Long Lecturing Poems
Long Lecturing Poems. Below are the most popular long Lecturing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lecturing poems by poem length and keyword.
I was a city born and city bred young fellow,
whose shoes had mostly only touched concrete and tar.
Oh yes I had seen grass, but out on a footy ground
and my entertainment was drinking at a nightclub bar.
As a city bred young bloke I had never seen the stars
for blanket smog and neon lights had blocked them out.
I never knew what clean air was, nor really cared at all,
and rain was just a nuisance that I could do without.
I had no idea where food comes from - why should I?
I just hand across ten dollars, and bingo! In my hand,
is warm and crispy chicken with leaves I throw away,
and chocolate milk comes in a carton with a brand.
But I’m informed one morning, this is not the case.
Milk, like cheese and butter, and yoghurt too somehow,
comes to the city from the country, for us city folk.
And I didn’t quite believe - from the inside of a cow.
A cow! I’ve never seen a cow. What’s a cow look like?
That’s right! I admit I’d not seen a cow in all me life.
I barely knew the difference, between a cow and a pig,
until in a nightclub - that’s where I met me future wife.
Jean is a lovely girl; so pretty, and near rural to the core.
She knows every breed of cow that is written in the book.
Jean has milked them, immunised, dehorned them in a crush,
so she’s quite strong in the arm and can land a great left hook.
I’m talking of me own experience; me jaw is still quite sore.
The lesson that I learnt is to choose words more carefully.
I’m not sure if the listeners sed at what I had said,
or were pleased to see an enraged woman acting like a bully.
Since we had married in the city, and lived in a city flat,
me darling Jean for many months suggested time and time again,
we should go back to her hometown where Jean promised me,
that I will finally see a cow and Jean won’t have to explain.
Now I’ve seen Friesians, Jerseys, Guernsey’s, Ayrshire’s;
I’ve eyed Poddy Calves, yearling Heifers, Bulls and Steers.
I’ve become an expert on cows, and just what is required.
I know everything that’s needed about cows so it appears.
But when lecturing colleagues with Jean close by me side,
it became the catalytic weapon to cause a murderous scene,
for I proudly uttered loudly without consequential fears,
that I had never seen a cow until - I met my wife Jean.
Lucinda Brown was only seventeen
when you youth came to a dreadful end,
that was the night her home was invaded
by three vicious and horny young men.
When her father tried to confront them
they shot the poor man right in the spine,
found Lucinda and her scared mother,
it was obvious what they had in mind.
Lucinda won’t talk about what happened,
it’s hard enough having it in her head,
she and he mother woke up the next day,
they were battered, and bruised…and naked.
The police came and did what they had to,
took statements and samples of DNA,
but it matched no one in the system
so the bastard rapists got away.
Both Lucinda and her mom were shattered,
she wouldn’t leave her room for near a month,
started to think how defenseless she’d been,
started thinking of buying a gun.
Her mother took a much different approach,
she went around lecturing about ‘hate,’
became a hero amongst certain crowds
for saying,”We must teach men not to rape!”
Now this didn’t make much sense to Lucy,
everyone knew that rape was a crime,
this wasn’t a question of ignorance,
was a question of sick and twisted minds.
Fighting the wrong problem did no damn good,
it was an effort entirely in vain,
and what sense to did it make spending every day
reliving the greatest of your pains?
Three months later, upon a rare day
when he mother had come home for diner,
Lucinda mentioned a concealed carry class,
told her mom there was still a slot for her.
Lucinda had thought she would be onboard,
to take command and protect their own lives,
instead her mother got red in the face,
screamed,”Have you learned nothing from that night?
“Did you not see what guns did to you dad?
What those guns let them do to us both?
You’d sink to their level, pick up their tools,
I cannot say which though offends me most:
“That my daughter would be so simple-minded,
or that my little girl thinks she should kill.”
Said Lucy,”If it means I won’t be raped,
then I’m telling you right now, I will.”
The next three months until graduation
were difficult, their relationship cold,
when Lucy moved out, the first thing she did
was buy a thirty caliber pistol...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
I head an interesting thought
on the state of the world today,
about the wokeness, the PC,
and why we’re degrading this way,
That tied it to something that we
often celebrate quite a lot,
that would be maternal instinct,
the kind that most women have got,
that’s why we’re seeing such softness,
such growing degeneracy,
is that they’re placing this instinct
on the whole of society.
