Long Overreaction Poems
Long Overreaction Poems. Below are the most popular long Overreaction by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Overreaction poems by poem length and keyword.
Migrants
The Scandinavian countries are finally waking up
to their goofy humanity, welcoming people from
Most Arab countries think they will be on time
nicely Nordic population, obeying the law
What they got was mayhem and criminality.
What did they think would happen, migrants
mostly young men without proper education
belonging to the violent section of the Muslim
religion, the provocation of public praying
Violence and rape
The lack of women was not considered they
They are vital for any society or culture
The Scandinavians have had enough, finally
They have taken to do something about, alas
wrongly by throwing the baby out with the
with the bath water
Many Muslims are nominally religious, like
We are nominally Christians, and they are
beneficial for any society, and throwing everybody
out is not a solution.
It is a stupid overreaction that serves no one
Of course, those who break the law must be
expelled, and those who work hard must be
allowed to stay
We are not like Tony Robertson, a person who
looks for the negative among migrants unable
to see the difference, seeking violence for
its own sake
The NBA was on strike,
Everyone is in the fight.
Racial injustice rages on,
It’s urgent for change to come.
Black man paralyzed with seven pops,
No actions are taken to make a stop.
White man gets the special treatment,
While black people are viewed a threat.
Majority of people say overreaction,
To a society issue that causes reactions.
A group of people are being scrutinized,
America hears black and thinks uncivilized.
America thinks it’s right to dehumanize,
I can’t comprehend the reason why.
America represents hope of a better life,
Ironically, they justify taking black lives.
And Like that.
I had this overwhelming urge.
I don't know what came over me.
I asked God is this the route I should take.
This habit of association.
To weed out what may seem to be selfish.
Time is of the essence.
This illusion of what is definite or what may not be.
Certainly this proclamation arrived out of nowhere.
Again I asked.
Notating my lack of patience.
I found the choir of mind without direction.
They stood and hummed.
Some in que.
Others were all over the place.
Without a podium or overreaction to the problem.
Amen, acknowledging your grace.
This aura highlighting sudden fixation.
I sought guidence.
Leaving the trail Whince I came.
I felt pain in my rib.
A spiritual curriculum decided by what's missing.
Again I asked.
More left to the imagination
A reiteration of urge.
The potency of silence.
Engaged by a look.
I understood what the choir was saying
Miss Muffet was a girl of thirteen, filled with youth's beauty and charm;
And a love of vibrant life zealous, like eager, vivid thunder of blue alarm.
She was a fine student, pert and popular; like the primrose popularity;
Or stars appearing at the designated hour, sparkling like crystal clarity.
Mary Muffet lived in a small town, with loving parents and her siblings,
Who sympathized with her fear of spiders; like colorful, fall misgivings.
Friends flanked their white picket fence, in fall days of glamour, striking;
And wove fanciful tales with flourish, like flowering genesis, so enticing!
Far off family ofttimes visited Fernglen, with its farms, rich with future;
For fishing and other rollicking fun, staying on 'til varicolored, fall rumor.
They lived in the house of quaint beauty, like charming red, berry sun;
Fondly gazing on pearly moon twice daily, the ritual begun on day one.
Songs sunrise to sunset serenaded, on dappled, silent, Sowerby Street;
But, a scorching summer bled scarlet roses, at the red butterfly retreat.
Near neighbors stayed on a first name basis, in unending, plum seasons;
Of days and nights of green nature; like teal surf, which never weakens.
Summer's glory was in the tiny details, like prayer plants, giving praise;
When sun face orchids, wore sunny smiles, in colored fields of noon haze.
And jade baby toes plants were crawling, through hours of soon history;
In honey days of bicolored hibiscus, filled with heady scents of mystery.
Mary attended a church celebration one day, along with her whole family;
And food was served indoors and out, as pink robin sang of gold, happily.
Mary had such fun playing games! There was much laughter and talking.
Then Mary had a craving for cheese, so like shadows, inside went walking.
Once inside, 'Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey;
There came a big spider, who sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.'
As Mary screamed and ran, causing a rumpus, she drew a lot of attention;
But, was suddenly embarrassed by her overreaction, like fall's suspension.
Little Miss Muffet was thence more mature, a natural result of getting older,
And fear of spiders was left behind, like summer blossoming, grown bolder.
Terror deep into that darkness scaring
Terror death shall bring out extremists
Death long I stood there provoking, declaring scaring
Terror I crave the terrorist, tearing
Terror you warned me about the sparer, not caring
Terror overreacting and overreaction with my militancy
I protest as I contest
I have dreamed of the elements
I crave the material, militant! Militants!
