Long Poetic justice Poems
Long Poetic justice Poems. Below are the most popular long Poetic justice by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poetic justice poems by poem length and keyword.
Palisades Palestine
Raging fires Raging fires
mansions destroyed Babies burned
a million tears the dead cannot cry
the winds are whispering the bombs are laughing
who stole your water supply? no aid allowed in
terrifying, natures justice Americas politicians sign the bombs
your Big Mac was burned while complete villages destroyed
a few people perished hundreds of thousands slaughtered
fools denying climate change fools committing genocide
missing a little water are we? missing hospitals, children covered in
blood
your white Jesus turned it to wine Bethlehem under Zionist siege once more
go see the Resnicks go see Netanyahu
they stole most of your resources he stole human organs, like a genocide
before
you suffered a few days Palestinians suffered 76 years
poetic justice Poets shot in the head
why should I care? when the USA sends billions
you will rebuild the mansions innocent lives, lost forever, by your hand
in crime
What is justice, my friends?
We say we 'take justice in our hands'
As we transform her into blind revenge
We tearfully ask the court that 'justice be done'
Cunningly maneuvering her verdict our way
We proudly 'do justice to a turkey on Thanksgiving'
You'd think it might mean sparing the poor bird's life
Which brings us to that pathetic misnomer
'Poetic Justice'
For what is 'poetic,' say
about a tobacco company executive
dying of lung cancer?
Indeed, my friends: What is justice?
Perhaps, 'There is no justice!'
("Zero Point of Creation", 2018, original encaustic)
In Praise of Mindlessness
I’ve sought and found mindlessness in a variety of ways
From dancing to climbing, meditating and painting,
but in retirement I find it easiest mowing the arboretum.
As I weave in and out of the randomly placed trees and shrubs
and regularly spaced irrigation pipes
I seek the novel and fresh at every turn.
It’s best when I find it
unexpectedly zipping off in a new direction
exploring new paths, carving new patterns.
In these moments there is a rush
as the spontaneous surprises me, creativity takes hold,
and I can’t help but ride the moment.
I’ve spent years aiming for this moment on a cushion
and find poetic justice
in the fact it is at last as easy as pie in retirement.
Of course it’s not true mindlessness
after that initial spontaneous instant.
I have to make sure I don’t drive over anything.
But the random is always an option, and eagerly seeking it
leads me to fall, or in this case, drive
into spontaneous mindlessness again, and again.
.
The joy that accompanies the mindless
is what interests me most.
It’s a self-contained joy that feeds on and for itself.
The German word, ‘funktionslust’ describes it best.
The joy an animal gets doing what it’s meant to do
which of course means it just gets better at doing it.
This is how birds learn to fly and primates climb,
how yogis become accomplished doing nothing and going nowhere,
and how lazy old men get the lawn mowed, with effortless joy.
(9/2/23)
The first inkling of a breakthrough. Jim moved his finger today.
I am horrified, knowing him. Knowing the vibrant, strong man,
The proud man who lives captive inside this blank shell who cannot speak.
Jim would not be cheering about moving a finger today.
I want to help him break out of this body prison, but his relatives are all watching,
And I live far, far away. Who am I anyway? His wife for a mere twenty-one years.
I was the one who left, the one they blame now for everything that went badly.
I try for three days to arrive at the hospital ahead of them, but his new family is perpetually there.
I try to tell them what he wanted, but they would rather have Jim be body-here
Than not here at all, so they keep him in this despicable state.
What I had promised I would do if it ever came to this, I cannot do.
I feel like a traitor, knowing that Jim would not have allowed a dog
Or cat to survive in this catatonic state. My best friend has lost
His ability to do anything but lift a finger, and here I sit,
In despair, wondering if they simply do not know what to do?
Do they not realize that what is waiting for him is so much better than this?
Or do they simply not care? They already said he did not have a do not resuscitate order,
And I know we had always had one during our twenty-one years together.
Is this poetic justice for leaving me for his young, pretty assistant?
She and I glare at each other, through our tears.
