Long Market Poems
Long Market Poems. Below are the most popular long Market by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Market poems by poem length and keyword.
They sifted through the red soil of the years,
Plucking at roots where the great forebears sleep;
Not merely dust, but salt from ancient tears,
In vaults where Oghene’s secrets buried deep,
They sought the tongue of the Urhobos.
The mother-tongue—a Vwre of vibrant gold,
That bound the Uvwie and the Okpe soul—
Now lies beneath the damp, colonial mold,
A broken Ivri, losing its control,
In Ughelli’s mist, oppressive, gray and cold.
A desperate hunt for Edoid embers lost,
By Inuivwi clinging to a fading grace;
They seek to mend the spirit, tempest-tossed,
And find the value of their rightful place,
But find a landscape utter double crossed
For in the throat where udi used to flow,
A jagged, coarse Pidgin now is spun;
The Emotes of the market-square, we know,
Have taught the children’s lips to skip and run
From the very gods that made the delta grow.
This coarse alloy, this Oibo-shadowed chime,
Has choked the wells where elders’ wisdom brewed;
The tongue of kings is smothered in the slime
Of vulgar slang and metaphors endued
With nothing but the wreckage of our time.
Street Vendor (Shouting): Fresh fruit! Mango, papaya, all ripe and sweet!
Executive (Dictating): To whom it may concern, regarding the recent...
Teenager (Texting): OMG! Did u see the new meme? LOL!
Grandmother (Humming): A lullaby from a forgotten time…
A child's delighted shout: “Look, Mama, a rainbow coming out!”
All (Clashing): A cacophony, a symphony, a market of tongues!
Scholar (Whispering): Heteroglossia, the chorus within,
Each voice is a thread, a social spin.
Highbrow, lowbrow, a vibrant fray,
Meaning shimmers, born of the play.
Politician (Booming): Together we stand, united and strong!
Activist (Chanting): Whose streets? Our streets! Fight the wrong!
Lover (Sighing): Your name, a whisper on my lips tonight...
All (Clashing): A cacophony, a symphony, a market of tongues!
Poet (Observing): Discord and harmony, a tangled song,
Where language dances, righting and wrong.
A tapestry woven, rich and alive,
The human chorus, forever to strive.
All (Fading): The voices mingle, a murmur, a sigh,
Heteroglossia, the voice of all in unison, beneath the open sky.
For six days, the sky has opened its palms
over Awka, over Nnobi, over the red earth
that drinks and drinks and never says enough.
Today, the rain began in the dark,
while the moon hid her face and the rooster slept,
and now the sun has risen, bold and bright,
yet the rain refuses to go.
It pours like a promise kept,
like the voice of the ancestors
speaking from the clouds,
not in anger, but in abundance.
The sky is a calabash,
and it is not yet empty.
This is the season of the yam,
the first fruit lifted from the ground,
offered to the gods who remember
the taste of sweat and the smell of new soil.
Even in Nnobi, where my people dance
with white chalk on their foreheads,
the rain joins the celebration—
not as a stranger, but as a kinsman.
Let it fall.
Let it soak the thatch and the roads,
let it fill the streams and the song of the frogs.
The yam is fat beneath the ground,
and the rain is its midwife.
This is not a flood; it is a blessing.
This is not a delay; it is a rhythm.
July has passed its baton to August,
and the rain has not forgotten its duty.
It falls on the market women
who spread their wares under zinc,
on the children who splash through puddles,
on the elders who nod and say,
"This is how it was in our time."
So let the sky be bright and the rain be heavy.
Let the new yam be eaten with joy.
For even the sun knows when to bow
to the water that gives life.
And we, the children of the earth,
know when to raise our hands
and say thank you.
For Awka, for Nnobi, for the rain that knows its season.
Chukwuemeka Ezeulukpu
This quest arose for Jeanne d'Arc,
A peasant girl engrossed in prayer.
When voices deep inside her head,
Spoke of her future, saving France.
During the passing march of time,
Wise words transcended Jeanne's belief.
With eloquence she did proclaim,
The Dauphin Charles would be crowned king.
Jeanne's duty now, to free Orleans,
Which Englands army had besieged.
Her strategy of no retreat,
Caused panic in the English camp.
When cannon fire created haze,
Two arrows pierced Jeanne's armour plate.
Despite her wounds she battled on.
With victory lifting the siege.
The road to Reims to crown Charles king,
Was fraught with danger near Patay.
