Long Jeer Poems
Long Jeer Poems. Below are the most popular long Jeer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jeer poems by poem length and keyword.
Ordinarily, a discriminatory
guardedness factors large what I air
in close confidential quarters
within therapist office bare
ring pocked marked soul
of this feigned cheer
full contemplative, introspective,
and ruminative despair
ring fellow, whose unfettered
stream of consciousness
(oxbow lakes included) doth endear
me, asper when posting private
psychological scars fair
lee calloused now, during mine
placid lake state of being oblivious
if online readers scowl and/or glare
at how emotional
exposure seems cavalier,
yet the medium of cyberspace
deafens me against hear
ring objectionable outbursts,
thus not impair
ring ambition to reveal
much more about myself unaware
if some gal or guy
smolders with jeer
ring refulsion, not care
ring in the least about
regarding my dear
re licked existence, more so,
when bane of adolescence
as a nerd with longhair
internalized verbal assaults,
I let fester and roil
beating a path to air
tight impenetrable redoubt,
now demolition paid for by medicare
expunging angst, which
severely bruised ego, a nightmare
courtesy being nay say,
non braying "scapegoat" ne'er dare
ring to fight back, no...
never went nuclear
well...eons ago
admit swiped at spouse
altercations (often) triggered,
when the missus did swear
at me anger brewed
from her own overbear
ring similar saga (wallflower)
silently suffering scare
tactics loosed from anti semitic barbs
both our lineage of Jewish here
reddit tee, though near
re a jot, sans religion
Haim Ginott bore ye,
foyer hall ready aware
tummy, and no qualms declare
ring atheism asthma prayer
full leitmotif dog bless ya mud ear!
The tales they told of Doris
In the hills of Tazeltoff
Are remembered by the others
Who would jeer and tease and scoff
It seemed that little Doris
Was a timid little thing
When trolls of young and old
Would always laugh and run and sing
She hid behind the bushes
When other trolls would call
But then, one day they tricked her
And they tossed to her, their ball
And as she ran into the glen
How they were all amazed
For where she trod, now mushrooms grew!
Instantly! They praised
They saw that she had magic feet
Though all she knew was shame
She felt that being different
For her shyness, was to blame
Realizing she was special
As the trolls loved mushroom stew!
Doris learned there was a place for all
A place for me and you
Celebrating Diversity
Doris, the Magic Troll
Elusive pursuit endeavoring to craft a great poem
I (analogous to a rolling stone)
confess, no deliberate intent, yet often wonder
what spurs me to nudge, goad, coax, et cetera
semblance of reasonable poetic rhyme
despite modesty regarding
ably linkedin words for others to ponder
more often than not experiencing nonresponder,
nevertheless share mine writing
with folks cyberspace out yonder
or aliens occupying
beyond the pale of outer limits
amidst the twilight zone,
where dark shadows
looming near the edge of night
hint of spooky forebodings.
Without lofty literary ambitions,
more so stream
of consciousness abandonment,
yours truly rests content
to cobble, gamble, noodle... courtesy
swifty tailored stylishly harried element
mild mannered modest gent
bumbling along boulevard of
broken (po' whet) dreams intent
far less superman than Clark Kent
exercising mental cogs and wheels meant
merely to liberate momentary overconfident
zealous spontaneous inspiration,
albeit ordinarily quiescent
ex post facto concluding
equals time most salient
direct object lesson learned
lame, insipid, feeble resultant
effort generates undercurrent
aghast how rapid
(think lightspeed) went.
Yours truly his own worst critic ad aware
how avast mein kampf replete with bare
inducent to tap into latent fledgling clear
propensity to express creatively, I declare
bonafide potential to join pantheon excelsior
reserved for established authors within their
respective canon, genre, league...,
nonetheless an obvious flair
seemed evident perhaps coalesced
when in utero biological gear
yielded wiggly, ugly, scrawny,
quirky Harris heir
(sole son and second of three offspring)
an older and younger sister,
which introverted brother bullies
did constantly jeer
token scapegoat suffered
one after another kingly leer
pushing psychological state near
precipice off into dock side of moon,
who sought
(wharf far art grim reaper) to pier
without naked qualm evincing
one very bony rear
without sympathy for the devil
merely spells severely
pockmarked psyche therefore
impossible mission to set tattered self esteem
tacked toward in opposite direct where
dark shadow of doubt doth not veer
me into apathetic, horrific, pathetic...
suicidal mental state of yesteryear.