Now we all know that this instinct
has an important role to play,
who of us would still be alive
if women were not made this way?
Babies need lots of nurturing,
they always need to be kept safe,
and women with good instincts were
the ones who saw themselves replaced,
the ones whose descendants live on,
and would should be thankful for that,
so it seems strange, at first, to say
that such an instinct can be bad.
But then bring in feminism,
as we’re seen the last face decades,
telling women to go to work,
it’s more important to get paid.
And we’ve seen women do just that,
that is where the problem took off,
since women choosing to take jobs
doesn’t mean the instincts are lost.
You can’t ignore evolution,
and the nurture meant for a babe
gets displaced onto society,
we’ve seen this so much in our age.
Look at all of this woke nonsense,
blind cheerleading of ‘the oppressed.’
feminine instinct to protect
what they perceive as the smallest.
And if that virtue signaling
brings women a nice, moral buzz,
that’s like those ‘super-mother’ types,
who gain status from their ‘extra love.’
Look at the damn HR culture,
With its tone policing run rife,
like mothers lecturing young kids
not to say words that ‘aren’t nice.’
look at the cancel culture plague,
seems remarkably like grounding,
say something that mother won’t like,
you’re punished, they take all your things.
Look at the nonsense called ‘hate speech,’
the punishing of points-of-view…
the female urge to spare feelings,
and place emotion above truth.
Look at the cursed ‘nanny state,’
the safety obsession we see,
how much comes from the displaced urge
to protect a helpless baby?
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Who am I talking to
as I rehearse my memory stories,
shadow voices,
echoes,
and my own heroic victim analysis?
How snugly language fits
within karma's great chain of becoming
Earth's prophetic saintly sage
lecturing Othered parasitic peers
Living off malnourished Mother's
ambivalently valued,
too often ego-possessed
yet slavishly steadfast
bicameral creative mind
and reconnecting heart
and communing bilateral root
System seeking just right peaceful race
amusing pace
sage sacred place
Bicameral lungs
seeking midway co-gravitating energies
of Yang's grace face of Yin-squared win
bilateral neural processor
Ego-voicing within egocenter
Id-choicing within anthrocenter
SuperEco-dancing YinMind/YangBody Earthcenter,
polypathic
multisystemic
0-souled chi
1-identity...
My owned HereNow listening
incarnating SpaceTime-self unfolding
Triumvirate Tiered post-Freudian sacred stages
Sacred musing
EarthTribe's perennial ringing
singing
dancing EarthTree of Life
Rooting down into Dark TreeCore Vortex
Death promising integrity's ReBirth
without aversive grasping,
no warring against life's composting light,
when wrestling with death's night vision,
balancing Left with Right...
How do my pre-languaged
Universally Intelligent and Informating
natural systemic cells and organs,
embodied skin embrace of chi-center soul,
speak my Left-brain semantic thoughts
of past revisited
with future hoped for
and feared
belong to
longed for
since all past Elder enculturing regenerations
stepped into this HereNow
embyronic enbrightenment
to light past's future Nature/Spirited memories?
If any sage outside
listens to internal musing questions,
revolving hypothetical inclusive
resonant win/win resolutions,
these prayers for self-healing co-redemption
re-seed Earth's exegetical ecotherapy
absorbing my own Ego's dissonant pathology.
I chose
I could’ve been
A homebound hermit,
Hypnotized by the hum
And hue,
Of a high-tech
HD computer screen.
A slave
To the
Rhythmic rap
Of
Clicking keys;
Depriving me
Of much
Needed rest.
I’d Search
For Love
And friendship
In a network
Of strangers,
Oblivious to
The world
Outside.
I would’ve
Made a great
Defense lawyer.
With my
Appetite to argue.
I’d rescue
Common crooks,
Convicted of crimes;
From the
Confinements
Of a cell.
I’d lobby
For leniency
With lavish
Litigation laws.
