Long Polite Poems
Long Polite Poems. Below are the most popular long Polite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Polite poems by poem length and keyword.
She was the best we had
the best of us.
The best of the clan,
and she was rotten.
We were all rotten
learned rottenness
learned from the best
from our mama
She could out-cuss us,
out run us and outwit us.
We were her boys, and
we were the best we could be.
The best of the best
The Thompson trio
People crossed the street
when they saw us coming
We were a force to be avoided
us brothers three. By the time
we were in double digits, people
from other towns were coming
to our town to fight us.
They had heard how tough we were.
They did not know about our mama.
They would get to Mama first.
They would be nice and polite too.
"Could you please tell us where your boys are, ma'am?"
Mama wasn't fooled.
She would take them on first,
give them a licking they wouldn't forget.
Some went home after that.
Others were even more determined to find us.
One thing for sure, Mama always taught them
a lesson before they got to us.
If you think those boys are tough, wait 'til you
meet their mama!
Mama was the best we had.
She was the best of us.
Written: April 29, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place contest winner
*********************
Brian Strand, the bard man—
polite in posture, patient in his perch,
a steward of syllables,
sorting the soft from the strong.
I lift my lines to him—
bare-boned, breath-warm,
stitched with small sorrows
and the shimmer of things I’ve survived.
Back they drift,
brushed aside with a courteous calm,
as if my voice were a visitor
He can’t quite invite himself inside.
No bright badge,
No, kindly clue,
just a quiet decline
wrapped in well-mannered distance.
So I wonder, wise reader—
Is my rhythm too restless,
My truth too untamed,
My cadence carries more candor
than comfort allows?
Maybe my metaphors
wander where his compass won’t,
or my rawness resists
The neatness he names as craft.
Yet still I write—
for poems are not petitions,
and worth is not a window
One judge alone can open.
Brian Strand, the bard man—
You keep the gate with gracious hands,
but I keep the fire,
And flame needs no permission
to rise.
Don’t put on that face
All love and kiss laced
Knowing your heart
And anger, misplaced
Don’t talk down to me
So secretively
While charming the rest
Yet making me bleed
A Christian, you are
A warm, shiny star
Your words are for me
While THEY give you scars
You give me no choice
I have, not, a voice
I must rot in shame
And bow to your noise
You moan and complain
A relentless, cold rain
It bothers you not
You drive me insane
Then grin at the sight
Of someone who might
Not know who you are
And believe you, polite
You then, bow and pray
As if, your last day
Must be convincing
Or followers, stray
I say you’re a fake
I know what’s at stake
You’re only for show
Please give me a break
What child is this, shy and polite,
who never likes to pick a fight,
who with a novel likes to be
alone and reading quietly
so very late into the night?
I know you think you’re not too bright,
but dear, you will turn out all right.
And one day you’ll look back to see
what child this is!
You’ll see yourself in a new light,
and then your soul will reach new height.
Your love right now for fantasy
will serve you well with poetry;
you’ll one day write with great delight
“What Child is This?”
Oct. 15, 2017 for the What Child Is This Contest of craig cornish
The little green circle glows,
a beacon in the digital fog.
My avatar sits beside it,
a polite digital twin
anchored to the light.
It tells the world I am here.
Even when my mind drifts,
watching rain streak the window,
or tracing patterns
in dust motes drifting through sunlight.
The green light pulses,
a quiet metronome
setting the rhythm of my day.
If it turns yellow
for even a moment
I imagine a shadow crossing
the Manager’s screen.
A pause.
A question.
Red means busy.
A sacred shield.
But red costs energy.
Red demands explanation.
A carefully crafted excuse
filed neatly
in the approved language of productivity.
I sip lukewarm coffee.
The steam is barely visible.
I check the status.
Green.
Good.
The machine is satisfied.
I type a sentence.
Delete it.
Rewrite it.
Not for clarity.
For the algorithm.
For the steady pulse
of uninterrupted green.
My focus drifts from the spreadsheet.
Instead I watch the tiny window
where my face sits frozen.
Professional.
Attentive.
Harmless.
Am I nodding enough?
Is my mouth curved
in the correct expression of engagement?
The unseen audience
watches the light.
Not me.
If I walk away for five minutes
to stretch the ache in my neck
the system notices.
A silent accusation
recorded somewhere
in a distant server farm.
Did I forget to move the mouse?
A small shake.
A phantom twitch.
A digital white lie
to confirm I still exist.
The Teams icon sits quietly
in the corner of the screen.
My warden.
My witness.
My keeper.
It demands visibility.
To be seen
is to be working.
To be green
is to be compliant.
I remember a time
when work was measured
by finished reports.
By solved problems.
By something
that actually existed.