Jeanne's orders were, to ride with spurs.
The English drums beat out retreat,
French knights on horseback giving chase
Were almost ambushed by their foe.
A startled stag caused disarray.
The French knights spilling English blood.
Jeanne kneeling down, tearfully prayed,
Betwixt those dying and the dead.
With Charles crowned king, and wanting peace
Jeanne's siege of Paris did surcease.
Her power was his great concern,
Consigning her to free Compiegne.
A skirmish by the city walls
Ended with Jeanne's captivity.
The trial of the Orleans maid
A charge of heresy was placed
Which Jeanne as always did deny.
With threats of torture or confess,
Those voices past, she did retract
Only to say, it was Gods will.
So weary now, she knew her fate.
For modesty, she wore mens clothes
Convicting her of heresy.
Within Rouen's old market place
Jeanne's death was burning at the stake.
An English guard made her a cross
He wept then cried, we've burnt a saint.
9/ 15/ 2015.
What could have been more expected
from a system created on greed
Where the donors all make legislation
via Congress they constantly feed
When a country is poisoned by money
it no longer looks out for the small
It is owned and controlled by the richest
who’ve decided that they want it all
Our history, bloody and violent
was a preview of what we would be
Just because we can’t see all the bodies
doesn’t mean that their spirits are free
The obsession with money and power
are the perfect dictatorship blend
Void of love for the land or the people
who are merely a means to an end
They all file in the chamber like robots
and their leader looks on as he gloats
The decisions made by all their donors
turn into the Congressional votes
They say capitalism is wonderful
but who is it wonderful for
It is not for the factory worker
nor the people who mop up the floor
It is not for the ones who build buildings
or the secretaries or the clerks
It is not for the drivers of buses
or the ones who toil in public works
Capitalism is poisoned
it is not for the poor or the old
It is not for the cooks or the teachers
or the soldiers, as they have been told
The system is for corporate donors
who get rich on the taxes we pay
We all work to provide them the money
which they triple on stock market play
President Trump is well versed in the art
of exaggeration
and procrastination.
He constantly breaks campaign promises
despite obligations
and or demonstrations.
Always begging His financial friends for
generous donations
for favorite foundations.
He brazenly touts alternative truths
luring congregations
feeding aspirations.
He’s transformed lying to a form of art
declared declarations
spurring confrontations.
His juvenile vindictive tweets effect
market fluctuations
and global relations.
Because angry Americans voted
his administration
will harm generations.
Congress must act and pursue impeachment
or his resignation
and rescue their nation.
(Rhyme)
Jan. 2, 2019
Contest: As easy as ABB
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Could chronic stress,
like sleep deprivation,
noise and light and air pollution
also derive
by avoiding barely still alive
high-risk trauma messes?
Sometimes sadly beginning
prior to economic and political puberty
Including multi-generational suppression
misogynistic sex tensions
and monotheistic depression
and homophobic repression,
hateful Othering paranoid impressions,
chronic monocultural climate despair,
uncivil disinvested oppressions
Endarkened
by a popular FirstWorld
anthro-privileged
secularizing, dividing, dissociating
evolutionary theory
of mutual assured predation
damnation
degenerating ecosystemic deflation,
ecocidal extinction
of once sacred synergetic EarthLove
elation
Or at least
co-empowering messianic missions
for restoring EarthJustice
mental ego-health is physical eco-wealth
co-relations.
So, go on
all RightWing
WrongHeaded;
service yourself!
But
I doubt you will find
your God's RightHand solipsism
resiliently satisfying
much less sacredly edifying.
Uncovering ecofeminists
and recovering peace mediators
are done being your ***** punishing bag!
Your indigenous justice
community resonance hag!
Did I hear that out loud?
Oh, any polypathic way,
Does chronic lifetime-anxiety disorder,
win/lose competitive stress,
contribute to multi-generational high-risk trauma histories?
Sometimes beginning long before adult maturing transition
from Either/Or fundamentalist childlike conditions
not Both/And exploring inside/outside
neuro-sensory double-boundaries
in-between healthy, mature win/win resonance
and lose/lose despairing dissonance,
positively and negatively
therapeutically and traumatically
correlated
In older adults
sometimes producing increased market risks
and opportunities of dementia,
with unfortunate paranoid demise
Rather than fortunate co-invested
peaceful
pleasured
mindbody post-traumatic surprise
of warm unconditional outcomes
in win/win Paradise.
