Long Peopled Poems
Long Peopled Poems. Below are the most popular long Peopled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Peopled poems by poem length and keyword.
No Judgement Jamie always was told
that judging others was vile and cold,
all her teachers did proudly attest
that living life without judging was best.
And the media reinforced these words,
to judge other people? Hateful! Absurd!
To judge was the make them a victim,
what peopled needed was more compassion.
So at sixteen, at a big school dance,
Jamie found herself approach by one Vance,
she’d heard rumors he was a player cruel,
wanting only sex, and bragging rights too.
But she was no bully to judge all his acts,
so she went with him to his car out back,
when she called him later, Vance, he just laughed,
and gave her Herpes on top of all that.
Then there came college, and time to decide
what she would do with the rest of her life,
her father said study to bring in money,
her mother said think if she would marry.
But Jamie would not make that decision,
she could not judge, would not build a vision,
just went with her gut, a choice so easy,
but nobody hires for gender studies…
After college, working in a dime store,
she met her a man with tattoos galore,
her father advised,”That man is a thug.”
her coworkers said they heard he dealt drugs.
But she was in love, who was she too say
if it as wrong or right to earn cash that way,
they moved in together, it seemed all right,
’till police dragged them both out one night.
After a night in jail, Jamie was clear,
but had no place to stay that was near,
the place she’d left, she couldn’t afford,
but she got a deal from a new landlord.
Got a new place in a rundown slum,
her dad said moving to that place was dumb,
but judging these people, that wasn’t good,
it was nothing more than a neighborhood.
Until one night, when a gang-banger charged,
stabbed poor Jamie for the purse on her arm,
she died according to her moral sense,
but at least she didn’t make a judgement.
Halloween night is supposed to be scary
Peopled by spooks and goblins, most of them hairy
But where I come from it's quite festive and merry
Sugarplums dancing, accompanied by faeries
Then there's the time-honored custom of trick-or-treating
'Course, as any trick-or-treater will tell you, it's all in the eating
But where I'm from we dispense with the preliminaries
Just one thing on our itinerary -- confectioneries
Now as to the matter of witches on broomsticks, cackling high overhead
And the spirits and ghosts that allegedly rise up from the dead
We don't subcribe to that spooky nonsense
What we do is burn incense and sniff frankincense
Not to leave out the garish jack-o-lanterns' macabre grins
The eerie haunted houses with their swinging skeletons
Sorry to disappoint you, but we simply dispense with that stuff
~ In our nudist colony, where tradition's remade in the buff
October 23, 2018
fettered frightened multitude at our backyard,
wailing in sombre sigh, waiting for beckett's “godots”
multitude with talents begs their oppressor to survive,
dying amidst plenty with multitudinous buried unfinished destinies,
stunted by great grand fathers who by hex and vex held million in thralldom
The new oppressor worse than the slave masters of yore bereft of ideas
conquered able bodied myriads
deceived by dinosaurs that some future belongs to them,
and by turns,shameless retards, recycle themselves from North, west south.
old felons fit for gallows, and the slumbering youth
waiting, even at fifty with no more strength to pursue their dreams
Table turned ,
A great giant of yesteryear now a crumbled decrepit through aeonian corruption
rogues who ruled and ruined us now more relevant than a Nobel.
criminals rewrite our history to fit their lenses of lies
corn and national rapist, takes a new title in the vacuum of hero
A country without a hero, the most peopled hub of Africa
A mixture linseed and flaxseed
and their youth sleep on
oh sanctity! What savagery is cast upon your honour,
where religion is the garb of two faced enemies
Leaders as criminals Yes ALL, no hero among thieves.
Desperation for power, bereft of ideas to lit up the darkness
A vast exotic hub of resources , submerged by men without honour
should we name names?
Their conscience loud the wounds for the wealth stolen for their own children
as the rest are cowered in fear, by the Police who they armed protecting them and killing others
How many gloomy days is yet to come?
How long will dreams be buried ?
In the country of cowards
as the youth whose destinies is wasted sleep on
Last weekend was “Parent’s” weekend at Yale. A time when parents are formally invited to visit. They have receptions and other events - but no potato-sack races (which is disappointing). My parents couldn’t come, they’ve never come to parent’s weekend, but Leong’s parents came again, from Macao, China, a 16,060-mile round trip.
