Long Marketplace Poems
Long Marketplace Poems. Below are the most popular long Marketplace by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Marketplace poems by poem length and keyword.
How has it dawn on us so soon when we hadn’t even achieved much?
Why has the marketplace ceased to buy and sell so scanty the streets wither away
The clouds becomes more darkened as smokes ascend randomly our fields are on fire
We can feel the rain but it has lost its coldness
I hear more voices than I usually heard
This time of crying and wailing rather than chatting and hailing
Voices
chanting and singing songs of war
Dust and gun powders like fog fill the air,
with great rumble the battle rages
The long night tarry on nobody has awakened
Some privileged to pass on to the other side
Total transmission from what we see now
Carcasses litter the streets as we run from pillar to post
Yet not so sure where the lot may fall
Great assets lost in hot zones, they shouldn’t have taken the guns,
Gravesides more frequent than bedsides
When did we become such serious foes?
That tears can’t seem to mend?
We let our children die by our own hands and still squeeze our sorry faces
How valuable is this trophy, hope it’s worth the pains we are feeling now?
We match in battalions, onward we go
Faces brimming with boldness and courage,
Though fear still takes its partition
We leave behind loved ones not so sure,
like walking into the lions cave to kill or be killed
Jumping over strip wires, nice try
Only to step on landmines
A time to team up with death taking from one end
While it continues from the other side in its own way
Orphans, widows and widowers we make at will that which we had once pitied
What caused this sudden change?
So unfortunate many fighting ignorantly yet arrogantly
Now we pull down our once fancied walls to build more refugee camps and fill them
We overstretching science and make of men expendables
A time we show how much we can take
What we depict now is wickedness rather than strength
In this game
Winners are
Always
Rude
The first invisible hand I saw, was the hand that appeared
in the banquet hall of the Babylonian palace, inscribing
letters on the wall, with its fingertip,
the letters, written by the invisible visible hand, on the wall
may be an astonishing revelation, the inscription on the wall
is not as impressive as the visible invisible hands stretching
desperately on the canvas in ‘Guernica’.
By the time I learned of the existence of an invisible hand,
it’s an embarrassing situation but the invisible hand disappeared
from our surroundings, already; a crow flew away to the place unknown
carrying my poor soul.
Presently, however, every hand has
its own color and goes loose in the marketplace
the clean white hands called holy
dipped and pulled out from holy water;
the bluish hands dyed from bruised people treated cruelly;
the dictator’s red hands stained from the blood of innocent people;
other hands,
messy hands stained from oil spouting from the well;
the bright gold hands of the man who found a vein of gold.
Nonetheless, there still is, the invisible hand, out there,
this hand occasionally fumbles into my breast, pulls my heart out
and tattoos an unsightly tattoo which can’t be removed or cut out
and when becomes bored of tattooing my heart, the hand squeezes
into the brain, connects and disconnects the delicate linkage of my thoughts
and beclouds my judgment
it’s really annoying, but what can I do?
since it’s an invisible hand.
That’s the devil’s hand a dog plays with,
the dog tosses, chases and chews it in his mouth.
i miss the softness of her touch
cut short by Lehman brothers’ harsh
collapse
i miss kindness of time before the crash
economy in relative peace
living off fumes of postwar boom
before post-traumatic stress of recession-plagued world
robbed me of ability to fulfill my dreams
and fully reveal my inner self
thanks to din of private property
and rumble of greed
world is psychotic, denial laden
- where love can be a marketplace
humans commodified to the extreme -
i yearn for a world
where people can be people
judged on the merits of their person
not their circumstance
for in such a world
there would be no need to worry
for inherent goodness in every human being
is a guarantee
someday that world will be realized
this i know for sure
this poem a dedication
and an affirmation
of that truth.
In an age of cheap poets and marketplace philosophers,
When words intertwine beautifully but lack depth,
My contemporaries have already given me the greatest reward,
Their indifference, their silence, heavy like a spider’s web.
In a world where applause is the echo of an illusion,
Rise those who believe themselves original,
For they have an audience that claps but does not understand,
And they do not know that true poets live only posthumously.
I wish to be a shadow in the book of time,
To write my words on dead leaves, carried by the wind,
Melancholy as my ink, and my heart as the paper,
To tell my stories in a stream of thoughts.
For what does it mean to be alive, if not to be forgotten?
To leave only a sad echo and a lost smile,
In a world of those who have eyes but do not see,
In a mechanical universe, where souls are mere cogs.
But perhaps one day, when silence will sing,
My words will bloom in the light of dusk,
And they will tell the story of those who were,
Those who wrote silence, while the world screamed.
