Long Poor man Poems
Long Poor man Poems. Below are the most popular long Poor man by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poor man poems by poem length and keyword.
Angel with the broken wings
I can hear the song she sings
Watching over those that are down
Hoping you take away their frown
Those that need a helping hand
Your song makes others understand
Makes their hearts want to give
So others may better live
Open your ears open your heart
Her song stands apart
The sound of wind blowing through the trees
The poor man on his knees
Sunshine shinning down on you
Down from that sky so blue
Through all the kindness mankind can do
the sound of the beat of your heart
Is but just a part
the sound of all life brings forth such a beautiful melody
Even tragedy
Song of life of the broken wings
All a part of the song she sings
Every time a penny falls from the poverty sky, I expect it to be a hundred dollars...the wealth in my heart is plenty, but financial-wise, I'm broke...I am a rich, poor man...wealth doesn't matter to me much...poverty was what I grew up with, though my family was considered "Middle Class"; we still had struggles with finances and we were poor and still are I reckon...teased to the core because of the states I'm in...the darkness is the predator that is out to get me, but I absorb light, so I can generally give it my all to everyone I come in contact with with generosity from my youth to my elder years...I will be kindhearted and loving always and that's no lie that I've been having that as a magnet to my personality...I'm in reality's land, not in fairyland, understand? I'm stranger than fiction because I'm not a fake fantasy, but a genuine human being with feelings, unlike a dysfunctional robot - I feel, I touch, I smell, I faint, I laugh, I smile, t taste, I have intuition, I frown, I tease, and all of the above, so take that information into consideration...I'm sick and tired of being told what to do when I should have freedom before my very eyes - don't you have a clue who I really am from the inside and outside, my trustworthy crew?
Listen...to...my...voice... Let all rejoice! But, what comes up must come down, for my cup is half empty now...
Written: July 1st, 2023
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In the gloomy forest, quiet and still,
A secret world begins to spill,
Where shadows dance and moonlight weaves,
A tapestry of whispered leaves.
Then the bush crickets wake up, unseen.
Their chorus breaks the tranquil scene.
A symphony of nature's call
Filling the surroundings, one and all.
Their gentle hum, a lullaby,
As night embraces the velvet sky,
Echoing through the ancient trees,
A melody that puts the mind at ease.
Music envelopes the air as a soft embrace.
As nature's orchestra takes its place,
The rustling of leaves, the whispering breeze,
A symphony that puts the soul at ease.
And amidst this nocturnal choir,
A lone voice rises from the mire.
Poor man hears the sound of a cry
Echoing through the darkened sky.
Its mournful call, a haunting sound,
A lullaby for the lost and found
A reminder of the night's embrace,
And the secrets it holds in its darkened space.
Whispers of the night, they softly speak,
Of secrets hidden, of mysteries deep,
In the gloomy forest, they come alive.
As moonlight dances and shadows thrive.
Freedom — is there such thing in the United Kingdom?
Are we really free?
Please tell me, Boris,
When you kept us two years locked up,
Twenty-three hours boxed up,
Let out for an hour a day —
While Number Ten enjoyed countless ,
We were threatened with fines
For turning our car keys.
Is there really freedom in the United Kingdom?
Or in the world?
When we’re dictated to as boys and girls —
“You mustn’t say this. You mustn’t do that.”
How’s that free
When silence is forced
And dissent is beaten black?
This is a poem about freedom.
Or is it?
Am I allowed to say what I want
Without fear of retaliation?
A government dictating the liberties
Of every man, woman, and child in this nation.
But it’s okay — just sit back and relax,
While Rishi knocks a penny off your tax,
And five pence off a litre…
Then raises inflation fifty-four percent
On your gas metre.
The rich stay rich,
Watching their widescreen tellys,
While the poor man claws at empty cupboards,
Listening to his children cry
As hunger scrapes their bellies.
And you all say we’re free,
Living in diplomacy,
That we all have a choice —
How’s this free
When no one hears our voice?
If this is freedom…
why do the chains still rattle in the dark?
there goes a lonely man on a one horse carriage
the horse though pulls the carriage he is always hungry
because he has nothing to eat but to feed on fallen leaves
and to quench his thirst with dewdrops
the horse though goes before the carriage he grew to the height
may be high enough to pull the carriage with great struggle:
the carriage not even a blossom of a flower of remembrance on it
goes yonder the crystal blue sky see through the fluttering black flag
in the wind
the carriage not even a sigh of lamentation follows
goes beyond the sky so deep that smarts the eyes
and stretches to the incomprehensible infinity
although the man resigned himself and laid his corpse
on the bed of the carriage in the coffin, he had crossed
many rivers of trials
although the man resigned himself and laid his corpse
on the bed of the carriage in the coffin, he had crossed
many mountains of hardship
although the man resigned himself and laid his corpse
on the bed of the carriage in the coffin, he still is the lonely man
because no one will welcome him even if he comes quickly,
he still is the poor man because no one will stop him
even if he turns his back
for the wind rises the flag flutters, and when the flag flutters,
the man, while clinging on to the fluttering flag deplores his troubled life
as a deep sigh
for the rain fall the man tears and sobs
as wet as fluttering flag
can the life full of unfulfilled desires
be called a life as well?
the cry of the man who lived a bitter life is the empty echo
that had fallen on the ground; the call of the man who was
abused by others is the lost effort that no one ever tried to hear
there
the lonely man goes on the carriage pulled by the horse,
the horse with a full shadow of sadness in his eyes
the lonely man laid on the carriage goes with the horse,
the horse barely survived only by the fallen leaves and dewdrops
The lonely man,
the feeble horse,
and the fluttering black flag…
These words I write could not explain
No could it hide my shame
Why does poverty have to bear my name
How I wish, I was born into the house of fame.