Dedicating myself
To Dissembling
The Death penalty
I should’ve
Joined
The army,
A proud patriot,
Surpassing
My peers
Through promotion;
From a potato peeling private,
To a more
Prominent position.
Pushing my
Paratroopers out
Of a plane.
Parading my men
On the field
Of battle.
I’d receive
A war
Winning wound,
Perhaps a
Purple Heart.
I could’ve
Been a detective.
Cleverly cracking
Cold cases-
CSI style,
Coercing confessions
From criminals
And Con-men.
Collecting a
Cheap watch,
As compensation
For my commitment
To the precinct.
I should’ve
Been a doctor.
Devoting my life
To curing
The incurable,
Letting long hours
Deprive me
From family.
Always
At the
Beckon call,
Of work
Provided beeper.
Carrying out
Curative procedures,
On clients
That are
Scarcely clinging
To life.
I would’ve
Made a
Terrific teacher.
Choosing to
Live my life
Through the
Youthfulness of
My students.
Teaching them
To take on
The world
With caution
And Confidence.
Lecturing them
With lessons
Of longevity.
Disguising
My desire-
Jealous of
Their youth.
My choice,
Was not to
Focus on
One aspect
Of life,
But to
Experience
Them all.
With the stroke
Of a pen,
I walk
All paths.
I chose
All destinies.
I could’ve
Been this,
Or been that…
I should’ve
Done this,
Or done that…
I would’ve
Made this
Or made that…
Instead,
I chose to write.
When Troy fell by the deception of a wooden horse,
its people fled bringing along their treasures to the shores of Italy;
and with their warriors' skills and unfailing scheme,
their destiny was manipulated by an accurate prophecy,
when Helen had a vivid vision, and the medium verified her dream...
Greece's victory would have been avenged by Troy's sons!
Whoever thought that these fierce Latins would have harshly dominated
and controlled, for centuries, the old world with iron and might;
subjected peoples of many tongues under one power called, Rome?
Not a fancy of ancient dreamers, who advanced hurling out their screams,
never retreating an a stifled spirit; and as they pushed forward,
more empires were conquered, and all were obliged to obey!
And in the heartland of Latium, on those seven hills Rome governed,
noble senators lecturing and imposing laws on both free men and slaves;
the Roman Forum, with its brilliant minds, required absolute loyalty;
among the most honored emperors, there was one who outshined them all!
Why was Julius Caesar murdered by Brutus? Was it deep dislike or unrestrained
jealousy,
that tempted his cowardly hand, to commit a sanguinary act agreed upon by
others?
Such a great and noble man stabbed by conspirators with daggers, sparing no
mercy;
and he who bravely fought the barbarians of the north, and gave them more lands
to dominate,
died a terrible death so undeserved and undignified, only to have his crown taken
away!
And many Romans mourned on his burial' night...blazes raising up to placate the
guilty fools;
enemies who plotted and yet offered him their false friendship, which led to his
mortal wound;
and without regard, they treated him unfairly and cruelly to vendicate their
shameless hatred!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
a single “truth” would
dispose of her/his motivations,
something so recognizable
that the head could no longer be
turned away,
something that bubbled on the fine
line between a stomach full of
butterflies & a stomach full of
wasps---
a single “truth” would condemn all
the lies,
holding up a mirror to the world
with a hacking of a phlegm wad
into the wrongs of history,
regardless of whatever liar was
lecturing &
a single “truth” could get the heart
pumping again, out from this
deadened accident---
a single “truth” like the one great
work that the artist dreams of,
could change the former word to
“can,”
yes, a single “truth” could
glue the puzzle pieces with
permanent fixture &
if unyielding, maybe it would stand
the test of time &
if unyielding, maybe it would start the
positive ball rolling &
if unyielding, maybe it would end the
need of a world like
“maybe”---
it might be
something that could illuminate,
it might be
something to feel & not feel guilty
about feeling,
it might be something as beautiful
as
a soundtrack to die to,
but it would bear no explanation,
for it would be pure &
it would bear no need for purity,
because it would eliminate the
other, but then it would have to
present itself in some kind of place
where all was diametrically opposed &
yet the grey area remains---
the discovery of just how naïve
a short human life can be,
comes slapping like a hard hand to the
face on the briskest of Winter days,
reminding that all the inner workings of
the actual body,
churning, twisting & grinding all aspects of
this biomechanical thing called a
“self,”
do so on their own,
without the need of any questions,
any “truth,” any meaning, any
song to sing to.