Both Freddy and Frieda Flea
Had an itch and felt the need
To leave their home on Beagle back
So they packed their bags while Fido napped
They'd heard magical tales of the Big Top
Since their larva days on top the pup
They weren't here this time to clown around
As they found themselves circus bound
They hitched a ride in a hobos beard
Too no telling who knows where
But one thing that is perfectly clear
Both those fleas are outta here
Along the way they purchased needs
In a marketplace made just for fleas
Like underwear and mint toothpaste
Soap on a Rope to wash their face
Plus deodorant, quite a bit
You need a lot of it when you've got 6 pits
The rumor mill can be very mean
Fleas, after all, are fairly clean
After a day of personal shopping
It was all aboard for more beard hopping
Riding that hobo from coast to coast
In this their new hairy chateau
As circuses go they started their own
Advertising on the hobos back cause he never turns around
Over time their acts they've modified
As the flaming hoops set the hobos beard on fire
Now with Freddy as Ring Master and Frieda on trapeze
They are the Greatest Show On Earth, at least among fleas
To a place with no money
I'm takin' a hike
Where you work for your food
And you build what you like
No permit is needed
For the castle we'd build
No laws must be heeded
For the deer that we'd kill
A town marketplace
Where citizens share
And the stock market crashes
But nobody cares
And the smell of fresh food
Is rich in the air
Cause the barber must eat
For cutting our hair
And the hunters are tired
From catching the game
And the culligan man
Is catching the rain
And the doctors and lawyers
They never complain
They sold their Mercedes'
But they're happy they came
The police are not crooked
Just fat as can be
Not a whole lot to do
When everything's free
Not a single hard worker
Is wanting to leave
There's just one blasted problem
It's only a dream
I know you are here.
I can feel you,
In the tips of my fingers when I pass through the path
Broken now by soldiers of summer that once swished strong bayonet’s
Fighting a cold war before resting on the icy ground
For I am blind to you,
I can’t see you
Blighted with my fathers curse to confuse you with others
But I know you are here.
I can taste you,
In the chestnuts that swarm in the heat of the marketplace
A buzzing of warmth from a natural source
A bubbling coffee to heat tired eyes
Yes, I am blind
But not as you think
Colour blind
This doesn’t mean I let you fall from my sight.
Truth and facts are twins,
born from the same silence,
cradled in the same light,
yet hunted by different men.
Facts stand naked in the marketplace,
cold, stubborn, unmoving.
Numbers etched into stone,
events that happened whether we like them or not.
But truth…
truth walks deeper.
It enters the soul of things,
breathes beneath statistics,
and whispers what facts alone cannot explain.
A fact may tell you
that chains once held a people.
Truth will tell you
how those chains still echo in their minds.
A fact may record
the fall of a nation.
Truth will reveal
who sold its future in the dark.
And so the world fears them both.
Because facts expose lies,
but truth exposes intentions.
Politicians manipulate facts,
crowds distort truth,
and loyalists bury both
beneath noise and emotion.
Yet the twins endure.
For facts are the footprints of reality,
and truth is the soul that left them behind.
Separate them,
and society becomes blind.
Unite them,
and even darkness begins to confess.
My Mom read the supermarket flyer
There was a sale on sparkling cider
I groaned when she said we must shop
When she starts, she'll never stop.
I pleaded, "Mom, in the study below
"We have sixty-three, I counted, I know
"Bottles cover half the floor
"It's hard to even open the door."
But determination was in her face
So I had to drive her to the marketplace
We cleaned out their cider without doubt
I carried four bags, staggered out.
I arranged the bottles on our floor
There was no room at all, not any more
Then she made dinner, and I went to sleep
While a burglar at our house did creep.
He jimmied the window lock, and climbed in
Fell over the bottles, made an awful din
I woke up to the sound of shattered glass
And an escaping thief, going fast.
So now I'm cleaning up soda on that floor
But I won't complain about Mom any more
She can shop for soda, and Angel Cake too
She can fumble coupons till the cashier turns blue.
The cops caught the perp, he smelled of cider
An international gang, the net got wider
All this helped Mom's ego inflate
My neighbors told Mom that she was great.
So all you who shop until you drop
You never know, you might help a cop.
And make a burglary plot flop.
O Council of marble halls and hollow oaths, the world is asking: whom do you save? Are you not but a lion, toothless and tamed, pretending to defend the pride, while the hyenas feast in your shadow?
We have seen your silence dressed in law: in Baghdad’s burning, in Tripoli’s ruins, in the shattered homes of Gaza. Your chambers echoed with speeches, but your gavel struck only air. The powerful spoke, and you bowed, their crimes baptized with your silence.
If peace was truly your crown, would children lie unburied beneath collapsed stone? Would nations bleed while you debated the price of their agony? Nay—your throne is not of justice, but of compromise with evil. You are not a council, but a marketplace where the rich purchase the right to destroy.
Tell me, O guardians of nothing, is sovereignty now for sale? Is humanity a currency, traded in the corridors of New York? Your veto is not a shield— it is a dagger, plunged into the hearts of the weak.
O nations of the Global South, how long will you kneel before ghosts? How long will you believe that justice will be delivered from the same hand that shackles you? Withdraw, break the chains of illusion. Build a covenant not of domination, but of dignity— a true assembly of mankind, born not from the ashes of empire, but from the fire of justice.
For the world does not need a toothless lion roaring for show. The world needs a sword of light, a covenant of equals, where no child’s blood is deemed cheap, and no nation’s grief is buried beneath vetoes.
The Security Council has spoken in silence, and its silence condemns it. Its stage is set, its mask unveiled— not a guardian, but a conspirator.
And so the question remains, echoing through broken streets and ruined skies: Whom do you save?
But hear this prophecy— your empire of glass shall shatter, your halls shall echo with dust, and a new covenant shall rise from your ruin. For the lion without teeth shall be devoured by the very prey it failed to defend.
History will not forgive you. And tomorrow, the world will move on without you.