Long Martyrs Poems
Long Martyrs Poems. Below are the most popular long Martyrs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Martyrs poems by poem length and keyword.
There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach
A man unpresidentially known for the showerhead
Msholozi, the man in charge of singlehandedly running a nation into crisis
With him at the helm the public anxiously watches as the state of things degenerate
The rand has slumbered, corruption trivialised and unemployment popularised
Numeric’s play trickery on his unknowing tongue
And in his mind’s eye rules of grammar are easily ignored
Unpopular for his uninspiring speeches and refusal to obey protocol
A man who unapologetically lives above the constitution without fail
Without resolve he spends his term in office under the guise of ignorance
A generous man whose time is easily spend trying to resolve crises in countries outside our shores
He gets to lead a life of privilege without burning a sweat
He carries on blindly without taking any responsibility while the rest suffer the consequence
The unjust Msholozi hypocritically lives above the law but expects others to obey
The threat of prison bars didn’t hold him down because his connections served him right
A smart man with a dedicated entourage of followers to defend his malice
From the safety of his chambers he observes like Big Brother leading a nation to its downfall
As things spiral down he generously extents the rope to which the economy hangs itself
Cynically he laughs off his critics while the believers fan off the opposition
He doesn’t get his hands dirty since willing volunteers fight his battles
The booing and anger from a nation divided never unsettles this comrade
Without shame he takes merit from the achievements of others
He doesn’t worry about his endless failures since his inactions are blamed on the past
After all, he’s a diligent leader living in a utopian valley where all his citizens are satisfied
He sees no wrong, hears no concerns and does nothing to improve the nature of things
An unscrupulous man who dishonourably musk’s his failures by claiming what others have earned
At the sound of his voice the martyrs who selflessly fought for this freedom turn from their graves
Hi puppets continue to defend him like a messiah filling his silences with bombastic defences
He’s set in his questionable ways and is undeterred by motions of no confidence
Like the mafia his enemies are harshly eliminated from the face of politics but friends handsomely rewarded
Declared plainly by those that know not thee of whom this present world was not worthy Their cries still being heard how long Oh, Lord They were were slain with the sword
of stones of hangings Of Crosses and Stakes Brazen Bulls and Iron Beds they where baked racks and wheels screws and vices iron maidens and all other evil devices
Lit candles lighting the gardens of cruel kings Tortures and Torments but they still sing unto blood shed men of valor showing God's Love consistent of lion's and lamb's eagle's and dove's Courage and strength to put tens of thousands to flight instead suffering servant's showing mercy like Christ Surely they have won the battle not lost for they follow the One counting the cost What manner of death Glorifying God Loving the brethren when they would not as Valiant as they can be the world to come they seek Overcoming this world for another for the Love of God and brother - Based on the Word of God ,Fox's book of martyrs, Tortures and Torments of the Christian Martyrs'', itself a photographic copy of an earlier, rare folio published by William Brendon & Son in 1904. - and HE WHO WOULD VALIANT BE Who Would True Valor See the Words: John Bunyan, Pilgrim’s Progress, 1684; modified by Percy Dearmer in The English Hymnal (London: Oxford University Press, 1906
A Comrade like Ben
A statesman like Mandela diplomatically
suspended the necessary struggle of opposites,
gummed his fragmented land together with reconciliation….
exploiters to exploited , murderers to martyrs
imperialist to invisibled indigenes
lives in Sandton and councils Bill Clinton
and Naomi Campbell on plush carpets
a sinewy activist, hard as nails, like yourself…
Ben Palmer Louw, always
cajoling
conspiring
criticizing
organising
uprising
forever
beautiful in your pregnant concern
that freedom , dignity and justice
is tangible and beautiful as black skin, kinky hair
is real when a continent’s wealth is fairly shared
is manifested when the state collapses in selfless deeds
old man Nelson turned ninety and is now a teddy
to those who feared the terrorist at forty.
He no longer speak for himself but for his party
and the party is a self-serving affair.
Pity your death at thirty-something
when Nelson started talking to his racist oppressors.
For ten years you and your young militant army
punctured holes in the racist ideology,
marched flames and thunder through townships,
died in your thousands,
stopping with blood and bones
bullets casted for centuries by the fascist
in black holes of greed and fear.
