Long One hundred Poems
Long One hundred Poems. Below are the most popular long One hundred by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long One hundred poems by poem length and keyword.
June nineteenth one hundred and fifty years ago
Juneteenth hint: three hundred
and sixty six days
after eighteen sixty four.
Major General Gordon Granger
led the Union Soldiers to Galveston, Texas,
to announce the end of the Civil war
and the freedom of all enslaved people.
Jim Crow sat perched
over the event horizon
waiting in the wings,
which brought darkened
(non-sheltering) skies
not only for the hot pocket
of suddenly emancipated
persons of color,
who would subsequently experience
immense prejudice
upon their embarkation
as (no pun intended)
"masters" of their own selves
while attempting to eke out a living
dirt poor, yet resourceful
hunkering down on plantations,
which property eminent domain
of federal government,
(a political entity
characterized by union
of partially self-governing provinces,
states, or other regions),
whereby said body electric
codified, fortified, and indemnified
manifest destiny, a phrase
coined in 1845, the idea
that United States destined—
by God advocates believed—
to expand its dominion
and spread democracy and capitalism
across the entire North American continent.
Though institution of slavery
supposedly rendered null and void
at the stroke of a pen
(courtesy Abraham Lincoln)
well actual legislation
passed by Congress on January 31, 1865,
and ratified on December 6, 1865,
the 13th Amendment abolished slavery
in the United States.
Nevertheless merciless abuse
heaped upon the *****
despite their legal status
being Granted leeway
to persevere life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness.
Recognition as equal brethren
among collective soul of American
fraught with bitter aversion,
condemnation, and ejaculation
of physical and verbal violence
against people of color,
whose melanin enriched complexion
birthrights rendered hidebound
severely limited
inalienable rights as declared
in Declaration of Independence,
now still utter abhorrence
regarding treatment
of those proud enterprising people,
whose once storied
African past left in tatters
leaving sparse threads
woven together by diligent dogged research
nsync with twenty first century technology
to allow, enable and provide opportunity
to stitch together a more complete tapestry
and spiritual fusion with shackled ancestors.
Naked trees whose dilapidated bodies have outgrown the test of time
shoot unseemly into the unaccommodating sky flustering as they walk by
Nude trees laden with deceptive shadows waiting for the morrow
Echoing a somber tune with superficial topsoil eroding from the mad earth
I sat on the top of the exalted mount watching brittle trees swaying doubtfully in the motionless wind and one force would have done them in
Fragile branches stick delicately form their wounded side reaching out
and cracking slowly with a forceful smile while angels lament by their sides
I recall the good old days when there was laughter everywhere
smoke rushing out the chimneys and grandpa with his wooden axe
piling up woods on the side of the stream and dragging them into the fireplace
Drunken men sitting on the side of the street infuriated with exuberant laughter knocking dominoes and shouting at terrified girls parading the streets in short mini skirts.
strong women in tall long skirts knocking their tambourines as the minstrel marched around in circles and unruly men with loud music sticking out their feet in fancy jeeps shouting
Dry grass lay flat on the reproachable ground howling as if winter is still around
As far as the naked eyes could behold green trees are floating in the horizon way beyond me
but close beside me green leaves are barely sprouting on the topless trees
The earth is still casting doubts as it sinks deeper into its devouring throat
drenched by its painful self-inflicted wound spreading misery throughout
I kept sobbing at nature's frequent disruptions and mankind useless inventions
cars sliding and young men gallivanting and swearing under the dark bridge
Shameful faces hang in despair holding onto to a cloud that is not there
And Noah whom they say was a religious freak took one hundred and twenty years to build a ship that spared daylight out of darkness and give rise to a new moon
And what of the black plague that torment millions of bones in their sorrowful graves
And the Spanish flu had its impact too who knows what really brought it about
Nature has sucked the life out of the earth waiting for a miraculous rebirth
while death pounds heavily on fragile doors.
...Then, of course, there is the idea
that people are nothing but groups,
whether lumped by skin or income
there’s nothing further from the truth.
A group is but an abstraction,
it’s the one where the sovereignty lies.
Think individuals can’t effect change?
Just ask President forty-five.
Or Guttenberg and his printing press,
Mr. Gates and his software codes,
a single man nailed to a cross,
be he a God or man, who knows?
One person can change the whole game,
even in the ‘collectivist’ lands,
the politburo’s evils exposed
by that brave heart Solzhenitsyn.
Did they all accomplished nothing,
slaving for their dreams alone?
They gave us a host of changes,
while the socialists just give us bones.
The Nazis in their cruel madness
left ten million souls undone,
but Socialists, they take the gold,
slaughtering one hundred million.
And those are just the ones we know,
the real number’s much higher still,
all that death, and what has it brought?
No paradise, and it never will.