There was a time when boys could tank my self-confidence with a word. When the male gaze seemed overpowering. I’d felt constantly evaluated - but I’ve evolved - somewhat. We’re going to a party. Lisa, Leong, Sunny, Anna and I - we’ve got our shine on and we’re drawing looks. Well, ok, Lisa’s drawing looks and I’m in the general frame.
Lisa sneezed, “The air quality’s bad tonight,” she announced, wiping her nose with a Kleenex.
“I don’t have any allergies,” I bragged. “Me neither,” Leong added.
“If you can breathe the air in China,” I said, “You’re golden.”
Leong laughed “Tài zhenshí liao,” (Too true!) She agreed.
As we left the more street-lit part of the path, the moon, wandering in and out of the clouds, created moving shadows that peopled the darkness with phantoms. Was that impression the paranoia of fatigue? I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Or maybe it’s October and Halloween’s just around the corner.
I was walking in the rear, nestled in the mingled scents of my roommates' perfumes that, like rare blossoms, enchanted and excited the child in me. I wasn’t paying attention, and I stubbed my toe on a misaligned sidewalk tile. Don’t you hate the gap between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain?
I DON’T CARE
The feeling that I once had
When rejection pierced
Pain that alienated me
Made all peopled places blurred
A pain I felt for years
One word drilled into my ears
Penetrated into my heart
Fused deep into my thoughts
My body turned to a whale
My legs felt heavy to walk
Why hurting me this much?
Is it true what she said?
Am I ‘a hypocrite’?
Is it that much visible?
I really can’t tell if it’s true
No one likes to be called
What she thinks she isn’t
I’m not a hypocrite
Only a direct person
Here me out,people!
I keep it real and true
That’s a promise to myself
I may be whatever you want
But I’m honest and loyal to myself
When I walk by,you stop and stare
Well,keep looking,cause I don’t care
I have my own life and taste
One thing I know
I won’t try to please you
Or create a smile that never existed
What can I do?Nothing
Change people’s minds? Impossible
Only do I know the truth of my identity
Continue living the life
As if no one else is around
My weapon to use
Just keep on contributing my part
And keep the chin up
Cause ”I don’t care”anyways.
Poetry knows no age, as thee Marcia
Abramsohn (the former ex lady friend
of my late father corresponded with me
some years back)
wrote (by hand nonetheless,
a long lost art) inlaid with ambidextrous
zealousness impossible to identify,
which hand crafted artistically colorful
epigrammatic ghostly hint emblematic
of former exuberance toward English
Language..., perhaps other once
vibrantly familiar tongues wagging
less as tempus fugit slithers unseen
stealing most cherished, prized, savored...
commodity set to countdown immediately
post parturition, yet blessed for thee
to be gifted your then four score plus four
amazingly graceful journeys celebrating
your existence replete with handmaid's
tales chronicling quotidian trials and
tribulations, yet still adept, buoyant,
cogent, diligent, eloquent, fervent,
gallant, hellbent, intent, jimmying,
kindling, loving, mustering, nursing,
outlasting...Methuselah (ha...if only)
lucid moments nudging awake
memorialized occasions, where once
upon a time (seems bajillion years ago)
innocence concomitant with naivete
throve, wherein unfettered dalliances
found untrammeled lasses and lads
absorbed with natural unbridled virgin
love – gathering rosebuds while they may
whispering sweet nothings strictly
for respective paramour, (this of course
hearsay and speculation) promising each
other moon and stars ah...dusty fading
memories, yours truly can never recount,
(cuz mental illness co-opted, hijacked,
up-ended...adolescent maturation,
whereby agonizing crippling forfeiture jabs
silhouetted illusory oasis peopled with
all the golden opportunities left to wither
on the vine o'mine youth, which mirage
mocks escapist attempt into literary realm
invisible dead poets society regale an
existence bereft nope, no App could
ever even virtually duplicate (even
approximate) sidelined unrequited love,
and no this marriage yielded scanty
satisfaction, which fantasy life as
Norwegian bachelor farmer
(within mine imagination) solved,
where living off the grid remedied
forever being pennilessness, day late
dollar short dime a dozen dirt poor
dude dulling dufus...that's the news from
my Lake Woebegone...where all the
women...and children above the law
never get reprimanded.
