Long Paraded Poems
Long Paraded Poems. Below are the most popular long Paraded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paraded poems by poem length and keyword.
Joe is an old, withered tiger.
Stripes of balsa wood and matches, walking in a burning ring of hellfire
His shameless tamers snapping whips.
From deep blue state shadows
to keep the latest ruse afloat.
Feeding him grade school scripts.
Paraded in front of media buzzards.
Most cultures would call it senior abuse.
Now and again, he stretches the chain.
Gives us a glimpse inside his sinkhole brain.
A rusted-through windchime without wind.
In the maelstrom of a radical-rancid-rain.
Joe the withered tiger in the gloaming of life.
Thinks he's still sniffing daisies.
That have long ago turned into knives...
Trussed up in his armor the owl king led his army to victories
In battles up and down the Barbary Coast, and then some.
His reputation preceded him, as ruthless as he appeared to be.
In actuality, he was a kind and noble owl, who gave mercy.
Often, but with strings attached, so others would fear him.
Being feared went wing in wing with being powerful, which he adored.
Lady owls lined up to get a glimpse of this heroic king
Who paraded in their dreams even before they met him.
His deeds were sung by the bards around campfires,
In the dead of night, as the owl maidens sat in their treetops
Listening with their companion owls, who were as intrigued
As they were jealous of Langonbeak, the notorious owl king.
I believe in faeries, unicorns, gargoyles, plant life, elves, and spirit orbs.
Magic is not a giant leap in my world;
it is not merely accepted but embraced.
I believe in goodness, hope, and the luck of handsome leprechauns.
Mysticism is within my reach,
accenting my own unique talents and powers.
I believe in sunsets, moonbeams, pixie dust, and clairaudience.
My experiences have paraded forth
a truth I could have never conjured in my own imagination.
My spirit guides, power animals, and familiars are working constantly.
Giving me the open heart I need to do my work in this abstract word.
Love they spout, love they falsely declare,
Yet their eyes betray a darkness, a glare.
A cocktail of hatred, lust, and envy,
Craving what's not theirs, God deems unholy.
Love they proclaim, a charade so grand,
Indulging in sin, a pleasure demand.
Mashing truth like noodles in a deceitful brew,
A lie dressed as love, and rights misconstrued.
America, oh how you've faltered,
Children ensnared in TV's grip, stories untold.
Elders committing crimes for pleasure's sake,
Lust beneath the anthem, laws supporting the fake.
Children suffer the consequences of societal sins,
Nudity trends, decency bent.
Dress codes disrespected in the name of liberty,
Debauchery rampant, claiming greatness with glee.
A victim am I of this cruel game,
Taught lessons unsought, leading to shame.
Curiosity sparked, innocence tarnished,
Oh, America, my innocence you've garnished.
Once a pure child with an untainted mind,
Your pride nearly led me to my decline.
If not for God, where would I reside,
In a world where shame masquerades as glee?
In the name of acceptance, abominations embraced,
What was unholy now applauded and praised.
Same-sex unions paraded in false equity,
A mockery of God's plan, a blatant heresy.
LGBT and the loud minority
women want their rights
and the blacks equality
some do get upset
believe conspiracy
protests and petitions
all over my TV
thoughtless hypocrites
contradict consistently
religion sees its boundaries
shrink with every century
politicians lie
most empathetically
they all point at the white man
hindsight and history
and he must put it right now
he caused their misery
is it right to blame the white
if the white's a man like me
no cause I have to fight
which comes in unity
paraded in such light
our "superiority"
as white men take their life
they do it to be free
The weight placed on their shoulders
by each community
for acts they had no role in
the species history
He'll never be the victim
called racist cause sexism
yet white men made to listen
have help they need now missing
an isolated existence
in society's "accused" prison
She held them tightly trying not to cry out with the pain as the door opened. A large woman bearing an almost visible authoritarian streak exploded through the door filling the white sterile looking room with her presence. In a deep manly voice that matched her size, she told them the time was over. They had to go… The children cried as she placed her hand on their shoulders and pulled at them with as much compassion as one swatting a fly or stamping on a snail leaving its silver trail over an immaculate looking flower border.
joined with old bruises
footprints on her naked back…
two children still cry
The cries lingered in the corridor as the doctor showed the plain clothed policewoman into the secure white room. The photographer followed carrying equipment strapped to his body like a solider in full battledress. Pictures were taken of the once slim beautiful, now battered girl who had two beautiful children that were now in care while she was paraded before strangers with a camera before the healing could start from the stamping given as a parting gift by her new ex boyfriend.
