Long Impugn Poems
Long Impugn Poems. Below are the most popular long Impugn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Impugn poems by poem length and keyword.
Trijan refrain
Grief ascends on the rising moon
'neath frosted Winter skies
A lone wolf howls, wailing a rune
desperate for replies
Her mate has died, she must lament
beside him 'til last breath was spent
Parted in death
Parted in death
His body torn, tattered and rent
Grief ascsends on the rising moon
as thorns pricking my skin
There is sorrow in the wolf's tune
My emotions akin
To shadowed darkness we lay claim
Eyes cold without a spark or flame
Feeling such pain
Feeling such pain
Love, it's you I seek to defame
Grief ascends on the rising moon
Haunting my thoughts tonight
Who do I blame and dare impugn
with defiance and spite
I would caterwaul to the wind
if death's warrant I could rescind
His life restored
His life restored
No longer would I be chagrined
Is there anyone who can explain to me
why someone in the Soup community
would gripe about those on the lists,
ranting on with their pen in clenched fist?
How important can the lists possibly be
to set someone's nerves off so repeatedly.
Why dwell upon them with such negativity,
screeching and wailing like a banshee?
I don't know what the fuss is all about,
but I certainly don't see a reason to pout.
If their name is not on the lists, no doubt,
could be they're just jealous as all get out.
I don't care who writes the most poetry.
I don't join contests for people to notice me,
but why do they impugn poets unpleasantly?
Just ignore the lists and drink some Chablis.
If you are guilty of this, take a drink or two
and put an end to your nagging like a shrew.
I'm weary of your protests and hullabaloo,
squawking all around the site like a cuckoo.
Contest themes give poets a place to start
silly limericks, or something from the heart.
You disparage them, tearing them apart,
but a poet's lines are treasured works of art.
What's it to you if poets want to compete?
Are you afraid that you'd go down in defeat?
Instead of bahing like a sheep with each bleat,
turn your sour scorning into something sweet.
You get poem of the day or poem of the week.
How quick you are to label yours with a tweak,
not the mark of one who's humble and meek.
It's a bit hypocritical. That would be my critique.
Entering contests is a poet's choice, not a crime.
If there's a laddered list poets wish to climb,
it's not right for you to sound off or chime.
Why don't you just find some other pastime?
Hangovers do fester as belly grumbles pester just before noon
Jesters off their head after night on the tiles painting toon red
Close to fainting need a feed must get some sustenance soon
Shirking the headache lurking adored blackboard’s been read
No takeovers.. leftovers get makeovers morning and afternoon
Grazing stable biker at formica table amazing fable we croon
Not naff no faff or fuss caffs for all us riff raffs got street cred
Within we maybe a Lord or Lady not just bumpkin or buffoon
Before you got stubble or into a lot trouble bubble were fed
No fraud smorgasbord for flawed horde who applaud swoon
In the clover.. a pig in poo.. a cat with nip skip over the moon
Working class gets a VIP pass for a scoff then it is off to bed
PVC chairs in maroon & bottomless milky sugary tea a boon
Irking folks saying that the culture to which we are wed‘s dead
Won’t let become another ruin don’t impugn like Sting in Dune
Will last as hewn from the past for cast of many a loon and goon
Whichever combo folks bacon & eggs begs for a bit of fried bread
Tireless toast stacking yokes cracking the wireless a backing tune
Raiding yesteryear clips & dips in fading memory lane trips instead
Proustian rushes sprinkle gush us luxuriating in a lush laden lagoon
Savour as kids blushes twinkle with elderly who wrinkle like a prune
The history is not really a mystery as clearly is salary and calorie led
No tycoon flush on capitalist balloon spewn from a cliched cartoon
Flavour is not as posh or plush as that tosh we see over in the Med
Not cheesy or sleazy don’t tease me lampoon our cultural cocoon
Saviour for brave knave where good behaviour does favour fortune
Are batty if thrills of a patty or natty fatty spread fills you with dread
Park your ar*e ignore Worldly farce & take it easy in a Greasy Spoon
There was a man with integrity that nobody can impugn.