Being a man
Being called a "man "
Means live no room for tear
We are constantly told that
A man is not supposed to shade tears
Even if the pain cracks the bones and the
Air becomes hard to breath a man is not supposed to cry even if words are thrown on you crashing down on you .
Poetry allows a man to speak for three(3)
Minutes without being interrupted
The only time he is allowed to express he's emotions.
They are many rooms in he's house.
But the room of thought ?? .
thought left to roat in there an army of words ready to fire ?? being called a man. we have learnt how to watch the night fed into darkness. We have learnt to build walls that never fall.
They are many rooms in a man house
The only one they do not add is for mistakes. For every mistakes is the down fall of every man so they is no time to show emotions.
We have learnt to be brain dead our brain can only comprehend sex from the opposite sex .
Being a man Means being emotionally numb but yet drowning in he's emotions
Cause emotions only means you are week
So in a poem a man expresses emotions
Drowning with a hand raised high all we get is a high 5? five ,you must learn to pocket your cause emotions only make you week .
What if giving up is poetic justice
What if pain is the only escape root and the only door is through this rope.
We have learnt to Barry our hurt in soils of regrets.
See we have learnt to morn the living before they're death .reality burns our skin
Now blind with ashes of our burnt dreams
We have learnt to twist fiction as facts they will tell you that they is peace in being emotionally numb.
"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In this performance we call life,
my spirit searches for an interlude of peace.
My poetic mind riots consumed by rhymes,
savaging our memories of grieving beliefs.
I'm a soul rasping winter's woeful wings,
afraid I'll become a poet who ink will forget.
I'm trapped in the desert of dejected demons,
wandering in aching avenues of dreams,
forgotten in ferocious frozen vine's of time,
surrounded by meadows of blood poppies,
Season of death is a cursed caricature of memories,
full of salty tears, bitter goodbyes with spiteful sentiments.
Let me sleep in the synchronicity of angels,
as ebony horizons drift into darkness.
When crimson clouds bleed to paint the sky,
I scream at silent scarlet skies,
as black rain from a dark storm plunders.
Like acid burning my metaphorical paper wings,
I float like a butterfly cursed by moths of deceit,
as hope dances dangerously with my malevolent muse -
grace and hellfire waltz with my heart's chambers.
I can't help but remember last November,
when death clung to the air around me,
as answers we found turned into a designated dead end.
In delirious desires of deathless shadows,
I still see your daggers and cigarettes in a charcoal silhouette,
with your every breath laced with guilt.
Yet, the ghost of your voice lulls me to sleep,
as the silence crawls along the walls at night.
Who are we to judge who is a sinner or a saint.
I wonder if you will walk down the stairs of heaven,
hold me in all my fragility, remind me of childlike charms,
or will rebellious regrets open the gates of hell.
I scream at the Grim Reaper to take my soul,
ravage me, before I go,
but put a white veil on my corpse,
so each night when I visit my grave,
provocative eyes with loose desires,
can feel the wind beneath my sails.
But, gift me one more midnight,
to create my final masterpiece to paint my dreams,
carved with marble white ink,
engulfed in sentimental verses -
for this is poetry, formless suppressed speech.
One day our quill will eternally slumber,
as our conscience passes from poetry to dust.
In the plight of adversity, only I, truly know,
that stars speak stories how simple words were not enough,
as truth only prevails through poetic justice.
