Long Leeching Poems
Long Leeching Poems. Below are the most popular long Leeching by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Leeching poems by poem length and keyword.
LEECHES IN POWER
As old as the sand on the earth
So do I in power.
All colours leech on power
The dark loves me more.
Either you want me or not I will never flow in your direction
Those that want me to flow; frozen in their graves.
I decide when to flow; no fellow dares me.
Longing in corridor of power is life fulfilled
Nation with natural minerals, there you find me.
staying power is an honour worth dying for
Only those that follow me enjoy my current and waves
Yes, I made them rich and proud.
The fools thought all rivers are equal but some rivers rule others
I am the sea, the seat of powers.
I may be slim in size when I roar, ship capsizes. Yes, lives are wasted.
Flowing round the world I am fulfilled
Who can challenge me? Those in power I select them.
I fed them with fishes; support them with strength
If I flow out my seat of power, my leeching hand still control power.
Go and tell the poor in the streets that rivers are not equal;
In power we are not equal.
There is no nation without me
Those in me enslaved others, rein their land
Though, you may not like my ruling
Yet I rule you happily and comfortably.
The waves of poverty, crises and war of minorities
Never flow me out of power seat.
You fear no man but think about salt you leech;
As mighty as the leech, dares not eat salt
Oh! what vanity life you who stayed on power lived?
Leech are in all nation seat of power.
Emmanuel Brown .A.
Washed by tides, tangle inevitable,
Lurking licking tongues, tiger whisker weed
Undercurrent gritty slippery tendrils -
Barb trusting toes with camouflaged cat creed
Wet predator paws apply pressure
Leeching life from faithful feet, farcical
Undulating grass, salty claws sever
Blades gash slices, cut soles grow barnacles
February silk ribbon Valentine
Loch Ness of Labrador's fatal lagoon
Spiralled willing limbs in sanguine brown twine
Infatuated padlocked throat caused swoon
Hapless lass captured by Amoretto
Dapper lethal lech Don Juan Otto
Second of February
- Seaweed Secures -
It is a dark world they inhabit, dark and filled with a flood of blood.
Many bodies lay entangled, red and dark. Confused with the creator,
The mighty fellow who made them, so small and useless, having a heart
which bled, a flood of blood. Men came at night, some during the day
Looking for love, in this well of blood, this land of the dead, of unconscious
self, the engulfing dark, limbs entwined left to decay amid the lying money
The ghost of past women, recapturing mythology, an ambience of dread
This frightening flood of the blood, sucking and leeching away the soul,
The psychic inheritance of the ego, the dark near dead experience.
I understand we Earthlings
Seek order amongst things
An analogy with ants
Their mother wears the pants
Yet nothing parasitic
Clips her subjects ticket.
Her warriors die in battle
Not like docile cattle
Falling for a social nest
Not some pointless quest
Like double you em-dee’s
Not hidden overseas.
A faceless nation employs
Children it then deploys
With guns in hands to arid lands
Where blood stains sun-baked sands
Shaded by whose banner, oh Queen
Who lives a life so serene?
With soldiers to secure your soil
Leeching off the workers toil
Trusting to an aged tradition
Of using fear to condition:
All contributions clipped!
All clip-evaders whipped!
“But everyone’s the same,”
I hear, “…it’s just a game!”
You know we’re not just ants
Or homicidal sycophants!
Ok, let’s play by the rules,
But not those writ by fools!
Ask apt applause to taste true tell,
Ply profound peep prompting pure prime;
Pique precious pause where worth words well,
Live lasting leap lines leeching lime;
Aim answers apt that thrilling taste,
Use unseen urge in inking ire;
Sense story sap work willing waste,
Each ends emerge free festive fire.
Prize play picks patch where works wander,
Live lasting lines that tell taut tale;
Effect each etch to thrill thunder,
Asking aligns subtle soft sale;
Seek sensuous spend willing words woo,
Entice each end delight dares do.
Leon Enriquez
21 June 2016
Singapore
(Note: This poem is an Acrostic Sonnet with Alliteration.)
For Silent One's - Mamma Poetry Contest
Where is the love, Mamma?
Through broken Louvre blinds, you're ever watching
Rosary beads clicking prayers on repeat mode, uttering
Your plethora of Faith keeps me steadily striving
Though, frustrated when peace will be arriving.
Under cover of the midnight moon, hookers seducing
Shady men with illicit wares aggressively peddling
Of changing our situation, I'm forever idealizing.
Enduring every day's trauma, just surviving.
Seeking direction from above, when is enough enough?
Tell me, Mamma ~ Where is the love?
Collective immorality still existing.
A ticking clock morality meekly resisting
Corruption, greed, and deceit still abounding
This life where goodness seems to be drowning.
A depraved degradation of insanity still insisting,
Death, broken hearts, crime persisting
In the chaos, qualms never ceasing.
lawlessness above the muck and mire rising
At the kerbside, a holy man piously preaching
Should I turn my cheek, still beseeching
Amidst their plundering and their leeching?
NO !!
Enough is Enough ~ Where is the Love?
Beyond-repair abhorrence, I'm escaping.
Fervently, I'm hoping and praying.
Please God, Mamma, be safe while I'm gone
I'll be back for you before long
In the eerie darkness, emotions imploding
Sirens blaring, with the sound of guns exploding
My shallow breath quickening, turning back with throat thickening
All the while, I'm screaming
Where is the love?
Back through this hellhole, I'm rapidly racing
All through the panic, still hoping and praying
Please God, Mamma ~ Be Safe, Be Safe, Be Safe
Neon blue-red lights flickering and flashing.
Through my open front door, I'm madly dashing.
Looming through the haze, I hear them saying.
