Long Lambast Poems
Long Lambast Poems. Below are the most popular long Lambast by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lambast poems by poem length and keyword.
"You will come to the grave in full vigor, Like the stacking of grain in its season.
— Job 5:26
Abraham breathed his last and died in a ripe old age, an old man and satisfied with life; and he was gathered to his people.
— Genesis 25:8
PARADE OF SILVER ROSES
Ripened with wrinkles and jowls of joy,
why cry over fallowed days,
when the brightness of youth
squeezes you tighter than foremost days.
Giggling, kicking at the mound of enjoyment,
the parade of silver roses laid at the grave —
that’s how the whippersnappers see you,
those tug-a-war children that hound at the heel
of your beloved grands of glockenspiel.
Supercilious satisfaction as you tether your cane
to tenderness and affection, aggressively pointing
only at those crooks who choose to lambast insane,
ruin your days and keep at arm's length the babes.
Silver in your hair, spun by hands with stigmata holes,
and you’ll breathe your last and first breath all the same.
With seasoned wheat, such golden beauty,
ecstatic at heaven’s attraction, standing in frame.
3/9/2020
The little boy I was…
The man I’m s’posed to be…
The distance ‘tween the two
Vast as the open sea.
The dreams I had are gone.
Naught left but memories,
And nothing in their place.
The worst of cruelties.
The little boy I was
I’m glad can’t see me now.
The changes I have made
Are more than he’d allow.
The man I’m meant to be?
He’d view me with disgust.
Lambast me to my face
For losing that boy’s trust.
And here, alone, I stand
Not either of the two
But somewhere in between
Not knowing what to do.
That little boy I was,
The man I’m s’posed to be,
Are both forever gone
Replaced by only me…
THE GHOST BAR
gangrenous chains
rusted and burdensome
lambast the oak plank
etching ethereal gouges
the serpentine length drags
with warlike screams
ghoulish intensity
grabs each bony-disk
with heartlessness
the ice cold floor and
daggered eyes, seem
but a hallucination
to the drunken lot
but the barmaid sees!
she screams
as the breathless apparition
howls with wrathful laughter
she faints, fast and dreadful
the chains coil about his neck
in retribution for his act
yanking him about
the floor gives way like quicksand
and he plummets yet again
to certain death
covered by miles and miles of clanging chain
the barmaid’s brought about by salts
she tells the tale over and over again
until the legend of the ghost bar
becomes famous
detailed in rusty chains and eyes
...one peeks through
10/23/2017
Mallory the cat needs a bit of a rest, he’s older than me.
Nothing to see, I tell the neighbors. He’s just up in a tree.
Gawkers come by and lambast me for letting him rest.
Up in his regular place, his tree where he is blest.
He has been sitting up there since he was a kitten.
He’s fine, I reassure them, he looks rather smitten.
Some want to rescue him, which is weird to me.
After all, Mallory is my cat, he is hurting no one up in a tree.
Cameramen from the paper came by and took a quick flash.
They put Mallory on the front page, and it made kind of a splash.
He’s out there today, sitting stoically, turning away from the street.
Loving it that so many coaxers are offering him a come-on-down-treat.
My father was locked in on an Alzheimer’s unit of a nursing home.
I asked my mother “how will I know when to leave?”
“You’ll know,” she told me.
So I went. Dad was playing cards with a woman and a man.
I said “Hi Dad!” and the woman jumped up, gave a loud screech and ran off.
I found out later that it is his girlfriend there, he thinks they get married sometimes.
He has told my mother this more than once.
Bob stayed with my Dad.
I could tell that Dad knew that he knew me, but he was not sure how.
There was a flicker of recognition. He gave me a half smile.
He had my Daddy’s face, but he was not totally my Daddy now.
Bob said “Hey, Dick, can I get you a sweater?” Dad nodded.
Bob wandered off, and a guy in a weird walker scooted behind me.
“Duh! Duh! Duh! Duh! Duh! Duh!” He chanted in my ear.
A woman in a house dress came over and said “What’s wrong with you?”
She proceeded to lambast him “Are you retarded? Stop that!”
“Duh! Duh! Duh! Duh! Duh! Duh!” Dad and I smiled at each other.
A nurse wheeled the guy away, and the woman left.
I asked Dad if he wanted to go outside. He loves the outdoors.
“I want to go home,” he said. “Take me home.”
I was there for two hours. He asked me to take him home twenty-six times.
I felt sad, but knew he could not go home. He was a danger to Mom now.
He had threatened to kill her. And he had many guns. One was missing.
Mom was right. I knew when to leave. When he no longer responded to me.
“You stiff-necked people, with uncircumcised hearts and ears! You are just like your fathers: You always resist the Holy Spirit! Was there ever a prophet your fathers did not persecute? They even killed those who predicted the coming of the Righteous One. And now you have betrayed and murdered him— you who have received the law that was put into effect through angels but have not obeyed it.”
Acts 7:51-53
All who were sitting in the Sanhedrin looked intently at Stephen, and they saw that his face was like the face of an angel.
Acts 6:15
THE STONING OF STEPHEN
Before Stephen fell asleep, he gave a sermon.