The law, they say,
Is the same for everyone
But justice is the prerogative
Of the privileged ones
When the poor get implicated
For crimes they never knew
They run hither and thither
With a begging bowl for justice
But those who commit heinous crimes
Snuggle up to luxuries of life
Without the slightest worry
About the outcome of the case
Justice is blind, they say,
But often times it is tilted
In favour of the elite
And against miserable souls
While the poor knock at every door
To get themselves absolved
The elite bail out with wads of cash
Or resort to intimidation or corruption
The prolonged proceedings
Cast a long shadow
On the fate and fortune
Of the poor and the downtrodden
They are condemned to spend
The rest of their accursed life
With their body in shackles
And their mind in solitary confinement
But those who make the mistake
Of assuming that they could get away
With their atrocities on the poor
May be in for a surprise
The blindfolded lady
With a balance in her hand
May be confused
By the outcome of the case
But make no mistake
Karma is bound to boomerang
And punish the criminals
By dispensing poetic justice
The continued story of this poet
Haters r going to be mad that I even wrote it
Here is where I give u "The Business"
Like a lightning bolt striking with a quickness
Trust me, u haven't heard the best of it
A debt to collect and I'm gonna settle it
Mouths sown shut like a gangsters lips
Leave everybody sleeping with the fishes
The lips tell no lies just like a politician
This is the Sh*t Talkers Edition
I don't do well staying inside the box
I'm better at picking locks
But ur lady just lets me in when I knock
Words like cells in my blood
Flowing through these veins like the levee during a flood
No filter from the brain to my paper
Just a figment of imaginary literature, kinda like vapor
In the Poetic Justice League and I'm the Caped Crusader
By the end I'll be your Daddy like Darth Vader
Enough of the dilly dallying and chitter chatter
Down to Brass tax, nitty gritty, the heart of the matter
All in ur face, screaming, "U can't see me!"
Letting words "Float like a butterfly & sting like a bee"
Leaving all the drama behind me
From this point forward
Pulling all the hit contracts I ordered
"Keep Stepping" and move forward
Wouldn't still be here if it wasn't for the Lord
Got an ppointment with fate,
Best not be late
Happiness & havoc is what I hope to create
If u haven't notice I am a Problem
U better have listened to everything I told them
A fresh canvas has endless possibilities
Maybe a mural of myself among other Poetic Deities
Or a sketch of the lies that I made those people believe
Truth is gray and things aren't what they seem to be
"Tingly skies full of surprise oh how I love when with surmise,
the little rascal aims his dart as if it were, poetic art !”
Stupid, stupid Cupid
Lost His bow and arrow
Put it down when He found a flute
Why it magically just appeared right here beside him
when He had touched downed upon the ground
It twas sneaky Pan who grabbed them with his parachute
The very one that he didn’t have to shoot
He didn’t give a hoot, a “fair trade” don’tcha think?
He thot as if too He didn't give a poop
For old school
Ohhhhh, stupid, stupid Cupid
Lost His bow and arrow
And Pan, my friend
was notta quite as good a shot as Him
He spun the world upside down
shooting everyone he saw on sight
Girl on girl, boys on boys
He even shot friendly animals as lover toys
Our frivolous puck didn’t give a darn
Especially when inside the barn
He shot arrows everywhere at everyone
He just didn’t seem to care. He was having fun.
Shooting arrows at everyone, everywhere
Poetic justice poking here and there
Transforming words and twisting them with fear
I swear I saw Pan smiling while shedding a few tears
Oh, stupid, stupid Cupid
Lost His bow and arrow
But apparently, He could also play this flute
Perhaps, not the same way as Pan
For when Cupid played every man, woman and child
Would fall under a stupid love spell
All across the lands the music fell
Only making Pan fill up
with more belly laughter ... GOTCHA !
When pan’s pipes play for you, there isn’t much that you can do !
When cupid’s arrow aims for you, there isn’t much that you can do !
Just have to vent and have my say;
Although, I won't get my way.
Rules are rules, no matter why
and breaking them will never fly.
On many a contest, I must pass
because the rules my lines surpass.
Alas, my poems are all too long;
To cut them short would just be wrong.
How can I say all that I mean
if limits are put on my thought stream?
I love the words that freely flow
across the page and down below.
When pen to paper I do touch,
sometimes the magic's just too much.
If I'm not done when the cows come home,
at least, I'll write my epic poem.
I pen this poem with tongue in cheek;
It's poetic justice that I seek.
Why can't my lines run twenty-four?
Quoth the sponsor, "never more".
March 2, 2018
For contest 405, max. 20 lines
Sponsored by Brian Strand