The man who I'm speaking of was Daniel Boone.
This man was truly a great pioneer.
He lived a long life, nearly 86 years.
People are amazed by the incredible feats that he did.
In 1756, he married Rebecca Bryan and had ten kids.
As a young man, he served with the British military during the French and Indian war.
In July of 1776, he rescued his daughter and two other girls from Indian captors.
Sadly, the Shawnees shot and killed his brother Ned.
They thought they shot Daniel and that he was dead.
Boone was elected to the Virginia Legislature in 1781.
During an Indian attack, he lost another brother and Israel, his son.
He founded the town of Boonesborough in Kentucky.
When it came to having this frontiersman, we were lucky.
Boone went on to live until 1820.
People owed this true hero plenty.
Telling "White Lies"
My mother got born November
thirteenth, nineteen hundred thirty five
within poverty stricken household
of Canarsie, Brooklyn, the youngest
(most mollycoddled) of four siblings,
experienced grinding poverty, no
matter maternal grandfather (Moishe
Kuritsky), a tailor he lacked drive
(and felt neutral about stitching
together gainful employment)
to support his family two parents +
remainder offspring, he helped sire
lacked positive role models, none the
less gumption taught her to strive
at tender age livid with rage to escape
caricature living poor, thus sought
employment when/wherever sheik hood
if necessary fibbed to survive
plus rash of healthy nurturing, and
absolute zero constraints, perhaps five
or thereabout years old attested
much later, suspected her papa did jive
with unspeakable improper behavior
(nobody dare discuss taboo issues),
yet intuition awoke within immoral
conclusion Harriet Kuritsky did arrive,
and perhaps resorted to stretching
the truth (fibbing a "white lie") the only
recourse available plied sweet innocence
knowing little or nothing about birds
feathering their nest, nor little about
buzzfeeding activity in beehive
naivete flirtatious coyness advantage worked,
I bet young thang did connive
and probably never did contemplate,
deliberate, generate and wrongdoing,
where mother of necessity spurred
angelic demureness strategy to contrive
securing bare necessities, hence fast
forward, when unsolicited advice given
to this sole son, or either sibling, (an older
& younger sister) tactics upbringing did deprive
ma mum of positive role models, hence
only blueprint to acquire essential needs
serendipitous series of unfortunate events
before Lemony Snicket did derive
school of hard knocks, (I do believe
formerly called Abraham Lincoln High)
rather than impugn, judge, revile, et cetera
kernels/nuggets of wisdom memory did revive
within my mind for rhyme, nor reason
blunt honesty, not always best policy
despite ten commandments
to husbands with many a wive.
Life lesson learned meant blurred line
between mendacity and truth
courtesy upbringing mommy dearest
if repeatedly drummed into me noggin
brutal honesty will bring nothing but bupkis,
or if you prefer the Yiddish spelling bobkes.
Road To Hell
A blind neglect
imbues our sleep
Where idle hides
a wound cut deep
The apathetic
coward reigns
when good intention
— rhymes with pain
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
Charlie’s Hand
"And when we meet in joy again
an Angel's welcome to befriend
As Heaven's Gate swings open wide
Saint Peter waiting just inside
With Charlie reaching out his hand
— to take us to the Promised Land"
(The First Book Of Prayers: March, 2026)
Piercing The Veil
The tip of your pen
its inkwell unleashed
to vanquish the darkness
where liars will sleep
The point of your spear
finds the darkest heart
To kill and impugn
— where depravity starts
(The New Room: March, 2026)
Wasteland
Staying a stranger
defines who you are
Living in darkness
— alone and afar
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
Walking The Line
An unfortunate truth ...
a fortuitous lie
The first calls you inward
— the second to die
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
I shall not envy the upstart's polished gait,
Or wish myself as old knights in diamonds
Hued to bamboozle familiar souls and eye,
Flattered by aping pals and ersatz blondes.
