Long Lambaste Poems
Long Lambaste Poems. Below are the most popular long Lambaste by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lambaste poems by poem length and keyword.
Guess Who,
One Clue,
Old As Dirt,
Sometimes Curt.
Tom’s Opinion
1/13/2021
She preaches forgiveness and promotes divisiveness,
and isn’t plagued In her purpose by indecisiveness.
She’s had years of practice at spewing false claims,
A partisan politician who excels in fanning flames.
Any articles of impeachment she’s not apt to table,
and disagreeing with her, gets some west coast label.
It’s said when she gets mad she can throw a hissyfit,
and even if somethings good she still wouldn’t like it.
If found on her bad side she’s not slow to lambaste,
and like Churchill “she never lets a crisis go to waste.”
She’s like a bulldog in a hay barn taking a breather,
she won’t eat the hay and won’t let others eat it either.
There is no time like the present
The only time you can embrace
moments lived in absolute grace
There is no time like the present,
Not be wasted in discontent and lament.
With alpine mountains saluting you,
vibrant seasons and countless vivid hues,
Nature as if celebrates every minute,
why not honour the vast beyond compute ?
Digging the past and stay aghast,
setting soul to uncalled for lambaste,
Or anticipating that future be bright,
and waking up in distress past midnight.
Inhale positive vibes of torrential flow,
Appreciate seven colours of the rainbow,
Now be the secret, now be the song,
As needles of clock keep ticking along,
Feel the mystic fragrance as of today,
every today and each day after day,
If we could introspect and reinvent,
Be sure there is no time like the present.
Written March 31st, 2016
For contest "cliche" by Silent one
Now entered for "Premiere contest no 12" by SKAT A
Severely withdrawn as a doggone lad...
I wanted someone to hear me shout for help
as recently recalled
when yours truly a little barking whelp.
After conversing with Amélie Beth
(yesterday February 26th, 2021)
yes, the same sibling diagnosed
with nodule on her right lung
chatted with said family member.
Her brother (yours truly), could not sleep
last night/early this morning
what would ewe expect
this rambunctious poet do... count sheep?
Okay... wool ye go ahead and lambaste me!?
Ordinarily counting backwards from one hundred
helps trigger rem memorable cycles
(never if ever rarely reaching zero -
cipher, nought, the big goose egg...)
usually does the magic, (albeit cheap trick)
constituting one garden variety supertramp,
who within blink of eyelash nods off to dreamland
succumbing and submerging into subconscious.
More so the latter half
(regarding unsainted) days
of mein kampf
lived more satisfactorily
meaning emotions shared
between yours truly
and family members.
Suddenly important for me
(at approximately 743.999 months
athwart planet Earth)
to finagle acknowledgement
constituting care and concern
regarding welfare of loved ones.
Rather, a necessity to unleash
pent up sentiments activating
"Damn the torpedoes,
full speed ahead!"
An injustice to myself
and deprivation to recipient, i.e. Amélie
(who accidentally, inadvertently,
and unwittingly triggered feelings
of grievousness, ire, joy... )
to act adamant and withhold
for whom the bell tolled
valuable unpleasant turmoil
or heavenly bliss within
mine psychological state
most therapists and/
or self actualized individual
would concur if polled
wisest, loveliest and healthiest
personal choice to share
lest internalized heart wrenching dilemma
compromise palpable mutual
(of Omaha) kith thing catharsis
freeing restrained pent up angst
kinship therapeutic as “Wild Kingdom,”
whereby respective psyche
constituting uber brotherly spirit
doth lyft among soundcloud
shutterflying amidst
imagined lilies of field
engendering region knolled
king dome united, extolled
and linkedin courtesy nirvana.
Four kegs, they’d left on the rye field’s bare crest
gone were the skittles and the balls of wood.
Four kegs empty of magical brew, strewn
upon the hill’s breasts, where gnomes had stood.
They’d left long ago, twenty years today.
Here’d been a mountain, where now a farm stood.
They had left their tipple as each strike thundered
to lambaste lightning from stacked firewood.
On the rye field’s bare crest now shrouded in snow
beneath a Wedgwood sky, stood kegs of wood.
On the rye field’s bare crest each keg turned stone
marking the bones where rebels once stood.
Gone ‘till tonight, the gnomes and jack tars
until the moon’s magic topped the keg’s wood.
Gone till tonight were the hard balls and pegs
this night spirits would dance where we now stood.
Published 2017 by Illumen
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
Oh, America,
my beloved America.
The world owns your soul,
and chortles as catastrophe comes.
Bartered was your legacy,
for riotous living,
and pottage no longer gratifies
your innards cravings.
Terrorist lambaste your innocent,
and spread false doctrines.
Fear and anxiety hold you captive,
casting foreboding shadows o'er your land.
