I demonstrated
I could have been
your karate kid.
In your defense
did I not impulsively
stand tall between
two warring giants
me, a whippet of a kid
arms outstretched
like sabre swords
pleading don't hurt
her....
taking blows
meant for you.
You the one that
inflicted pain 24/7
twisting the
tender skin off
my arm flesh and
leaving huge welts
that stung like
scorpion hot chilies
the umpteen mountainous
goose-egg bumps
you planted on
my tiny forehead
with knuckles
constructed of iron steel.
I demonstrated
a compassionate heart
in dreadful moments,
woman, oh woman
where was your
loving heart
standing in as mother
to an abandoned child
now trapped in a
poor, blazing hellhole.
With fresh eyes anew
...my learned enlightenment
I now understand your
sole/soul's motivation was
the almighty dollar
... hard cash that never
came through for you.
Pure and simple ...
avaricious by nature
most certainly
not nurture and,
please excuse me
while I laugh
you claim
to be a
christian!
Hmm, I say
hypocritical
and evil
to the core.
A skeletal smirk at the school door -
the greeter-teacher; 50 years later,
I feel his gimlet eyes at my back,
that leer is now plugged with dirt,
yet it can still be traced in the brown water stains
of mottled toilet walls.
A female slave-unit named ‘Miss,’
She never did speak directly to a kid,
only through the thin lips of her personal intimidator,
a third level teacher who lubricated nerve endings.
I am ‘put right’ by a serial wrongdoer
with a goose steeping gait,
his guppy mouth is a blubbery hellhole.
Next,
a second-tier maniac with a penchant for angry rhetoric,
his large hands flay like windsails as they
slap books and heads.
A last Piscean reflection,
a teach sporting a fish-head grin
as he opens a school exit door for me
while I gladly leave forever.
They would all hate to be in a poem like this
so tightly packed together
like oily sardines choking on the phlegm
of what they could have aspired to,
could have been.
Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er . . . Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”?She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name . . .
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here?carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
Where the hell am I, for God's sake how did I get here, what have I done to deserve this un-humane madness. I knew what I was doing, I had complete control of myself. It wasn't the alcohol nor be it the pills that were prescribed to me for anxiety. It was me in a nutshell, because that's who I am and that's who I will always be. I knew exactly what I was doing, when I was doing it, and why I was doing what I had done. It was a simple little piece of art that fit me to a tee. This little but meaningful tattoo of a heart showed others who I was and that it was meant for others to give them hope in life. That's all it stood for and all it was meant for. So why ask I, have I been snatched from my home like a spider from its web on your wall and thrown into this hellhole like the spider in a jar and tortured by the likes of a rulers' law. The ink that I have stained permanently on my left forearm for others to see and feel comfort will always be a part of me, like it or not you damn foolish bigot. For heaven's sake...let me out of this hellhole Satin.
the ink on my arm
the devil didn't like it
it's for heaven's sake
Emirati Glitterati…sold their soul
All for an arty farty party so dull
Each troll got a very simple goal
Going for gold their Faustian role
Befriend astro knoll on pretend atoll
Look at me vanity but never a lull
Narcissist fantasy look like a doll
Maybe botox detox don't annul
Tax free captivity in goldfish bowl
Not like before well war takes its toll
Rakes get the shakes out of control
Save me plea on every single scroll
Fakes & flakes on the make must cull
Hard not to laugh at whole rigmarole
Tragic they chose their Arabic hellhole
Goodbye to Dubai magic back to Hull
Mull over becoming a prole on the dole
If there was a poll would say Tres Drole
Or on insular influencer peninsula "LOL"