Now the proof is color.
A glowing pixel.
The unblinking eye
of the corporate gaze.
So I adjust my chair.
Straighten my posture.
Move the mouse again.
Just enough
to keep the little circle glowing.
So the system knows.
So the managers know.
So the machine knows.
That I am perfectly present.
Perfectly visible.
Perfectly still.
A quiet human orbiting
a tiny emerald sun.
Are we true all the time?
How could we be considered "good
person", if we didn't hide the truth once and for all
when....?
"If the pain and sadness on the face were stamped",
we would be ugly, horrible... there is the simulation,
the pious lie, the polite, political language.
The social rule of good manners therefore consists
in not propagating how much good we think
of ourselves, and how much evil we think
from others...
If we were completely honest, we couldn't
live well socially.
In this case, living well socially consists of,
hypocritically dissimulate with all security
and tranquility what we really think...
We will thus be perfect for socializing, being
imperfect... If we were pure, there would be no
think so well of ourselves and so badly of others...
We wouldn't have defects... but that can't be
here and in this world....!
the perfectly polite lady
who gracefully writes me daily
whom i hope i will one day applaud
when she reads us her poetry abroad
the sister I've always wanted
the same ever since she started
she's said many prayers
and she'll always be there
to miss her is my brokenhearted
my words to her are special
we meet on the very same level
and sometimes i say
in a some sweet way
"she's mine" when the day is special
her words are furniture
in my heart
and flowers in vases
and art
the beautiful scenes
the stars in between
the clouds floating apart
the warmth the fires glow
the great spirit from with in that flows
the someone that is
when i needed a friend
heavens answered prayer
(To my favorite soup girl Carolyn Devonshire;)
society seems to have lost certain aspects of courtesy
today it's the norm to speak in the language of profanity
n's, b's and h's are the words that people use today
they don't comprehend the negativity in the words that they say
to be polite and mannerly is now a thing of the past
the rap culture mentality has taken over everyday language at last
i understand the need for those artists to express their thoughts
but i can't comprehend why they can't do it
in the proper language that they've been taught
what's in a word?
it's the language that man uses to communicate
it's not what you say but how you say it,
the way that people do relate
if you talk in words that are regarded as being low class
many will perceive
that you have never gotten
the education that others have received
they look at you with contempt
and then become condescending
they look at you as being inferior,
for that is the message you are sending
so be careful of the words that you choose
and the manner in which you speak
for what's in a word and how you use it
determines the level of respect that you seek
I (think) I Remember Gorton
by Bob Moore ©2019
I used to live in Gorton
a cosy little nook
in the shade of the Pennine Hills
by Blackie’s babbling brook
Jackson’s clay pit was where we made
the bricks to build our home
it was a playground for our children too
so they would not need to roam
The people were all friendly
the children were all polite
but we kept that to ourselves
didn’t need the kind who fight
We spread the word that we were tough
so don’t you come around
we don’t need bother causers
bringing trouble to our town
I left there many years ago
and I hear the stories now
of how Gorton is out of control
and I wonder if, somehow,
Are these still the same old stories
we used to tell, to keep people away
or is it true, that after all these years
my Old Gorton has gone that way
At first you were understanding
and patient,
so polite and gentle,
encouraging me to express my emotions.
But then you became obsessive and jealous.
Forcing me to shut up into obedience.
Now I think I should be silent,
because it's difficult to hide black eyes,
with the soreness of split lips.
Wounds heal, but scars remain.
If I died today,
would you even notice?
Maybe it will be you who puts me in a box.
Maybe I spoke too loud, drank too much wine,
didn't make dinner on time,
before the dishes crashed to the ground.
Then the verbal curses,
'B**ch, idiot, fu***ing whore.'
Sting like acid in my eyes.
Have I become your punching bag?
Maybe I should dress differently
not wear that red lipstick.
If I had not answered back,
you would not have raised your hands.
I would not be suffocating, drowning in the air.
But you just mock my cries,
ignore these screams,
so I only cry in the shower.
I think, I can't take this anymore,
I should run through that door,
people keep asking about the bruises,
but I keep making excuses.
But where would I go,
what about the children,
what about the shame?
Then you start to cry,
with a million apologies,
saying it's the stress,
the traumatic childhood -
that you love me,
swearing not to do it again,
insisting to start with a new slate.
The pain peels off a little.
There is a temporary harmony in the air.
Slowly the swelling eases.
I become a slave to your sweet words,
although the sex feels like rape.
I'm on edge, looking over my shoulder,
careful not to pull the trigger,
unleashing the terror of your rage.
Once I felt safe, now I only feel afraid.
Your hands that hurt me only make me shiver...
Wondering when you will lose control again.
Silent One
19 October 2021