Long Mob Poems
Long Mob Poems. Below are the most popular long Mob by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mob poems by poem length and keyword.
He is a bit unusual, you will have to eat outside, my pet.
I was warned, but still, did not understand quite yet.
It was a blind date, and he came wearing a Russian hat.
But wait, it was not a Russian hat at all, it was a huge cat.
You must be Shirley, he said. He had a lovely sweet smile.
I am glad to meet you. May I sit down for a while?
We had a lovely conversation about the weather and my job.
He introduced me to his Cat her name was Missy Mob.
Missy Mob hissed at me a couple of times after my food came late.
Don’t mind her, he told me, she is angry she does not have a plate.
I offered to give her a bite of salmon, but he said an emphatic no.
She will get feisty on my head, and then I will have to go.
At the end of the date we each pretended we would meet again.
I knew I’d rather jump off a cliff into a wild starving wolf’s pen.
I imagine he also knew this would be the last time we would say “hi”.
I have to admit I could not wait to tell this weirdo a strong good-bye.
Some recalled Kristallnacht,
the white mob’s facial fever,
once the same fever of a night,
now the fever of a day-mare.
Some recalled Charlottesville,
the white mob’s lust for blood,
once the same blood craved,
now the blood of a purgatory.
Some recalled Greenwood,
the white mob’s rampage,
once the Tulsa rage inflamed,
now the ire of the privileged.
Oh persecuted one,
aspiring despot, so maligned and martyred,
your words hang in the air like the endless
echo of wailing toddlers.
Captain of the siege,
What incendiary drivel have you sown?
What lie ignited white wrath again?
Broken glass, shards of democracy.
To steal elections, accuse your enemies of it.
To win by fraud, manufacture it.
To decertify black votes, rile white mobs.
Broken glass, shards of democracy
swept from the floors of the capitol,
the bloodied casualties,
the pipe bombs awaiting discharge,
while white thugs are protected by white justice.
Broken glass, shards of democracy.
White supremacy
beds well with fascism and capitalism.
Broken glass, shards of democracy.
When will the next carnage surface?
Where will democracy die?
The Deadline
I stand at the edge of the world,
With no roof to call my own and no hand to hold.
The tide has turned, and all its people
Have set their faces against us—against me.
Perhaps it was always thus,
And I was merely too blind to see,
Too dulled by their daily bread
To taste the poison in their smiles,
To hear the hollow echo intheir praise,
To feel the chill behind their offered hand.
We gave them our trust, called them kin,
But their kindness was a leash,
When one drops the pretense,
A chorus of condemnation rises,
And we, the other, are made to burn.
They sing of unity in diversity—
It is carved into their anthem, their creed.
But when the chorus grows too vast,
When the harmony grows too strange,
They turn, and the song becomes a siren.
They bar their doors. They choose their leaders.
They march with torches in the daylight.
They look at us, and in their eyes,
We are not people, but vermin;
And they set a time for our erasure.
They sing of unity in diversity,
Yet their hospitality is a locked gate.
They sing of unity in diversity,
Yet we are treated as a plague upon their soil,
Mocked, spat upon, broken, and despised.
The clock is set.
They count the seconds, the minutes, the hours,
Tracing the arc of the sun
Until the final, fatal strike,
The hour when the hunt begins.
Tell me, then, if they sing of unity in diversity,
Why is our existence the crime?
Why is our breath the threat?
Why is our plea for peace
The justification for their war?
If they sing of unity in diversity,
Then why, oh why, is the whole world against us?
---
Guided by emotion,
We make the rush to Judgment
Torches burning in a rage,
We seek the harshest punishment
The freak, the monster -
Trapped in the windmill -
He's our ready target
In a field of insecurity,
We confine him to the margins
Blinded by emotion,
We preclude all sense of reason
Our base natures, stirred to unrest
We storm in angry legions
The mob, the crowd -
Our weapons drawn -
Our minds made up absolutely
The dissenter's opinion and heresy
Hanged from the tree of scrutiny
Tell me, when did we join this mob?
And shouldn't we cancel our membership?
Our primitive urges and intolerant thoughts
Find our higher selves in their grip
It was a flash mob…somewhere in Italy…a maestro was conducting Ode to Joy
and I found myself fascinated by the conduct of one little girl…and boy.
Moved by the beauty of the music…and how the maestro was instructing….
the little boy started dancing…and the little girl…conducting.
