Long Pamphlets Poems
Long Pamphlets Poems. Below are the most popular long Pamphlets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pamphlets poems by poem length and keyword.
I was born in a banana republic,
Between the carnivorous chains of Françafrique,
In an open-air dumpster,
Where tyranny, barbarity, and savagery speak with arrogance.
I am perfumed with all the nauseating scents of misery.
I grew up under the honeyed speeches of necktied oppressors,
Their swollen pockets vomiting development aid.
They painted the walls of despair UN blue,
While our starving bellies served as ballot boxes.
My tongue is a battlefield
It was cut, stitched back, trained to sing the masters’ symphonies.
I speak French like a trauma articulated,
With the pain of my color since the first slave trades.
My struggle, a reminder of the invasion, an inheritance of batons from the Caribbean plantations.
I saw dictators blessed by chancelleries,
Oil traded for diplomatic silence,
Mines bled dry by hands gloved in elegance,
And mass graves hidden beneath bilateral agreements.
I am what they call human resource,
Exportable, exploitable, erasable at will.
I was born where dignity is sold by the kilo,
And where the future fits in a punctured boat at dawn on the Mediterranean.
I was born where the future fits in a punctured boat at dawn on the Mediterranean.
Where a passport is a burden, not a key.
Where one sells their skin to organ merchants
To buy a pixelated mirage of Europe.
I saw my mother weep silently over deportation slips,
My father break his back in open-pit mines of the cradle of humanity,
I learned to read in the pamphlets of the defiant,
To count on my fingers the promises unkept.
School, a factory of stillborn dreams.
Healthcare, a market where cancer is sold in tainted doses.
Justice, a rumor, an insult whispered
Between two power cuts and three police blunders.
I am the child of fake independences,
Of tailor-made constitutions stitched for insatiable gluttons.
I was born without inheritance, save for
This rage accumulating like sand under the skin.
They called me delinquent, migrant, underdeveloped,
But I am the living archive of their beautified crimes.
I am the raw product of their refined markets,
The shattered mirror they flee, for fear of seeing their own barbarity within.
it’s the little things like tim tams.
having gotten my attention, the box
hops into my shopping cart, but not
before I cartwheel and squeal, certain
that one of the poets has nurtured
my senses with an Australian accent.
i’m handing them out, like pamphlets,
according to the number in the family.
of course, they’re crunchy and cold.
my husband, straight away, placed
the box in the fridge. U.S.A. all the way.
my neighbor came over for coffee.
before she left, i handed her three treats.
she gasped, herself a published author,
she had just gleamed in a current read
of munchable tim tams…indeed! of course.
to treat my bible study group friends,
i will have to grab another, unopened box,
hand them out for free. the delightful share
the Word and Aussie-awesome treats,
alongside hot water and teabags. cartwheeling…
Sleeping book slept through years within a box
Never once woke up even through the knocks,
Transported interstate across the countryside
Manoeuvred here and there around the nation wide.
Sleeping book dreamt he was significant; held dear
Even though long storage he was just a bit of gear,
One day removal of tape and styrofoam
At last sleeping book awoke to a loving library home.
Now propped on a shelf in a feathered golden stand
Upright and proud for now he is not crammed,
Happy to be picked up and sometimes even fanned
Never wished to be the best or be on high demand…
For sleeping book faced toward Novel of much love
People only handled her with lint-free cotton gloves,
Illustrated pages every reader had admired
Sleeping book around her always felt inspired.
To be read is the ultimate goal that we all books do have
Essays, Publications, Pamphlets-all of them are glad,
Regardless where we are- a shelf or near ones bed
Every book contented when only being read.
"her song"
sitting on golden sands I'm in my glory
mesmerized as the waters tell me a story
with eyes opened wide peace is by my side
held within this world of tides I have wings
looking to the beyond and the life it brings
be it sunrise or sunset all senses are met
seeing seagulls fly and watching dolphins dive
total completeness of mind body soul arrive
showcasing what they know sharing a rare show
with grand reflections and whispering secrets
one will not find this in traveling pamphlets
as I utter so long the ocean whistles her song
SkyWatcher
06-13-23
Sykehus
The old hospital in the town center
stark and unpainted
Dotted about in the near vicinity
Funeral homes look like pearls
around an elderly lady's neck
at every election cycle the promise
was to build a new Krankenhause
in a rural environment and there
were pamphlets showing how great
it will be, but, perhaps next time
when a gothic movie was made
the hospital was used as a backdrop
As it stands there is not much to do
doctors chat with nurses, because
the ailing prefer a hospital in another
town, the old place is more like
a hospice, where the old are sent
waiting for death, their relatives
think it is unseemly to let them die
at home, not good for the children
Zen
Neglect is
the biggest
disease
Lay Down Your Arms
by Michael R. Burch
Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand.