© ~GG~ 23/01/2013
Competition Entry: Mixing it up
Why?
Why not!
Their point of view
Each Friday they drank
vengeance
every bottle drowned
another ache
Knights
shedding the end of a week
elegant shine
lost in devil may care
Needs
numbed in a 3-day marathon
Drink, drink,
drink until dread's dead...
Why not?
Coz they can't unsee
a view
ailments never quit
piling
rays gamma
radiation
ever shooting -
more cancer
reactions
'n side effects that conquer
In and out
they pass,
dysenteric E.coli
offsetting the once ominous
virus
polio
raked out but replaced
by a Covid war...
(12/25/2020: '96 Fun Country DMS; memories of Hoodless..)
II - Sharon and Adeline
So who gets the blame, for the perfidy of their young lives,
having shared of caustic adults and their lust-groping girth?
A petite, astute blonde with candid need of sexualized aura
Never concealed, she’d writhe a come-hither to grown men
Never liking the boys who were closer to her pretty preteen
Only seeking pernicious pleasures of a pedophile aficionado
Not contrite, she’d dance the pole, just as mom had shown…
As she envied voluptuous Adeline, perfunctory in beauty's miasma
Nothing contrived in her distrust of oglers whose gaze could harken
Devils from her past, piercing them with angry blues so condemned…
As her mom disabled, leaned on a man who made Addie his manna
Dined on precocious curves she’d wish had never been bequeathed
Exploding in tantrums she fought unable to suppress all the seethe…
Little girls lost in the littler woman’s world, of the big man’s brothel
It was a ruse that it had closed, for females still suffer these incubi
Nice asses openly paraded non-stop; lower wages that still demean
Elderly men joking with objectified daughters, still considered, wise…
(2/22/2021: DMS; memories of SCH)
To have, or not to have
Many people are from the outside, beautifully formed
with a mind that can absorb empathy and warm sympathy
but life itself makes us harder around the edges, as it is
It's not possible to live fully, shall we say, without knocking oneself free of cultural norms
Can friendship exist between the classes?
Yes, but it can be a strain
The wealthy can be sentimental watching a movie on TV
about poverty, but they will be hardheaded when making political changes that make classes more equal
Of our three classes, I have been through them all in my time
born into poverty, rising above its self-loathing tendencies
despite its richness of local wisdom, funny memes, and
often jubilant humor
Finding myself among the middle class who are stuck between two cultures, don't manage well, show contempt for workers, and loathsome dripping respect for the better off.
With this, I mean the royal household. I can't think of a more
An abject group of people, who, when paraded in public.
I have a very wealthy friend who suffers from being unsure if
people like him or not, I tell him to give me his money, it will
set him free, I shall bear the burden, whether people like it or not, alas, I have not been able to convince him
Amid the sexy lingerie
The bride-to-be received,
There was a garment out of place,
Or so some folks believed.
It was a housedress from the past,
A little drab and faded,
In which the grandma of the bride
Once through her house paraded.
That grandma is no longer here,
But spoke up through that dress.
Her daughter and her grandchild
Felt her kvelling,** I would guess.
And though that shapeless schmatte*
Wasn’t bridal-like to wear,
It let us know that Grandma Ida
Had a presence there.
I love when past and present
Are connected with a link;
That housedress did its job and Ida
Would be tickled pink.
*an old piece of clothing or material
**bursting with joy and bragging about it
Nested in the cat’s cradle
Paraded in a child’s fable
I have no voice, don’t let me die
No longer shall I live a lie
I have no soul nor thoughts to save
Unbeknownst to me is
this life beyond the grave?
A designer dainty as she
silky essence she creeps upon so free
and with sheer elegance
unveils a painted lady in a trance
Wake me before the dream ends
In this a lie I can’t depend
Ochre paint splat on walls
Tinted forewings so not to fall
Hindwings I hold up in pain
Fragile chitin, scales, and veins
Bleeding strokes of mango chutney
Opera gloves cobalt blue, cloak impunity
Wake me up! Before I drop
Still asleep, a standing prop
And when I open my eyes
I’ll have wings like butterflies
The bitter truth sounds insane
Blends of electronic elements
Mesh makes perfect sense distasteful
Nestled neatly prim and graceful
Kept in the dark where it’s unfair
Wake me lest I vanish in thin air
In my dream a translucent permanence
I stand alone and have woken an evanescence