At least the Germans, after the war,
had the sense to learn from their mistakes,
Socialists refuse to move beyond
their ideas of murderous hate.
They just hide out in schools and claim
that they’re only ‘misunderstood,’
tied identity to failed ideas
so they can never see they’re no good.
To refuse to learn bloody lessons
strikes me as insanely perverse,
in truth they’re not as bad as Nazis,
they’re orders of magnitude worse.
When I was just seven, so small
My best friend Jacob, outdid us all
He had a pet Cobra, cool as could be
He forgot to feed it for a whole week you see
So I killed him
When I was fourteen, I went to the zoo
So many animals, all lounging around
Some seemed starved and some seemed week
One poor zebra died right on its feet
So I killed a Zookeeper
When I was twenty one I met a young blonde
We dated and loved and times where great
Her pet Collie so youthful with such playful traits
She left him in the car, the heat at one hundred and eight
So I killed my girlfriend
I am older now, a full mature twenty eight
My neighbor Miss Jennings has a cat we call him Mate
He loves all the felines all over the town
Till Miss Jennings had him neutered the Mate is down
So I killed Miss Jennings
Now I am thirty five and working so hard
At the animal shelter as the night guard
They bring in the wounded, the week and defenseless
All these humans who treat pets with out any senses
So I killed few strangers who mistreated pets
I am forty-two and work for the park
Where they come every day walking their pets after dark
In leashes so tight and bound round the neck
How is the good? Oh what the heck
So I killed all of them too
Now I am forty nine and in county jail
For some serial crimes they accuse me of committing
All I did was love animals, who are they kidding?
I am the hero in this story you all must see?
So I escaped and killed the jailor and now I am free
I have read the local papers; I am on the front page
They want to put me in a prison cage
Oh and there is PETA, who claim me as Saint
I am so proud why I might almost faint
But I kill myself as my final act
To be with the animals I loved till the last
“I am somebody’s child, and I need attention, I am somebody’s child and I need affection, I am somebody’s child and I need love and devotion”, she murmured as she walked through the door. She wasn’t sure where she was going when she left the house; she wasn’t sure about the next encounter, but she walked for five hours until she reaches the border.
The speed, at which she moved, left everyone confused but she was determined to make a point just to stay alive. She did not plan a journey she just wanted to live, and hang out with the daffodils but the trap was already set before they made the bet. She could sense it from within and so she had to learn to swim; with strength in her arms and strides in her feet, she made it through the dark before the break of dawn.
They searched everywhere for her, but they could not find her, the public became aware of it and they start to build a myth. Officer Jones devised a plan to begin the search mission he knew what he had up his sleeve, because he was so hard to please. He had laid the ground work to start digging up dirt, to catch the big fish and throw them back into the ditch, the climate was right and the alibi was riding high in the sky.
The search went on for days with no sight of her abducted in the bush or held captive by the brook; it was just one of those situations where you have to keep on top of things before the universe done you in.
The cheese, and the pie, the crown and the dye were just too reveling so they had to search for another meaning, and the sky was their only hope to keep sailing on the boat and so the narrative changed to give her all the blame.
Was it a crime torn area or someone lost their way and bumped into a criminal flattering in the sky that is a one-hundred-dollar question from a village miner who could not fit the pieces together for the director or the operator.
And so, the question remains, whose back was she trying to cover? My mind wander and wander and it didn’t look like a deal that turned sour, neither was it a set up by gate to discover something before it was too late. Everything seems to be in perfect harmony with the guitar, the piano, the band and the musical director.
The great Gatsby would have won the case if Tom Buchanan had not shot him in the pool over the death of Myrtle Wilson his darling wife. "I am somebody’s child," she screamed.
Some claim at last breath
One’s entire life flashes before you—
No way to know for sure
It happens too late to confirm.
Did Mother see
Fifteen children
Fourteen births
Thirteen first communions
Twelve Marriages
Eleven confirmations
Ten Hail Marys
Nine graduations
Eight siblings
Seven daughters
Six sons
Five homes
Four seminarians
Three divorces
Two deaths
One re-marriage?
Her life was more than her children,
But, by sheer numbers,
They consumed her
Thoughts, deeds, and energy.
When most exhausted, she learned
Love, kindness and caring
Replenished more than they took.
Can’t say that for changing diapers,
Settling fights,
Making breakfast, cooking dinner,
Preparing supper for so many—
No breaks for Sabbath or Sunday
For forty-five years.
She’d tell you family came first
After God and Jesus who coolly demanded to be
First. It was in her garden she felt most
Herself, but herself was family and God.
I studied
Washington, Napoleon, Alexander
Lincoln, Jefferson, Madison
Jesus, Buddha, and Zoroaster—
Not one could have mothered thirteen,
Praised God every day
while raising one hundred
Chickens and an acre or two of garden.