Remembering fear.
The sweat of retreat when one can never seem
to run far enough or fast enough.
Remembering the Christian children’s chants.
Devil worshiper, godless,
the taunting hell they saw for those
not blessed to be themselves.
The jeer of the crowd for those not part.
The mob mentality of the Christian heart.
The damn you if your not me to a girl of eight
defies any memory to obliterate.
Breathless behind
a hollow core door gasping with tears
a heart pounding
with the hate thrown the Jew bated.
Was this even an inkling of what Tanta felt
as the German’s knocked down the door.
The marks on her skin brought memories
of trains and camps and more.
And, here in America land of the free
in a place which prides itself on Christianity
remembering the fear at eight, at twelve
and at eighteen every Christmas in between.
Don’t tell, don’t speak, don’t let them know
your different from them…………..
different hated, taunted, chased and if possible erased.
Remember the fear the mob, the gang, the chanting group
when you stand, and pray, when you say Amen.
Remember Christ was a Jew and what was done to him.
Pray that this is never done to another child again.
*Tanta means Aunt in Yiddish...the combination of German & Hebrew that most Jewish folk
speak. Yes this is me and yes half my family is Jewish. BUT I am not considered Jewish by
Jews. Judaism is a matrilineal religion.
I went on a bike ride, I was hyper-alert
I had just emerged from the mental ward
I thought I was despised, felt wounded and hurt
But I lied to the doctor to get out the door
For the first miles I felt the wind in my hair
Then a car drove by, I heard a loud jeer
It was just a dog with his nose in the air
I had mistaken my species, all was clear.
Two miles on, an ambush from the side
A loud sneer, I felt sudden stress
On closer look, a Downs Syndrome guy
I let out my breath, stress got less.
Got into Kingston, car passed, a shout
"Go Home" it said, and then passed by
Was this true, should I block it out?
Why riff off a chord, if the chord don't apply?
Ten miles later, a hand reached out of a car
Tried to push me off the road
They failed, but threw my mind's door ajar
Stress climbed, I felt I would explode.
I crested a hill, a view opened wide
Then I started to think, was it all the same?
Why get anxious, on this scenic ride?
My illusions and theirs - it' was all a game.
March 5 Scripture Meditations Based on 2Samuel 5-8
Key Verse – 2Samuel 7:11 And as since the time that I commanded judges to be over my people Israel, and have caused thee to rest from all thine enemies…
MY GOD, THANK YOU FOR CAUSING ME TO REST
Thank You for causing me to rest in Your peacefulness
When I’m overwhelmed with pressures’ heaviness
And filled by vexations’ irritableness---
I need Your presence of divine blissfulness.
Thank You for causing me to rest in Your instruction
When I’m gripped with persecution
And attacked by temptation---
I need Your deliverance of saving restoration.
Thank You for causing me to rest in Your authority
When I’m confused with doubts as well as falsity
And troubled by uncertainty---
I need Your assurance of steadfast security.
Thank You for causing me to rest in Your might
When I’m debilitated with sickness’ blight
And weakened by sin’s infectious bite---
I need Your touch of healing right.
Thank You for causing me to rest in Your comfort
When I’m saddened with vain results in my effort
And depressed by jeer instead of cheer consort---
I need Your compassion of caring resort.
Thank You for causing me to rest in Your merriment
When I’m humiliated with hypocrisy’s discontentment
And abased by self-glorification’s entanglement---
I need Your pardon of joyful fulfillment.
March 5, 2022
Well, yes, all the gruff beknown deny,
and ones’ own lifting oar hear mighty bombs burst
whilst autocrat hymn—
“Let cristned bombs pelt from the hea’enly sky”.
Awe! Does one shy in cheer, yes, forgo the indelible?
Or do one jeer? Cry?
Art one silent amidst nationalists amok?
E’en when in lifting ones’ own nudging oar,
yes, do hear mighty bombs burst whilst foreign babies cry?
Do one in secret loathe, yes, the moms
who as cristned bombs pelts sing nippers’ lullabies?