It culminated into a bold accusation t’wards the leaders.
The Sanhedrin, with the high priest, would determine
The fate of this angel-face. They were breeders
Of contempt, accusing God’s man of blasphemy.
They were teeth-gnashers, stuffing their ears with glue,
indignant, jealous, furious. They would rob Stephen’s vitality.
This follower of Jesus is never alone, heaven’s in view:
“Look,” he said, “I see heaven open
and the Son of Man standing
at the right hand of God.”*
Clasping their ears, they rushed at him,
Yelling in full view of the glory of God, not
Seeing nor hearing, choosing their dim
View of life. It was evil they sought.
They snatched him, dragged him out of the city.
Were those chosen stones unearthed from hell?
Upon a saint of God, they took no pity.
They were underneath Satan’s spell.
This favored of God, they could not ignore.
A Sanhedrin bull in full vent with dust and smoke.
Truth will shake powerful men to the core.
Arms and legs like chariot spokes,
The high-horse pretenders lambast
the great orator with great force.
Stephen would soon meet the holy cast
Of forefathers…most importantly life’s source.
Another man is enthralled, also blind
To the goads he’s kicking at. He’s in his heyday,
a young man giving approval to death, the kind
of man Stephen prayed for in this way:
“Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”*
8/8/2021
*Acts (from the Bible)
Title:
Are we all mysteriously
Sinful?
(A lone voice whispers)
In the beginning
Did you secretly
Walk like a curious
Enigmatic Charles Darwin
Looking
Whilst
Lost in Youth
Seeking The Meaning of Sin
To clandestine dark places where
Angels
Without harps
Profusely lambast and
Sing
Searching
Through concealed ancient manuscript and treatises
Seduced by Mistresses and Masters
Of Seductions
By their ever-changing winds
And rhymes
And now
Are you still covertly
Only understood
By a select few
Riding your Pale Horse
Tempestuously
Through lost
Biographies of Old Beliefs
Always on the lookout for engagements
A means to sometimes
Circumvent dark
Carnal release
Or are you still drinking Cool-Aid
From the Matrix’s ever spinning
Propaganda's machine
As the Cosmic Serpent
Of your own Apocalypse
Approaches with such devious guile
Heralding a new divine invasion
Of your own United Nations
So you still dwell in
A new vision of Gilgamesh
Wallowing in previous dark memories of
Sins
Of old encounters and embraces
Of its sensuous
Flesh
Or are you a new lost Nikola Tesla
Lost in the folds of deep personal histories
Overwhelmed
With impropriety and greed
Still seemingly held in check
By fingerprints of
Memories Old Gods
But still always courageously
Praying silently to the skies
Trying to save
Your soul
Always praying someone
Hears you and your deeds and comes down
To intercede
Copyright John Duffy
THE PARABLE OF THE TALENTS
The grave he dug, the monument he built.
No one saw the single coin that died so fast.
No time for a blessing, nevertheless knees stained,
In the dingy, dirty dark where seeds lambast.
On topsoil, five coins flitter between a man’s fingers.
The magician amazes the crowd, he doubles his wages.
His master will cheer him on, with soulful eyes.
Of his faithfulness, angels dictate lovely pages.
Yes, those who doubled their score whether small or great
will find favor and a hefty inheritance at the pearly gates.
But for the ones who bury their treasure and sit upon it
a sharp shovel will grovel, gripe and shape their fate.
10/7/2018
Contest: The Parable of the Talents
Sponsor: Holly Hippocampus
Angel whispers are heard by the chosen
I hear, but ignore, not feeling worthy.
Their persistence bodes well for heaven,
They turn my keen senses topsy turvey.
Pure angel messages resound in my soul,
I am silent, completely humbled and awed.
Angel whispers of joyfulness lambast me whole.
I do not deserve it, I am completely soul-flawed.
Persistence from heaven forces me to listen.
When I close my eyes, I resume resistance.
Barely asleep, angel wings start to glisten.
I am humbled by their chosen insistence.
Totally honored, I meditate on their message,
Why I was chosen is an anomaly to me.
The voice is persistent, keeping me hostage,
Until passing on the message is what I agree.
Written: 8-4-18
Entered:
Sponsor:
Subtitled: I'll Walk Again
Some tomorrow soon, I shall walk again,
though not as I walked in days past.
To reach that doorway - my foremost campaign
and thus I'll keep walking my last.
Therapy is pain; it's a stormy fight
taking great effort in this cast.
The doctor reports my future looks bright,
I'll walk again, my grit steadfast.
The memory of the accident still clear.
Walking alone I had just passed
the corner turn that leads back from the pier.
dune buggies race the storm too fast
in sand too deep, too wet for certainty
lightning and collision contrast
In time, I'll grasp life as an amputee.
I'll walk alone, my grit steadfast.
New normal I tackle with amnesty,
I cannot cast blame nor lambast.
For such is pathetic activity
generating storms far more vast
than one which caused my disability.
My good broken leg is the mast
where my banner flies with tenacity.
I'll walk at peace, my grit steadfast.