“A shame … but subversion is to blame ”
`` the defenders of law and order loudly exclaimed
“Not good for business”…the moneybags conceded
“ if Soweto bleeds , profit –rates receeds . ”
“Give black chiefs and compradors the garrotte
and stick the small change of capital under their nose .
They will throttle the radical noises at the root ”.
Wounded deeply, your rapid-firing baritone voice
still thundered on battle-fields and in halls,
urging us to destroy mental and wage slavery.
I saw you fight for freedom
the whole scorching way,
every hour of that long bloody apartheid day…
but one night
you leaped ,
proud black brother of mine,
right into the sky…
fist raised high as heaven with a two-hour smile
whispering re-assuringly “Don’t ever give up, gents…
the harder they come , the harder they fall.
See… brothers and sisters…revolution is!
In memory and respect to Ben Palmer Louw (1950-1987)a student leader of 1976 soweto insurrection
I think my dorm room may have a ladybug infestation. You know why I think this? Because I am usually, when in my dorm room, surrounded by ladybugs. I go to sleep with them. I wake up with them. And at this point, they are basically a part of my daily life. Now some people- normal people, would have filed a maintenance request to get them all vacuumed up, but of course, me being a writer, I've begun to feel pity for them. When I wake up I often look under my pillow and hope I haven't rolled over and crushed any of the poor creatures in my sleep. Honestly I know how all of this may sound, but I often think “aren't they just as alive as you and I?” I sometimes wonder if that's why I feel sort of connected to the little guys- they're my friends, my companions, sometimes even my confidantes. When I see them walk across my tiny desk-globe I more often than not, pretend they're walking across the world and I think of what it would be like to be a giant ladybug myself- travelling to delft or Milan or Paris- scaring the out of people. The sad part is I often have to play the role of a ladybug grim reaper. I mean some of them have to die, which I have to kill, or else they’d probably eat me alive. Although most seem to be attracted to the overhead light which simply instigates their acts of mass suicide. Occasionally I’ll take the courtesy of moving them aside, although when I roll up the blinds I inadvertently seem to kill seven or eight at a time. Often with feelings of remorse I try to think of them as martyrs for an open window. I feel so bad I often think back to my pillow and wonder if that would have been a better way to go and ask myself is it fair for me to even have to breathe? My dorm room may accumulate heat but they were simply just trying to live their lives, never asking for any trouble. Even now as I write this they scamper and scuddle on my cup of ink pens as if they're the ones trying to scribble this drawn-out message to defend and contend with how they never had wanted to be my friends in the first place. To say “although we may be killed by LED lights, ultimately we are the purest form of life. You are merely human and one day we will eat you alive.” to which i'd reply “Is this really about the blinds?”
Akin twin invisible presence coaxing...paranormal
Action across ouija board
herald Faustian bargain
as fingers of left hand appear to move
planchette of their own accord...
inexplicably, silently, and verily
along a barely traceable minuscule chord
dance, with some spatial force
from outer limits, perhaps dimension unexplored
twilight zone, (where spirit of Rod Serling dwells)
horizontally, linearly, and peculiarly unmoored
hashtagging, kickstarting, and zigzagging
while just barely hoovering
with maybe a hair breath of space to afford
between alien world and terrestrial
plain playing field, when oh my lord...
(this premature ejeculation from an atheist sword
like cross my heart and hope
to die a martyrs death), thee paranormal
shenanigans witness movement toward,
and away from death still participants mouths agape
with bated breath until last letter scored
which message... uh...ah...cannot be revealed
yeah...yeah...yeah...due to HIPAA laws...
...Without explanation,
there gets heard clangorous din
along with whooshes of ice cold air
brushing against my chin
analogous to some unseen
genie i.e. and/or jinn freed
from the lantern by Aladdin,
then,...how odd...
a deathlike stillness one could hear a pin
drop pervades painfully quiet
as if sound got vacuumed in
to a void of parallel universe...
...Though I don't dabble in black magic,
nor nothing linkedin with the occult,
yours truly titled poem
to "grab" attention fast as Usain Bolt,
he dashes off runners block
blinding earth shattering jolt
faster than speeding bullet,
a praiseworthy athlete
with no win tent to insult,
but merely chose his name out of thin air
(in accordance with abracadabra)
and flimsy rhyme that did result...