Matthew Scott The Marionette...
(Concocting cock and bull poetic pap
promises to approximate bovine rap
worse case scenario..., you will snap
so friend me at funny farm in Trappe
Pennsylvania, or frankly yukon zap
this poppycock poetic
emetic entailing...vowel)
movements deftly managed skilled puppeteer
unseen hands adroitly maneuver paraphernalia
bajillion miles away deep into thee atmosphere,
where Soundgarden's black hole sun serves as
infinite energy-feeds performing artist career
inherent behind the scenes trickster leveraging
mine every move master of ceremonies appear
ring poking his oblate spheroid noggin thru walled
sky inquiring, asper state of being paternal care
oft times addressing him as father, cuz proficient
craftsmanship forged me from nought meticulously
rendering yours truly complex functions, an engineer
ring feat cosmic artisan whipped out applying greased
lightning rods (unbreakable accouterments) endowing,
and endorsing creation with uber tender loving care
divine intervention nary clue hinted, thus me unaware
leverage, sans remote control bound tethered bond
most every day of "FAKE" existence never suspected
every aspect of my being linkedin at mercy of pioneer,
who more or less cornered, fabricated, patented... the
market, sans configuring sophisticated kin o'man near
lee indistinguishable from offal housed in Augean stables
essentially explaining incessant mooing "holy cow" & rear
ring like a bucking bronco, though mastermind did milk
golden opportunity calf full not to exploit this cash cow
loose sing hybridized mutant amidst green acres, where
past chore age of cornucopia frequently dredges muck
cob bray, and remembrance of things past, I Angus here
hoof hit might be convenient Taurus to part ways lest
ye accuse me being lame provocateur, spewing this slop
(from well chewed cud) out the figurative derriere!
Street don pai wetin home training born,
Dignity don go market wey no fit return.
Ibalop? kin se fun if?, afi if?kuf?;
Kai! Obinrin s?ra w?n di òwò.
“I wan knack,” na “oga drop change”
Na phone be their business page.
Hook-up na new format for ashawo,
Packaging na for fake-life;
For these, truth strife.
Many lose their roots to noise,
Trained, but street becomes their voice.
Fame calls louder than their father’s name,
Greed turns their hustle into a game.
They fear no curse, they fear no shame,
Just to oppress who wants tame.
Quick way shines, hustle dies,
Now struggle looks like foolish trade.
Since, eni to m?we, lo m?n way,
Why me go con dey serve my pay?
Na this push dem join the race.
Teachers, trim the weeds you grow,
Not every smile deserves a score.
Stop selling mercy by the flesh,
Don’t trade truth for crumbs of bread.
Mark with justice, not with fear,
Some still care, their eyes hold tears.
Don’t crown the lazy while the honest crawl.
Government sef no dey help wahala,
Àpò ló j?´ w?n—orí wa l’agbára.
Dem chop tomorrow, leave pot empty,
Youth go school, but street be entry.
No tools for hand, no hope for ground,
Alágbà l’?´gb?`, poor man dey drown.
Hunger no get patience—sin go reign.
The market rules all
We are nothing but products
The rights to us
Have long been sold
Bow down and worship
The all mighty market
Everything we do
Everything we see
Everything we are
Nothing but our personal brand
Nothing human left over
Nothing authentic left over
Nothing but lies
Fake news
nonsense
The world does not care one whit
About you and me
As people
It is all about the profits that can be made
By exploiting our labor
And once we are used up
We become a liability
And a burden
If you have not made it to the top
By age 55
You are a loser
And should be retired
Forced to live out your life
On your miserable pension
As you wait to die
No longer useful
To the Masters of the Universe
And true love
Nothing but an illusion
It is all about the sex, baby
And how getting your baby
Ahead at all costs
Who cares about love
It is all nothing
But a second-hand emotion
As the song puts it
Love is nothing but a sexual commodity
And we are all nothing but interchangeable
Commodities in the marriage and love market
And ***** values rule the bedroom
As we are nothing more than used body parts
Who cares about friendship
It is all about how they can use you
And you can use them
To get ahead
True Love and genuine connections
Cannot survive
In this toxic soup
Of the modern materialist world
God and spirituality
Nothing but a scam
As our so call Christian Leaders
Proclaim their love for you
All they love is your donations
And they too are part of the market
Jesus if he ever comes back
Will no doubt
Be used to sell more goods
As the right to Jesus
Has also been sold