But in the fact that it was dripping
Still is whipping, still is whipping, whipping up destruction and terror
Much I marveled the material battlefield
The military melancholy mussing
Terror while I pondered, tearing and sealing just short of stealing
Terror deep into that darkness objecting
Terror death shall bring substances
“It’s that beating, “so I muttered
Terror picking up dead bodies that clutter
2/9/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
They are both children of God
Their perspectives are totally different
One is emotional due to hearsay
The other is irritated due to the other’s overreaction
I am the peace maker
This is what I am on earth to do.
I have to gnaw away at the chaff
Until we get to the truth
God wants these two to be friends
He is ready for word peace
It is up to me, so I begin working the rumors backwards
Reminding them if they did not hear it or see it, it might not be real
It takes me a long time.
When I get to the person “who doesn’t remember who told them”
I usually understand who the instigator is.
I cannot prove it, but they know that I know.
It oftentimes makes them less likely to instigate the next problem.
Is this enough?
It’s all I have.
It’s what I can do, and so I do.
The other day I read a Facebook post,
where they asked this silly question again.
Find a word that starts with the letter O,
but that word must end with the letter N.
Of course, I know it’s just my opinion,
and taken from my own observation.
That it would not take much of an optician,
to see this as open ostentation.
Now I feel I have an obligation,
to sit on the octagon ottoman,
Where I often eat an Oregon onion,
while petting my baby orangutan.
His name is Owen Odin Orion,
his occupation is just an oarsman,
But he has joined an organization,
to help an orphan find his origin.
He had a small organ operation,
with an option to open an obstruction.
They had to keep him on some oxygen,
while they blasted it to oblivion.
I wonder if I have an obsession,
for words that start with O and end in N.
My opposition says it’s an omen,
I say it’s an overreaction again.
Each day was turning miserable for her
For anything and everything he would yell
He would come home quite late, drunk and wild
Under constant abuse, life for her was hell.
All their earnings, he squandered on drinks
Every night he greeted her with showers of abuse
No more could she cope with his beastly behavior
Leave him for ever, as she had every excuse
When she finally announced her decision
Her words fell on him as a terrible shock
That night he reached home full of remorse
With emotion, his words seemed to choke.
He apologized and even burst into tears
Falling on knees, he begged her to stay
She believed him and cancelled her decision
When men cry, she thought, they mean what they say.
That moment she forgot his past behavior,
The storm and lightning in his words,
The earthquake in his thudding gait,
The sting in his eyes, the vileness in his deeds.
She forgot the sadness that made her think;
'End life and flee from all misery'.
She was manipulated into such a thought~
Her overreaction was what led to such a tragedy.
In the days that followed, he overwhelmed her
With false promises and a show of intense love
Not realizing she was being cleverly manipulated,
She snuggled close to him like a demure dove.
Soon the mask he wore for an interim fell off
He went back to his abusive nature more virulent
Identifying the Svengali in him, she resolved
To leave him for good as he was no more reliant.
The geese.
Again.
Interrupt my day;
which had been
-Interrupted
(All day.)
by my wand’ring mind.
It hithers and thithers.
As the boyish body
ages, the brain withers.
Each day a protest;
silent but for the creaks and groans
(some audible),
against the Grand Dissolution
when my organized bits
are no longer suspended in
solution
and I settle out of the mix
and all is clear once more.
My pigments, my dyes
have their peace of rest:
have their piece of rest -
have their peace in rest -
have the rest of peace -
have their rest in peace -
My wishes, my tries,
Upon the canvas, the clay, the stitchery of
Life, upon my fingers uncleaned -
Everything dies...such is the witchery of
Life.
Where was I?
Oh, yes.
The geese.
Again.
I name this unseen one,
overloft at end of day,
Clarion.
These pages say that a clarion
is a call to action.
I’ve had my part, I’ve had my day.
Action has had its traction, in its day.
Not today. This, no overreaction,
I am over reaction. This be my response,
instead.
I take this goose to be a call.
To inaction.
No, not inaction.
To rest.
To the
Presence.
Before the
Absence.
Jack 177 26 Jun 2025
A room in my head called emotion
Controlled by various means
A thermometer reacting to the room temperature of others
The cold shoulder of silent indifference
Could turn the blood in my veins, to frozen streams
Other times, blood starts to boil with internal rage
The mercury of overreaction, starts to rise
The volatile instability, damages perception
I work hard on a solution for my personal climate control
I do, have a choice
Reactive thermometer or self-regulating thermostat
Someone else’s winter can be my thawing spring
Heated summer anger, can be a pleasant autumn day
That room in my head, needs comfortable stability
Self-awareness becomes the barometer of my emotions