But, aye beg (bribe
with wealth of Midas)...please
believe me you, this rather cheese
zee poetic endeavor got
wrought eyes wide shut
(for all intents and purposes eyes closed),
where gentle force did cease
phalanges asthma southern paw
of righteous honest to dog
gone guy with pennywise
and pound foolish sixth cents sees
dead people as like miniature floaters
(in my eyes with ease)
poised and struck unbeknownst to me
computer laptop black keys!
It was in eighteen eighty-six in the streets of Chicago,
where the greatest miscarriage of justice people would know
transpired in an infamous labor-police rendezvous.
Albert Parsons led eighty thousand people on revue.
The strikers marched down Chicago’s Michigan Avenue.
The Knights of Labor were sponsors for the work stoppage venue.
Demands for shorter work hours and no child labor were made.
This would be regarded as the world’s first May Day parade.
Thousands nationwide would join in with the activities
In the next few days, the striking workers stopped whole industries.
On the third, some strikers and police engaged in melees.
These actions resulted in two ill-fated fatalities.
The struggles also caused some severe hideous injuries.
The fights took place at the McCormick Harvester Company.
Many held the police for murderous culpability.
Organizers from the Knights of Labor held a mass rally
at the Haymarket in Chicago’s West Loop vicinity.
They would assemble there in the early part of May.
Thousands crowded there peacefully on the month’s fourth day.
Leaflets were passed noting the police for murder to the crowd
as anarchists urged the mobs to join forces and shout aloud.
A bomb thrown at the police catalyzed an altercation.
One officer was killed and others hurt in the explosion.
Matthias Degan was the officer fallen in duty.
Seven other policemen died later from an injury.
The police opened fire on the people immediately.
At least eleven of the strikers were shot at fatally.
Eight men stood trial for the death of police officer Degan.
They were Parsons, August Spies, George Engel, Samuel Fielden,
Adolf Fischer, Louis Lingg, Michael Schwab, and Oscar Neebe.
All eight were tried and found guilty by a judge and jury.
Neebe got fifteen years; the others got the death penalty.
Schwab and Fielden were commuted to life; then got clemency.
Lingg took his own life before his scheduled execution.
The remaining four men were hanged in public exhibition.
Since then, there have been enacted many labor reform laws
The men who died are considered martyrs to a noble cause.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for the information I obtained to write this
poem.
> My pen does have a mind to write.
Could be my brain, that sounds right.
About a scene. I saw one night.
I did about it, then did write.
But today, before my mind.
My brain recalled that one time.
And now it's back again, this time.
I saw a woman so forlorn.
No expression on her face was borne.
Neither in her voice, it's true.
Can you remember me telling you?
I wondered if I was in her frame.
By frame, I mean, her body true.
Would I sound just the same?
Or would I have been, driven insane?
She had been a prisoner of the Islamic state.
Although she did not look a mess.
God spared her looks, I must guess.
Alas, inside, she was a mess.
If I could bear her pain, its true.
I would, but know, alas that I cannot do.
I prayed to God to intervene.
But of true men, none could be seen.
I assume they're working behind the scenes.
Scared in case by Islamic state seen.
As they will be targeted as well.
By them Islamic state men from hell.
They are not real men, you see.
Treating women so very badly.
Although that woman bore her pain, well.
I'll be glad when all Islamic state are in hell.
Make it soon, good Christian men.
Rid the world of them Islamic state's excuse for men.
You see, they all will go to hell.
And I've agreed to go as well.
You see, I, made a deal with Satan.
I'm sure I did tell you.
I'm going to sort hell out.
Just don't tell them how.
Although if you can remember the title of my poem.
You might just remember how.
I hope I do not have too.
But it's plain to me.
We are not winning the battle.
Against those terrorist we see.
With all the innocents in heaven.
And the terrorists martyrs all in hell.
By the time I've finished working.
Hell will be purged as well.
I might have a little problem
As Islamic state numbers do grow.
So I'll expect some support from you.
When it is your turn to go.
There's plenty of God's armour.
It will make you strong.
And then, with all your help.
We'll rid the whole universe of wrong.