Maybe then I wont be so ashame
In Poverty there is no one, I can blame
How I try not for things to remain the same
They say, I should proclaim, I should aim
But they do not know my pain.
I do not want to claim
I hide away in shame
Yet they still choose to blame
All this aching has me shaking
Why can't they see, I am tired of always failing.
I am falling
God knows I am breaking
My heart is aching
Poverty has me shaking
I need something groundbreaking.
Anything to make me start believing
I need to believe things would be changing
God please do some ex-changing
Right now I can do with the hand of SAVING.
She tinkers change someone left on the table
waiting for brunch at the Bluebonnet Bistro,
a hole in the wall with thick on the windows.
Lost deep to thought, this rock ‘n roll liberal
in her mid-twenties and sage satin stole,
pockets a penny that weighs down the satchel
strapped to her shoulder and swung under table,
asway just above cherry red laced stilettos.
From a corner booth table, a sitting man stares
an impertinent stare at her pendulum satchel
and long dangled legs that sway to a torso
wrapped tight in proof of a Wolf Parade show
back in twenty fourteen - unable to go
back down below where he yearns to obey
all known from each of each one of her toes.
12/20/2018
A poem about the diminishing return of memories as they're reduced and bid bare by time using an abbreviated variation of the sestina form.
He wrote poems that nobody read
He wrote sayings that never got said
He wrote lyrics that nobody sung
They were masterful - every one
He wrote essays never taken up by the cause
With his writing he seldom would pause
He wrote novels that nobody saw
The publishers never did call
His creativity, nobody else could match
He had ideas nobody else could hatch
But his product nobody else would see
Because he lacked notoriety
But his pen continued to flow
Though the results had nowhere to go
He put them out on the Internet
But nobody has read them yet
They buried that poor man today
Still not knowing what he had to say
His gift he tried so hard to share
Is lost in the ethereal somewhere
Perhaps this story is true
Perhaps this is all about you
If so, I feel your pain
There are many who can make this claim
A man with no more than a hole in his pocket
The clothes on his back and a picture in a locket
Propped up some cardboard in a dim alleyway
When a stranger came up with something to say
He wore a suit and tie with a leather briefcase
And a thoughtful, yet mischievous look on his face
“I’m tired son, money has led my feet astray.
How’d you like to switch and be rich for a day?”
There must be a catch but with nothing to lose
They traded everything, right down to the shoes
He spent the day walking and looking around
He kept his head up instead of down at the ground
He smiled at strangers who in turn, did the same
Not turning away at his sight, in pity or shame
He asked for directions even though he wasn’t lost
Just to see who would answer without an accost
Walking tall all day counted the people he did meet
And not one, today, avoided him by crossing the street
He went back to the alley where the rich man said he’d stay
He said, “So chap, what did you do while rich for a day?”
He peered in his wallet and thought hard for a time
“You had this all day and you didn’t spend a dime?”
As they swapped back their clothes, the poor man explained
“You have all this money but are exhausted and drained.
I didn’t spend a thing but cleaned up in these stitches,
I experienced a different kind of wealth and riches
No one saw me and assumed I deserved shame and neglect
I walked around today and was rich with respect
I didn’t try to get ahead using money or power
Just happy not to have to beg, head hung in a cower.”
He gripped his locket and thought of important things
And knew he held close what really pulled the heartstrings
The rich man nodded and shook the poor man’s hand
Perhaps he’d been living with his head in the sand
The next day he went back but the poor man was gone
All that remained was the cardboard he’d slept on
And a locket from a pocket that escaped from a hole
A picture inside of a woman that warmed his cold soul
He decided to use his wealth for more than his greed
And never turned a blind eye to someone in need
He began to see people in a much different way
And perhaps it was himself, who became rich that day
Uncle Marco of Milan lived far off
He always sneezed and had a bad cough
Everyone feared he had caught the virus
They evaded him like poor Lazarus
Though grown up, he was more like a child
If anyone teased, he would instantly turn wild
And for the very reason, he would go mad
Once from the market, he bought a gilded hat
Wearing the hat, he ran after an impish brat
On his way he had to cross a mountainous track
Midway he slipped and fell off a steep rock
Diving down, the poor man broke his neck
From the heights as he landed down flat
He sobbed- “Now what use is for my hat”!
April.17.2022
To Lighten the Load Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Angela Tune