Elasticity of time allowed him this
One last visit to the Eastern Gate:
One too many wormholes navigated
Made it one hundred years too late.
The City had been sealed
And peace reigned over all
As the holograph of its history
Played against the City wall.
A half glanced form
A shadowed face
As the image moved
To another place
The people dispersed
To Cities then newly grown
But the details of dispersion
Not recorded or known.
In his eyes he felt
The stinging of tears,
The paradox of warp travel,
The slowing of elapsed years,
Made him so much younger
Than his date of birth
A kind of compensation
For living divorced from Earth.
She was gone for ever
Now probably just bones
And, as in most of his life
He felt so emotionally alone.
The Eastern Gate behind him,
Homage having been made,
Regret reviewed and filed,
And last respects paid.
The holographed history
For him a type of hell,
His starship command waited
So he said his last farewell,
We see them sitting in towers
carved from ‘learned’ ivory,
insulated by their tenure
from the world of reality,
poisoning their students minds,
putting bad ideas in their heads,
the kind that in a century
left one hundred million souls dead.
They know they face no consequence,
they even blacklist all others,
it’s the students who pay the cost,
in the real world they all suffer
for imbibing leftist nonsense
that they learned at academy,
betrayed by malign professors,
by ‘elites’ who are not elite.
We see them strutting in Hollywood,
convinced that their fame is greatness,
they want us to watch ever film,
yet our values they dismiss.
Thinking they’re on the cutting edge,
and the we’re all just inbred proles,
they think that lying well on film
makes them the people in the know.
Yet most of them have more spouses
when most people have fingers,
all their rapes are upsetting,
the pedophilia disturbs.
Once called the city of angels,
now just a Sodom on the sea,
a mess of ruined human souls,
an ‘elite’ who are not elite.
Glance upon the creative scenes,
you’ll find many more of this kind,
like the ‘artist’ who wants thirty grand
for a spray-painted orange rind!
Or maybe the plotless writer
who calls it ‘literary fic,’
bad characters just moaning on
about how they’re damaged and sick.
Don’t forget today’s architect
with his swiss-cheese ‘masterpiece,’
it’s supposed to be a building,
nut I looks like concrete feces.
I wouldn’t take any of this
even if given out for free,
they’re making all art hideous,
these ‘elites’ who are not elite.
Then there are all of the blowhards
who make up the modern news,
thinking that you will only see
the things that they pick and choose.
When any man with internet
can see through their partisan crap,
and lord do they get all annoyed
when you call them out on that.
If they cannot win they censor
and double down on their madness,
the idea that they can’t control us
is one they cannot stomach yet.
Those fools will tell me it’s raining
while I walk down a sunny street,
it is far time we tear them down,
damned ‘elites’ who are not elite.
Emerald envy nestled on velvet
several thousand away from paid
Puce tulip promise inducement
secluded juice, palliation delayed
Ivory aspire ripped wide envelope
plump with numbered requirement
Absinthe ardent delerium implode
paper stack compiling assignment
Cerulean satin adorns a champion
swanky speculators chase plethora
Fuchcia blooming futures chiming
swindle hopeful fast hoof investors
Magenta dash magic, risky fingers
probe probable, middle of pack peril
Bronze woebegone pilfers millions
prestigious month end ear emeralds
19th January
Naples Yellow, Ginger, Gold
Emerald Earrings
I wrote two terrible poems last night.
Will this one be another?
I am looking at the clock.
It is time to leave and get the oil changed.
I read the sign as I pull in.
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Mask, No Service.
I don my mask before entering.
I greet the girl behind the counter.
Do I need an appointment?
I do not know all the rules.
She replies, walk-ins welcomed.
Politely takes my keys.
Just an oil change JC, I nod.
She knows me by name.
Not because of my Poetry.
It is just that I have been here before.
The service starts promptly.
Three now toil on my vehicle.
It used just to be one.
I am the lone customer in the reception area.
Tv still playing the same station.
No more free coffee.
My soul smiles, anyway.
I guess I should have expected it.
I start to listen to Janine Jansen, Vivaldi.
My earbuds are a no-name brand.
I wish I had my Audiophile headset.
But that would be rude.
The technician approaches me.
I was expecting this.
It is not a cabin filter this time.
That would only cost me an extra twenty bucks.
He explains I need my transmission fluid changed.
That is another One Hundred and Eighty bucks.
Shows me the samples he took.
I agree, and he says it will take a little while longer.
As I sit here listening to music.
My keys arrive twenty minutes later.
Drat, I still need a little more hope.
I was looking for one more concerto.
Time to pay as panic sets.
Did I forget my wallet?
No, it is here in my back pocket.
A wave of relief washes over me.
I am slowly returning to normalcy.
On the way home, I am thinking, Metallica.
1st place
BRIAN'S CHOICE 10,any form,any theme
Contest Judged: 5/30/2020 4:05:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand