Long Hordes Poems
Long Hordes Poems. Below are the most popular long Hordes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hordes poems by poem length and keyword.
Some strive with all their might to gain,
power to rule like Charlemagne.
Like those who built Babel’s tower,
they aim to establish their name.
Hordes strive for honor, wealth, and fame,
for them, life is like a big game.
They’ve fallen for the famous lie,
that wealth and fame bring happiness.
The wisest man that ever lived,
who enjoyed all that life could give.
Declared such pursuits vanity,
an aimless chasing of the wind.
God made humans to honor Him,
and serve their fellowmen with vim.
When we live life to serve ourselves,
we rob Him of what He is due.
It matters not what you achieve,
Or what accolades you receive.
If your name is not in God’s book
in heaven’s eyes, you are a crook.
So, do your best to earn success,
but use God’s gifts to serve and bless.
Let what He wills, your life control,
and you’ll enjoy a life that’s whole.
Today a youth of the world stood up,
Stood up against fat money cats,
And stared them down with words made of real,
Accountable ecological facts,
About how the fat future of money is ending,
A future without any trees,
How mass extinction is occurring today,
With cash from the coal power disease,
And she stood alone, shaking against hate,
Forcing fu***rs like Trump to run,
Back to his hordes of redneck support,
Of religious who think he’s “The One”,
Today a small girl, who hates crowds of people,
Stood alone and said what she said,
Demanding we all stand and give back her hope,
And I stood because she is our friend.
Freedom Lovers
Know you not…that freedom is not free.
In each genaration, work at this assiduously!
Poets cringe at the any poem politicked?
They prefer rainbows as a subject, it makes patriotic, poets, sick!
You don’t have to go on a journey very far away,
To know there’s a country where you cannot have your say
I ponder if you would really give a hoot?
If somebody put a muzzle on your snoot?
Unless you develop a heart of steal.
Liberty might be gone, that your heart, made of mush, cannot feel.
So don’t allow brainless hordes, to scare you to death
Fight for every freedom, till you’re very last poetic breath!
Stalwart Artz Burkhardt, a tackler of problems, it was right At the heart.. Of how as a professional he did his work; luminary.'
In the face of an epidemic; He did not shirk.' He organised
Fifteen cadavers to autopsy and re-search, the result of injections he set to work.' He knew the innocent bodies could not lie.' Yet
As he began, the 'drainstream media' however gave a strong
Try.' His findings of vascular damage in at least fourteen.'
Was disparaged and derided..There was no appetite it seems.' To search for veracity, the science; real truth so it
Was not published.' The guy was cancelled forsooth.) Then
(There was the accident?) That robbed him of life.' Though
At 79 he was quite strong, thats not denied now the results
Of his findings he put down they are stored ' R F K if you Access them.' You can face down the hordes.' Coupled with
Data from registerd elmbalmers, it should frame.? A better
Case against the invective of those, who would you defame!
The redness from the veins still stains the earth,
Bones stripped bare of flesh by ravenous ants,
In each of the souls, peace was much in dearth,
The redness from the veins still stains the earth,
That's what wars do, even before my birth.
We humans have brains, yet behave like plants.
The redness from the veins still stains the earth,
Bones stripped bare of flesh by ravenous ants.
The redness from the veins still stains the earth,
In each of the souls, peace was much in dearth,
That's what wars do, even before my birth.
We humans have brains, yet behave like plants,
Bones stripped bare of flesh by ravenous ants.
With all peace talks drowned by hordes of war chants.
When I was but a boy
in the small village of Cold Springs,
I lived near a cantankerous old witch.
At least, that's what the gossip implied she was.
Her name was Almeda Hamilton, and she was a hoarder.
Of course, we knew nothing of hoarders back then
and most everyone thought she was plum crazy.
She'd trap and skin groundhogs and squirrels,
salt their hides and stitch their raw pelts into fur coats.
Pew, you could smell her coming downwind for miles.
She lived off-road in a patch of trees
in a dilapidated cottage crammed with garbage.
The irony is, her father once owed the whole county,
and she was an heiress,
suffering from a severe phobia and mental problem.
Years back, or so the story goes,
her fiancée had left her at the altar,
but her father had built them that house,
and so, she stayed there a recluse.
It was rumored she'd buried hordes of cash,
and when she died, alone in her filth,
her property was potholed by fools trying to find it.
I confess, I felt sorry for her then, and still do,
for the lady got mistreated by the world,
and on its behalf, I apologize.
(Free Verse)
03/18/2020
Another billion people
were found somewhere yesterday,
millions of new humans
were discovered huddled together
at the back of Costco and Walmart stores.
America deniers have multiplied
until hardly any one sees America anymore,
however, the people keep appearing,
hordes of humans.
No one knew what to do with them
until a new make-believe
computerized world was created,
one so massive
that not one being would ever need
or want to actually meet or be with another.
That worked for a while
but then
billions more kept showing up
and they wanted our stuff,
even our make-believe stuff,
stuff not made in America.
The Infant won’t paint, cried out the Father;
he sensing an otherworldly genius
in the toddler’s eyes.
The painterly parent bought paper, acrylics,
oils, brushes, chalks, and crayons…
not even a finger painting emerged.
The child steadfastly refused to paint.
The father exclaimed:
“For the glory of God why not paint!”
His offspring turned away to suck his thumb.
Days past…years.
The child grew to be a sullen teenager.
He began to write poetry – and such woeful,
doleful poetry!
Exclamation marks rose up in heaven
as thick as bamboo forests.
His father read them, and his face grew ashen
with a sickly alarm.
The poems spoke of phantasmagorical visions,
hordes of screaming demons dismembered
herds of hapless humans.
Abysmal were the visions unleashed
from the boy’s erupting consciousness.
Presentiments flew up from the pages
as horrid as the blood-red dragons of Hades.
After reading his son’s latest works
the father exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, NEVER paint!”
He took the young man for long walks in the country,
forced him to join a local soccer team,
suggested a military career,
alas
the boy began to paint.
Attila, Hannibal, and Genghis Khan
Were comparing the many battles they'd won.
Hannibal boasted o'er the Alps he had coasted
On elephants and conquered the Romans.
Khan's hordes did maraud both at home and abroad
In places they'd ne'er make their home in.
When Attila's turn came, he said, "I'm to blame
For campaigns that make you look like babies.
Of God I'm the scourge, just like lint is to serge,
And I'll brook me no ifs, buts, or maybes.
How these guys (very unheroically) ended up:
Genghis Khan fell off his horse and died of his injuries; Attila died of a massive heart attack on his wedding night after a huge feast of celebration; and Hannibal died of suicide by poison.
"He won’t paint", cried out the Father
suspecting a flame of genius
in the toddler’s eyes.
The painterly parent bought paper, acrylics,
oils, brushes, chalks, and crayons,
not even a finger painting emerged.
The child steadfastly refused to paint.
The father pleaded:
“For the glory of God why not paint!”
His offspring only turned away
to suck a thumb.
Months past…years.
The child grew to be a sullen teenager.
He began to write poetry – and such woeful,
doleful poetry!
Exclamation marks rose up in heaven
as thick as bamboo forests.
His father read them, his face grew ashen
with a sickly alarm.
The poems spoke of phantasmagorical visions,
hordes of screaming demons, dismembered
herds of hapless humans.
Abysmal were the visions the boy unleashed
from his newly erupted consciousness.
Presentiments flew up from the pages
as horrid as the blood-red dragons of Hades.
Upon reading his son’s latest works
the father exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, NEVER paint!”
He took the young man for long walks in the country,
forced him to join a local soccer team,
suggested a military career,
alas
the boy began to paint.