Easter has now been and gone, The world is sill going wrong. So with Jesus back where He belongs. Guess We must sing new battles song. Am I right? Or am I wrong? (The mad Author)<
Listen! Here come the horses,
War machines, a myriad of forces!
'Whitewash', the white horse, is first,
Those deceptive words rehearsed.
Peace as a pretense to conquer,
Glossy until he grows stronger.
'Butcher', the red horse, unleashed,
Civil unrest and sword unsheathed.
Laying claim to the Earth,
Mixing lifeblood with turf.
Black are the ravages of war,
Famine only adds to the score.
The black horse arrives,
His name is... 'Survive'.
But 'Ash' has entered the scene,
The color of corpse, pale-green,
Their progression succinct,
Succumbing to animal instinct.
Fools have staked their claim,
And adorned themselves with shame,
"The Earth belongs to the ‘Best’!"
When the ‘Best’ are merely Guests!
Corrupted to have their own way,
Inferiors they oppress and dismay.
Devouring each other like prey,
Their body and soul He will slay.
Whirling Wheels in the great expanse!
The Davidic King will soon advance!
His Wheelwork is not uncertain,
Make ready for His final curtain!
Listen! Martyrs beseeching their Master,
"When will you avenge this disaster!"
"All must repent or perish,
There's more to be saved, to cherish.
When Messiah returns to avenge,
The Superiors on Earth will cringe,
And hide themselves from My face,
But I will expose their disgrace.
The Day of Our wrath will come,
My adversaries will all be undone!"
Whirling Wheels in the great expanse!
The Davidic King will soon advance!
His Wheelwork is not uncertain,
Make ready for His final curtain!
Listen! A Watchman’s urgent call,
"The Davidic Dynasty is All!"
"Do not cover their true condition,
To convey, not create, is the mission.
'Who influences who?', is the test,
Repentance and restoration are ‘Best’!
Judging His choices and actions,
Creates obstacles, infractions,
To live the way He intended,
And to have His blessing suspended.
Scripture is the sign to heed.
Our Substitute He decreed.
Grace through faith the plan.
He resurrected the God-Man.
Whirling Wheels in the great expanse!
The Davidic King will soon advance!
His Wheelwork is not uncertain,
Make ready for His final curtain!
What is it to hear a poem?
Ears ajar.
Eyes focused.
Mouth shut.
I struggle to listen when such words cut open
my head and try to make a nest out of my brain.
I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR A POEM!
My body jolts under these straps of limitation,
tightened by my ability to hear.
Why must one be limited to hear a poem?
I cast out stones towards those who care to listen.
Why don’t we be the poem?
Climb inside the mouth of a poem and
understand it’s true voice.
Be the pen kicking fiercely at the paper,
leaving behind marks of genius and creativity.
Rip open the heart of a poem and suck its
blood dry.
Feel a poem.
Be a poem.
Live a poem.
See words rise from the paper,
as they dance between the strings
of your heart.
Grab a hand of the message and twirl
it around your mind and smother its
meaning with praise.
Curl up inside the dot of an ‘i’.
Slide across an ‘l’ and mold it into a ‘t’.
Travel across an empty plain were stubborn
boulders cry.
Attack black and white ideas with shades
of blue and green.
Drive a sword through their hearts and leave
them dead to what is known.
Fight a poem.
Hurt a poem.
Heal a poem.
Turn the waste of sound into
vibrant waves of belief and inspiration.
Let yourself be swept away by
imagination and surrealism.
Find your soul inside of a poem and
claim it as your own.
Bring down the fortress of structure and
make its remains into martyrs of lost cause.
Open the doors of a poem and remodel
what’s inside.
NO! I do not want to hear a poem!
It sends pain through my soul to see the
voice of a poem silenced by the ignorant
dangers of sound.
Help yourself and plug your ears.
Visualize the words through serene images of
beauty cultured by unmatchable craft.
See a poem.
Grab a poem.
Know a poem.
Be influenced by a poem.
Learn a poem and all of its meanings.
Threaten a poem.
Scare a poem.
Stab a poem.
Teach it how to live amongst a world of vultures,
hungry for mistakes and misinterpretations.
Guide a poem into a building filled
with a million little fingers.
Like a poem.
Be touched by a poem.
Love a poem.
Show the world your insides.
Show them the words to your poem.