'Sorry, Miss, yet another random shooting
Your Mamma just got caught in the cross-firing.'
The last thing I hear is my own voice crying.
MAMMA ~ THERE IS NO LOVE! THERE IS NO LOVE!
Wood Nymph, wraps white
gossamer legs in hello, as branch shakes
in obvious "ka_ching"!
'Oh wait till you see what she does next",
tattles the tree, in an excited and mischievous
foreboding.
Itself, a Familiar and Servant,
hypnotized to carry and present her gift of wrap
and wrap of gift.
The naughty Nymph O pushes herself halfway up
like a tired and cautious sloth
(on the lip of a drinking cup.)
An innocent look beguiles her face
as essence of bark soils it's digits up,
To stick like a sponge to her curves like a leech
leeching much.
Nurses a clamp to her soft skin
as if to aspire seed of sapling in sap, sapping sin.
As She stares through, impossibly pierced,
her cruelly clumsy jiggle starks the eye
in an ultra violence of lumplumpsum.
The forest stirs with whispers of silence,
gossiper secretions to soil more.
Wood nymph dances careless,
her story unfolding, merciless amore.
Her web weaving legs, wrapped in ethereal grace,
licks of
delicate tricks of creature of delicacy.
Surreal ad vise given visa visage
it's enchanting embrace.
The trees, they giggle with mischievous delight,
as they await her next move, a magical sight.
A familiar servant, the branches extend,
presenting her gifts, their devotion, bend.
Halfway she rises, cautious and slow, oh dear.
Like a tired sloth, uncertain where to go
but nearer near.
Innocence plays upon her beguiling face,
as she clings to the bark, leaving presiding trace.
A sponge to her curves, the bark holds so tight,
seeks to crumble there.
Leaving a mark, a visible sign of it's mare.
But she dances on, with a clumsy sway.
A violence of debauchery in a mystical play,
there there, tears tears tears.
Her presence, it lingers, in the air, a fragrance,
mimicking the soul bare.
A poem to stir souls, in carom of supernatural
resonance in crept.
The wood nymph bewitches with every step,
to numb your penance swept.
Leaving an imprint of memory kept as plum-line erect.
In the depths of the forest, her essence will remain,
a powerful muse, never to wane.
For she is a poet's dream, an excuse so rare,
relished relic of the gone insane.
Captivated, beyond complain,
the Satyr's forehead yields sign, pops a vein.
When tons of doom filled nights fall on your head,
hot embers glow and fires burn unabated,
you recall her last breath and wish you were dead.
In a poem's sad lines you've been castrated.
From the heavens a voice thunders dire threats
about losses and breakfasts consumed without eggs.
Fumbling about, looking to hedge your bets,
you drink your cold coffee, down to burnt dregs.
On waking you find dawn's hard hammer fell
last night's burns are reminders of strife.
You stumble and look up from the pits of Hell,
recounting the reasons why you lost your wife.
Your clock chimes out vulgar curses at you
and your house bids you leave by peals at noon.
You think of the ancient, wicked dreams, too,
as night falls with its wretched lucent moon.
You dream of hungry tigers eating your boots.
Your house is perched atop two adjoining trees.
A hunter fires; but it's not a tiger he shoots.
Your second wife cuts off your legs at the knees.
With life's blood flowing from your severed veins
your heart bemoans that you married once more.
By morning you were free from nightmare's pains
but horrid memories linger behind closed doors.
What vast burdens you bear in fear of sleep
and hollows in your mind fill quickly with dread.
When your clock strikes twelve, I hear you weep,
" Odious anguish! I wish I were dead."
Shadows dance on your walls in candle light.
Dark images of her body pressed close to you,
waltzing in your arms on a moonlit night
but she vanishes when dawn's rays break through.
Which sort of dream scars your mind with more grief?
The ones in which you're butchered; burned by fire,
or when daylight steals her away like a furtive thief?
Will your penance release you from the leeching mire...
the terror you encounter each night as you lie abed?
Foolishly, you once thought love claimed your heart.
Therein lies the angst of what you most dread...
the vexing memories in dreams that tear you apart.
Co-Written with Robert Lindley based on the original
verses he offered in the open challenge on his blog.
Discarded shoes are mysterious things.
More so than a deer, an old tire, or a deep-forest yeti.
They come out of nowhere.
One day they're here; the next day they're not.
Some stay for just a day or two.
Some hang around for months.
Like a wayward uncle leeching
a warm bed and a cold brew.
Who owned them?
Why do they clog the roadside?
Some look like newborns- others like death.
Were they victims of a prank or just lost evidence?
I once saw two red sneakers on the shoulder of a road.
Just inches apart, looking shiny and new.
Like Dorothy's ruby-studded shoes.
They must have tapped their heels together.
click-click-click.
Because by the next morning they vanished.
There's no place like home. I suppose.
Still. Affects Me.
Just like paint under paint, under boarded up doors.
The leeching doesn’t stop.
When I was young, the paint was already crusting over.
It was done already, no one understood.
I know it does.
Affect Me.
I don’t really know the extent of it.
Like water damage.
Or hurting damage.
It’s just my mind which causes new creases in my actions.
The greasy, bristly Me.
It was done.
I turned 21 and the boarded up doors started creaking.
All the bad things in me that didn’t yet make sense.
It’s all about a diagnosis.
It was just me growing up.
In the quietness which no one tried to understand.
Then they painted over that again.
Splashed paint around ineffectively.
It should make sense!
What Still Affects Me?!?
They say I’m as cured as I’ll ever be.
The diagnosis…
Leeches through.
Is as thorough as…
Paint splattered ineffectively.
Which somehow Still Affects Me.