I love how, out of nowhere, this flash of music put these children in a trance
causing one to begin conducting…and the other one to dance.
And I thought I need to bring that childhood innocence into my morning walk
to be more open to the flash mobs around me as I circumvent the block.
Now, my heart controls the rhythm…providing a steady beat
then my brain receives the message and sends that rhythm to my feet.
Rabbits hop their steady beat to make sure I’ve got it right
as the birds, who provide the music, wake from their slumber of the night.
The crickets begin their collective chorus…voices reaching for the skies
until the owls, the mockingbirds, seagulls and squirrels begin to harmonize.
And on those mornings, when I’m lucky, in the trees I hear the wind begin….
and softly into the symphony…enters the violins.
The flash mob always plays the same song…it’s a daily Ode to Joy
and I try hard to listen with the innocence of that little girly and boy.
Which means on any given morning it is purely happenstance….
whether I choose to be the conductor…or if I choose to dance.
We need to organize, demand the right to be mindless.
Deserve we compensations,
restorations for the witless who riot.
Compassion and pardon for all moronic mobs.
The right to choose death for others, free booze.
The freedom to abuse, shut down, condemn,
and censor.
We fight for the right to chant
every meaningless slogan,
pledge allegiance to double-speak & gobbledygook,
and of course,
the unalienable sanctity of the male womb,
all gender-fluid birthing, the freedom to groom.
To boldly march on, arm in arm, in tune
toward another dumb-downed.
doltish dawn.
Too much Edward G
You dirty rat
James Cagney
Mae West
Chicago gangland in her heyday
Portrayed with beautiful dames
Singing seductive songs,
wearing mink, diamonds, slinky satin
Belonging to their men
I was almost asleep one night
When I heard a car chasing me down an alley.
I turned and saw it; and was terrified.
I knew it was a past life memory
Also the mobsters in the car were after me.
Snitches get stitches.
My heart had never beat this fast.
They were gaining.
I turned down an alley.
Heard the car stop.
Terrified, I was looking for an out.
Hid behind a trash can.
Someone fished me out
Threw me down.
I saw two men in shadow above me.
One leaned down and I felt a knife
Cut my throat from side to side.
I knew I deserved it, so I closed my eyes
They come to peek, to point, to laugh and gawk.
They stand in the front, staring from my sidewalk.
I think what kind of weirdos believe every rumor they hear?
I have a feeling most will never call me “my dear”.
What are they saying now? I ask my neighbor Miss Mc Narrised.
You killed another one, she confides, acting a bit embarrassed.
Three husbands missing, one gone just a week or two, mob doth cheer.
Give me a break! I roll my eyes; I have only had a few men disappear.
Murderer! One yells; she is built like a cow that’s been on a diet.
She stirs up the others and they try to cause a full-blown riot.
“Break it up!” The patrol officers say, coming by quick and ready.
“Shhhh!” I warn whimpering coming from the wall. It’s my latest, Freddy.
Half price sale, half price sale’
Half price sale today.
Into the town centre on a bus
Rode those to be plundered.
Forward the crowd as it swayed
“Charge on your card! The cry
Into the town centre to shop
Rode those to be plundered
Shoppers to the right of them
Shoppers to the left of them
Shoppers all in front of them
Brolly and handbag drawn, at bargains
They wondered.
Storming the shelves they yelled
On to the tills they fell
Into the jaws of debt
Into the hardest sell
Charged those that were plundered
Where are the deals they made?
Oh how they did some trade
All the town wondered
Would bill’s ever be paid
In the homes of those
That were plundered.
Charlie Milne 2008
Thank you and sorry, Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892),
A great poet from a time of the greatest poets.
Once a private eye I fled for my life.
I hid in Bridgeport, wanting Ann to wife.
But out of the past Whit’s thug Joe found me,
“Whit wants your snoop skills. Jeff it has to be.”
To save my own life, I gave it a whirl
On a bloody trail to retrieve his girl.
Down Mexico way at La Mer Azul
The sight of his Kate made me lose my cool.
When our eyes got locked, I felt love had docked.
She proved a gun moll; and I had been mocked.
Through Frisco, Big Bear, and Walker Rivers
Kate brought on death like long Winter shivers.
To Tahoe we went. She and Whit died fast.
I torched them for Ann and left my mob past.
12/29/2018
Movie Magic Poetry Contest
Gregory R. Barden
Out of the Past – Jeff Bailey