As a mongrel wallowing in its vomit,
so it is, you and your sin.
Having no vision of signet ring and fatted calf,
your robe now drapes a self righteous frame.
Has the line in the sand been crossed?
While your flag still flies, the eagle soars,
and your Statue of Liberty stands erect,
return unto the father.
Oh America,
my beloved America,
God loves thee more than I.
Hungry for munchies, on his way to the lunchroom,
a rambunctious, persnickety,“fuss-budget”, elderly
jittery, fidgety, geezer, named Cassidy…
whose questionable dexterity, aghast by a massive sneeze,
teeter-tottered precariously.
at the edge of the thingamajig, ...jigging one way, jagging the other!
Minding his own beeswax, without any rigmarole,
topsy-turvy on his feet, he reached for the balustrade,
became quite flabbergasted, and very discombobulated
when the doohickey provided for his ambidextrous aid
jiggled free from its screws, and found him footloose!
It seemed the doo-dad, put there by some nitpicking pipsqueak,
some flat-footed, hooligan, who knew diddly-squat, who obviously,
recklessly, constructed a railing, only worthy for failing!
Such foolhardy shenanigans! Was it some practical joke
to lambaste aged codgers, eliminate lodgers, and boondoggle the old folks?
Cass, was an old rabble-rouser, considered a blabbermouth,
was thrown off his epicenter, while his cane went a'sailing, appendages flailing
Onlookers, were outraged, ....in stage of amazement
but laughs grew contagious, and cock-eyed hilarious!
Those carpetbagger carbuncles of society….can’t stop this old fogy
Cass, brushed off his hinny, would not be blind-sighted..
Barbaric bedevilment, won’t halt his felicity!
Some even predicted, with his acid tongue lashings, and his eccentric behavior,
he would stir up entanglement, kibosh the haranguers
and strangle the caboodles, who hooted and hollered!
His face turned beet red, but no meltdown,......instead
He held his chin high
to the dining room, ahead....he ordered French bread
Ordered some bouillabaisse, toasted with balderdash and a shot of rye
He dined with the multitudes, ordered some strudel, and one snicker-doodle
Then he told folks a riddle, "There was a man with a cane, who slipped on a noodle, a handrail came loose, he injured his caboose….and cooked his goose!"
.....................................................
Woo the woman
Love the lady
Mellow the maiden
Manage the maid
Garnish the girl
Dazzle the damsel
Bar the bimbo
Latch the lass
Silence the siren
Moor the mermaid
Net the nymph
Madden the madam
Tame the tart
Court the courtesan
Nudge the nurse
Null the nun
Shun the spinster
Strap the stewardess
Venerate the virgin
Vex the vixen
Vacate the vamp
Curb the coquette
Con the concubine
Whack the whore
Whip the wench
Pooh-pooh the prostitute
Slam the ****
Harem the harlot
Screw the shrew
Dally with a divorcee
Eschew the enchantress
Wallop the witch
Garb Godiva
Jail Jezebel
Lambaste Lilith
Dump Delilah
Gore the Gorgons
Harness Hecuba
Xpunge Xanthippe
Wed the widow!
~03/08/2013
~Contest: Your Personal Favorite #2
~Sponsor: L Milton Hankins.
Here is a poem on etiquette, about which
I barely know the subject from the predicate
It seems to me that etiquette's all stuffy
It's for royalty's ilk, haughty and puffy
Who the hell cares how you hold your fork
One way for fish, another for pork
Of course, eating soup's a precarious matter
Make sure not one drop is carelessly splattered
As for zupping up the dregs straight from the bowl
That faux pas will land you in etiquette gaol
Then there's the matter of how to drink tea
Proper form being, up with one's pinky
And effeminate gentlemen tuck in their napkins
When carving a bird with all the trappings
Well, I hope you've enjoyed this sacrilegious romp
Dripping with sincerity, and a dearth of pomp
And now that I have etiquette happily hammered
I leave it to you to lambaste English grammar
The tempest kiss of seaweed miss.
Her temper heard ~ his heart stirred.
His ship astern and fast.
The siren’s scorn lambaste;
Blind youth’s reality is blurred.
The satin hair of Whitney bright
A pearlescent veil, the tide ~
Calm! Calm! It’s all a lie!
Her body movement spry.
O serpentine witch, her smile, her glide…
Her bright white fangs aglow, move slow.
The magic of her song moored
In his terrified glance;
The seaman’s in a trance.
In former life, he would have scored.
She slowly sucks his soul, and then,
One by one she tenders them.
The fishhooks through their eyes,
Amuse her with goodbyes.
Rehearsal of fatale la femme.*
2/5/2020
*femme fatale order of words was switched to aid rhyme.
A poet’s prerogative:)