The battle is over and night is at hand.
Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go . . .
the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow.
Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more.
Instead, let us rest here on this ravaged shore.
The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin . . .
lay down your pamphlets; now no one will “win.”
Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song.
If God was to save us, He waited too long.
A new world emerges, but this world is through . . .
so lay down your hymnals, or write something new.
If I remember things correctly, I wrote this poem in my early twenties, probably as a college sophomore or junior. It was one of my first acceptances by a literary journal, The Romantist. But I never received a copy, so I can’t be sure it was actually published, drat!
Rome seems a defaced beauty
with its past specters roaming aimlessly,
not finding the home where they once lived sumptuously;
ruins upon ruins: marble, cement,
grass, weeds, and streets with cobblestones.
One thing hasn't changed: the splendor and the glory
that Rome once was, never faded from their thoughts...
greeting Julius Caesar returning from another conquest!
Plautus, Livy, Horace, Virgil, and many others were
the testimony of its greatness never seen before,
alas, its sorrowful downfall came at a dear cost:
death, lawlessness, and looting became rampant!
Barbarians came down from the North burning,
destroying everything in their path; alas, civilization crumbled
and surrendered to the horror of hooves pounding hard!
Ah, who witnessed the toppling of Vesta's Holy Fire?
Ah, who heard the terrifying cry of the Vestal Virgins?
Mothers grabbing their newborns escaping on chariots...
while their husbands gathered pamphlets fearing
their loss would be a great loss of all knowledge and civility
that every citizen and foreigner admired for their vitality!
Did writers and poets jot down the last images feeling the unbearable dire?
Did they run off on Berbers taking them to a town known for its tranquility?
Had I lived in ancient Rome, I would have been another poet
describing her stunning beauty now defaced, stripped of all its might;
what was saved through centuries gives us a glimpse of a vast
empire that lasted long enough to set its sublime glory in stone!
Will we persevere in its ideals and preserve them more than a shining light?
Could we encounter another dark age and start our journey alone?
Was round about the 60's
And I a budding teen
Was influenced and touched
By a program I had seen
Rod Sterling was the narrator
Of a series quite well known
With weekly visits to a world
Named the "Twilight Zone"
And to this day one episode
The best without debate
Has taught me 'bout the frailty
Of Man against his fate
A short meek man from Queens, New York
Henpecked by his wife
Found his joy in reading books
To assuage a bit his strife
Voracious was his appetite for
Tomes and all that's written
Yet blind without his glasses
He's as docile as a kitten
In the vault under his bank one day
While making a transaction
The world above was subject to
A nuclear reaction!
When he surfaced to the top
To view the mass destruction
He found that only he'd survived
And came to this deduction
No wife! No rules! No one to shriek
Or tell him what to do!
Only stacks and shelves of books
To read, peruse and view
Paperbacks and hardcover
Pamphlets, primers, scrolls
The whole damn New York Library
With him at the controls!
Then as he pictured life
In a world with voices hushed
He bent his head to grab a book
His glasses broke..........................
All crushed.............
Here’s a little something you might like to know.
You're a universal donor if your blood is type “O”.
You may have type “A”, or perhaps type “B”,
You may even possess the type known as “AB”.
“AB” is the blood that is found less frequently.
That type is considered a universal recipient fortunately.
For the D antigen, most people are Rhesus factor positive.
Less common are those who are Rh negative.
So there is just a little medical information.
The American Red Cross seeks donors throughout the nation.
Information obtained from pamphlets distributed by the American Red Cross.
These days, the most sought out advanced degree
In Extreme Higher Education is in Plagiarism.
A student can also minor in Overt Racism,
Sexism, Misogyny, Stupidity, and Bigotry.
Help wanted signs will be posted in January,
On every freaking corners in Washington D.C.;
Muslims, Mexicans, Syrians and minorities'
Applications will not be accepted. Senior citizens
Can apply unless they voted in the last two elections.
The reason for the change in rules and policies
Is to NOT 'Make America Great Again'.
Only Europeans and Aryans can apply for political asylum.
The Statue of Liberty will be returned to Marine Le Pen.
More pamphlets will be distributed at the next symposium.
Copyright © November 12,2016 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.