For swanky gait soon in quiet slumbers lies
In darkest gloom beyond men's urging eyes;
Where kowtowing lip trills no ego-oiling tune
To laud vain legs that all wise sense impugn.
Since old knights and their fabled crystals fall
Into gloomy abysms past all plagiarized cheer,
And their wide glows sheer shifting dreams be;
Which deft poet thereon docks his sailing soul?
As for manipulable eyes and souls of fan-stars,
And idol blondes cued to flatter clumsy knights;
Are not both simple wit and truth strictly averse
To all such visionless ego-trip and short-sights?
Give upstart parvenus and 'knights' whole pomp,
I'll claim the simple logic they so mulishly tromp!
After repeat defeats were strewn
The timing was most opportune
Started on an afternoon in June
Bazball did enthrall was a boon
Love new plans fans did croon
Bliss soaring sixes above festoon
Adoring this scoring monsoon
At the gall all pundits did swoon
Can’t impugn change of fortune
Batting assault & new era hewn
For 2 years were over the moon
Luxuriating in the Bazball lagoon
Magical mystical & mythical rune
Could stop Tests from dying soon
Harbinger of gunslinger’s saloon
Save cricket from its silver spoon
From results the cult couldn’t cocoon
Faults and default style won’t prune
Want to party like they’re in Cancun
Down under plunder burst the balloon
Stokes went from typhoon to buffoon
As the ECB and Key he did lampoon
Then Ben again did his team maroon
So it ends like any loony tune cartoon
As high noon for that wee Kiwi racoon
English Test tycoon to white ball goon
"That’s all folks” Baz’s bull finally spewn
My cloud is a drifty sort of cloud.
A kicked back, go-where-the-wind-blows, kind of cloud.
It’s an easy-going, shoes-off, feet-on-the-table, kind of a place.
If there were a door, it would be a revolving door.
First, because those are fun to play on, but also, because they’re always open:
come and go as you please.
That seems fitting for a place like my cloud.
Different ideas and perspectives are welcome.
On my cloud we debate for fun, and laugh together afterward.
My cloud has room for diverse perspectives and strongly held ideologies alike.
Don’t be afraid to disagree with me on my cloud.
But you need to know that on my cloud, I make the rules.
So let me lay them out for you:
You don’t get to come at me with false accusations.
You don’t get to impugn my integrity and tell me I’ve been dishonest.
You don’t get to make assumptions born of cynicism or insecurity.
I won’t tolerate THAT tone…you know the one.
The one that denotes absolutes
and leaves no room for anything else.
The one that says, “guilty until proven innocent…
with no chance to argue innocence.”
Don’t forget yourself, this is my cloud.
And these are the rules.
My cloud is a drifty sort of cloud.
A kicked back, go-where-the-wind-blows, kind of place.
But violate the rules and come after me on my own cloud,
and it will be a storm cloud:
a looming, block-out-the-sun, end-of-days, sort of place.
When my cloud darkens, you will not be invited to leave.
There will be no, “Hey you, get off my cloud.”
You will simply be thrown off without decorum.
It will be a hard shove, head-first through a revolving door.
It will be a much longer fall from my cloud
than from the saddle of your own holy high-horse.
But here's the silver-lining:
when you splatter below
there will be torrents of rain to cleanse my world of your stain.
You will be invisible in the blinding lightning
and mute in the deafening thunder.
You will be nothing.
So if you’re too weak to tolerate discussion,
if your only move is ad-hominem,
then take this advice:
find a different cloud.
This is my cloud.
06/05/15
At times, it does not feel sustainable,
but that’s the liar’s whisper in our ear.
for none of this would be obtainable
but for Your constant, loving presence here.
And so be off, deceiver, run along.
Perhaps you’ll find a time more opportune,
but know her Guardian is fierce and strong;
your wiles cannot His character impugn.
So cherishing the time which does remain,
we shall arise each morn to meet the day,
place trust in plans You sovereignly ordain
and bolstered by Your Spirit, joyful say:
“Come, Maranatha, Come”, with bated breath,
her bridegroom and her victor over death.