Remember when we believed a NYC street block was too far? 50th, 51st, 52nd, and so on... well, state boundaries stack those blocks, and now there are thousands, maybe millions, blocking.
My preschool days taught me how to stack the reds, the blues, and the greens of building blocks but when I would finish, they would crash down like boulders, collapsing into an unstable heap. No sense of order. No sifting through for the parts that you want, discarding my least favorite color, red, or the pressure would crush down upon my hand, holding it down.
And as of late, the laws keep lecturing me: “stay in place, shelter at home.” But where is my home? Here, in the glimpse of a California suburban sunrise? Can a home be created in a place, or is it a manifestation of anticipation before you make eye contact, the connection of pure blues with ephemeral greens? Will home only be found once a month? Twice a year?
Across a nation, future plans slip over a waterfall of dreams into a river’s rapid flow. It carries us past those blocks, and disconnects at a right corner turn, and then I realize that the emotional burden of us will only wash me into an enclosed cave, no crevices. With this thought, now I am washed into a shore, reborn into the grass trodden ground, stamped with the imprint of tiny footprints, animal maybe, and our memories.
Now, the sun sets off of Amsterdam, and each and every block are an honest reminder that a touch, when removed, leaves no physical imprint and honesty might not exist in this life, but we can be reborn and each life lets us decide what home we will return to.
I was sitting blithely on a summer day
When a child of God unleashed a threat.
So to the nth degree... it was lecturing me
And I could see it was quite upset.
I had no desire to offend...
And listened carefully to what it would say.
As it unveiled its plan... to the matter at hand
And listed my many sins like a Vegas buffet.*
-
In its garbled mind... I should be quickly confined
Because of white privilege and where I had failed.
The world a far better place... once it made me a space
In some Orwellian government jail.
So I then posed it several questions
Which seemed to tie its brain in knots.
As it became sadder... it grew madder and madder
Losing focus to the words it was taught.
I only advised it to use a little suspicion...
And treat all information as if needing review.
Because believe it or not... it is well that you ought
Where not everything you're taught might be true.
But you must prepare for the usual outrage
As others will have no stomach for what you might say.
When you don't follow the herd... the lines become blurred
And you are no longer a student... but prey.
So to all the young people befogged by obsession
With the life experience of a mediocre bottle of wine.
Do not be concerned... with what little you've learned
As your maturity is just a matter of time.
So build a strong character, clean up your room and
Please pay attention to all points of view.
And on some hallowed night... you may just earn the right
To tell others what they must do.
The End
*Vegas Buffet: Cheap and Plentiful.
We cannot listen
or learn easily
when we do not feel safe,
said the environmental science students
to their corporate sponsored teachers.
Our lungs cannot breathe easily
or our hearts beat steadily
when we are not sure we can trust
the anthrosupremacist resource
currently lecturing
preaching
pontificating
If not explicitly,
then in some implied
win/win, too optimistic sin,
win/lose, realistically right
more than left sacred,
lose/lose, nihilistic blaming Earth
for our economies of immoral
EarthTribe scarcity,
scary complicity
Toxic inside learning anxieties
anticipating outside cooperative
therapeutic
organic incorporations
like cooperatively owned forests and meadows,
mountains and river valleys,
Contextually embraced
by RightOne practical survivalists
and Left ZeroZone
outside classroom thrivalists
learning inside civil manners
from MotherTrees
and their sacred mountained forests
and lakes,
green and blue
and cloud covered too
Studying vast lands
of win/lose uncertainty
taught verbally
for capital-embedded ears to hear,
repeat,
memorize
And patriarchally reteach
reparent
ignoring our indigenous ecofeminist
deep green sacred
customary way of learning co-passionately felt
dialogical bioformation systems
Inviting conversations
between thoughts and feelings
as they inevitably
dipolar co-arise
When we are listening
deeply learning
easily curiously active
when we feel safe
and healthy
and sure we can trust
our cooperatively owned
sacred outdoor classroom gifts.