Awe! As the mighty cristned bombs pelts lands afar
does one disregard, yes, when mites, one's own, sever
the wings of butterflies
to garner affection so denied?
Awe, here lies, yes, barbarism in disguise…
In green fields, where daisies bloom,
Beneath the vast and arching sky,
There dwells a folk, with laughter's plume,
Whose lives in simple toil imply.
Calloused hands, sun-kissed, tanned, and worn,
They tend the earth from early morn.
Their clothes are plain, their boots unshined,
et in their hearts, a warmth divine.
They draw from soil, from seed, from rain,
A bounty that the city folk
Might never understand or know,
The wealth that grows beneath the plow.
By honest toil and simple joys,
They live, they love, they laugh, they thrive.
The soft hum of the land's own voice,
In their daily rounds, they find their prize.
The endless sky, a canvas blue,
Witnesses their dawn to dusk parade.
In rhythm with the turning earth,
They celebrate each season's birth.
Sunflowers stretch to kiss the sun,
While wildflowers twine where streams do run.
They know each tree, each leaf, each bough,
As if deciphering life's own vow.
The robin's song, the thrush's trill,
Compose the symphony they cherish.
No note is lost, no melody still,
In their world, where nature's voice does flourish.
From dawn to dusk, their stories weave,
Of seasons past and memories retrieved.
Though hard their work, their spirits free,
In every moment, joy's their decree.
Some scorn their ways, their lives so plain,
"Bumkins," they jeer, in mocking strain.
Yet in their hearts, a strength does burn,
A love for life, in every turn.
They dance with breeze, they sway with tree,
In harmony with all they see.
Under harvest moons, in golden light,
They reap their treasures, pure and bright.
So let us toast to these fine souls,
These tillers of the earth, these keepers of the whole.
In their contentment, we find a clue,
To live with nature, and ourselves be true.
In green fields, where daisies charm,
Their laughter's music, their presence balm.
In simple pleasures, their legacy,
A tapestry woven, in life's gentle spree.
For in their ways, a lesson's scribed,
To cherish nature, in open skies.
In every bloom, in every bud,
A testament to the life they've loved.
I heard you from ear to ear
You jeer at me with selfish cheer
You put me down, my darksome, dreary dear
Now, I shed a single tear, you idiotic fire that do sear
My heart and its beats of utmost fear;
My mind likes to gently or roughly veer
I was faced with life's nostalgic, narcissistic nightmare
I can’t even look at myself in the blood-drenched mirror
I’m scared of who I've become 'round there and here
I’m still waiting patiently for positivity to draw near
I’m waiting for negativity to disappear
I also want sheer forgiveness to appear
I have become stronger and a champion emotionally for many-a-year
My dear, you chased away my cluttered conscious from head to rear
My dear, you are so coy and naïve…so, put on bravery's gigantic gear
Come on, keep up with me or you’ll be falling behind quickly and steer
Through the waters of Aphradere
Through the waters of Aphradere
Through the waters of Aphradere
Then, suddenly, I see drunkards, heading my way…they had one too many-a-beer
They are up in Cloud thirty-seven and some are in Cloud twenty-four…three times seven equals twenty-one – doing this math in poetry is mighty *****,
My wandering deer…
My wandering dear….
Steer through the waters of Aphradere
Through the waters that draw ever-so-near
I don’t believe there is such a thing as a mirror,
Because this so called reflection is not really me.
I think he is a stranger that moved into my house,
For the man that I see is somewhat, ugly.
I think he built this life size window
To spy on everything that I do
And I can tell you he is beginning pissing me off
I can feel my anger’s starting to brew
Once I moved to the side of the window
And he disappeared out of sight
What I could see a part of his room
Gave me an terrible fright
The bugger’s been to the same shop
And bought the same things I have
The bed, cupboards and lamp shades
And on the table he even has the same Sat. Nav.
I peeped into this window
With the hope to catch him off guard
But there he was looking at me
Staring just as hard
I stood in front of the loser and cussed the most colourful words
The monkey aped every action even the moving of his lips
Then it dawned on me that he wore the same clothes
In the same pose with his hands on his hips
So infuriated, I punched the window
And ended his years of peeping tom jeer
However, the bugger is now haunting me
In every glass I happen to peer