Darkness descends and most folk
Are slowly wending to their bed
But, across there in Knotty Ash
Some Locals are stirring instead.
The residents of Diddyland,
Where the sun always shines,
Are pulling on their working gear
For night shifts down the mines.
The Diddymen of Knotty Ash,
That dedicated working band
Who supply Jam Butties to
Buttie shops across the land.
Ecologically efficient,
Cosmetically sound,
Jam Buttie mines are carefully
Landscaped to the ground.
With a bus service to Bootle,
One as well to Liverpool,
Not far from the motorway,
So the Nation’s favourite fuel
Butties of class and style
Can be shipped off to feed
The band of gastronauts
With discerning dietary need.
There’s an outlet store in Liverpool
Where one can sample the stock
Conveniently situated in
The shopping park on Albert Dock.
And all those happy residents
Looking for amusing things to do
Can ride the National Network,
Called Cycle Route number 62.
There’s contentment in Diddyland
And the area is rich in cash
Thanks to those Buttie miners
From their suburb of Knotty Ash.
In remembrance of that comic genius, the Late Ken Dodd who created and peopled Diddyland and its Jam Buttie Mines.
Suddenly from somewhere
A street urchin-
An untamed bird of the wider sky
Dropped down
Into the circus tent
Before him was unfurled
Scenes eerie….awesome!!
Roaring lions and tigers,
Gibbering baboons, caravans of camels,
Animal tamers and acrobats,
Artists balancing on poles
Swinging from bars to trapeziums
Pliant girls with plastic limbs
And pouting breasts,
Walking on tight ropes.
A strange world,
Peopled with beasts and men!
His face, painted white and red
In motley dress, he was arrayed
And a tall tapering cap, placed
On his forcibly tonsured head
He hardly knew what it all meant.
He heard the bells ringing
And it was time for the show
He was told
He would henceforth be a clown
And should make people laugh
A thousand sunsets passed him by
He forgot the familiar alleys of the streets
Lost sight of the endless pathways of the sky
In a world –
So populous- so empty,
He buried him
In the hidden caverns of himself
Nursing a hundred bruises
Inflicted by Time’s sharp razors
Often he was reminded-
“You should make others laugh”
He did make people laugh
While a fountain of tears lay frozen
In the slivers of his broken heart!!
Jan.7. 2023
~ Placed Fourth~
Tatters Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Mystic Rose Rose
Oh, it is a bizarre little neighborhood -
my head – peopled by thoughts
that congregate in cryptic ghettos,
Wary of the other thoughts
that reside in other ghettos
they walk the synapses of cynicism
Secure in the knowledge
that all the other thoughts
are just a little bit off,
slightly to seriously misinformed,
deluded by the mainstream cerebellum
into supporting the physical mess.
Two blocks down and one block over
reside the synapses of happiness,
peopled by thoughts of happiness,
they have totally lost touch with reality
although it is fun to hang out with them
just to confuse those who reside
in the synapses of unhappiness.
They wonder “how can the cynic be happy?”
Just West of the block of wonderment
reside the thoughts of “God” or “Goddess”
like some “God” is going to be trapped
within a specified sexual context.
On the other side of the “tracks”
reside the thoughts of anger and loneliness,
they are angry and lonely because
they refuse to cross the tracks
and consider another alternative.
Every intersection of the synapse highway
has a set of high speed traffic lights
to control the flow of the thoughts
and keep my head from exploding.
I have wandered these synaptic ghettos since birth
and feel quite confident engaging them all
I would invite you in but they are poor hosts.
12/12/2016
submitted to – In Your Head – Poetry Contest
I bear no grudge with yesterday,
And all that peopled its terrain.
I bear no grudge with yesterday,
And all the aborted dreams of yesteryears.
Why should I spend endless years gazing at a mirage
Or the shifting shadow of an evaporated hope?
I bear no grudge with yesterday,
And all the fantasies of my youthful fervour.
Why should I build on the shaking ground
Of the fiery passion of youthful lust?
Yesterday is gone,
And all its hopes and doubts,
blunders and blessings,
pains and pleasures
Yesterday is gone,
Sweeping away all my stillborn dreams in its trail.
But I bear no grudge with yesterday,
For now is the dawn of a new hope,
A new fervour,
A new passion,
And the rebirth of a new dream.
I bear no grudge with yesterday,
Today awaits me with open arms
(1/11/18)