Long Preacher Poems
Long Preacher Poems. Below are the most popular long Preacher by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Preacher poems by poem length and keyword.
We are not going to hell
Tell the preacher man
To be upright with his words
Cos we are not the reason
Why tomorrow looks red
We did not create the monster on the hills
Either did we set the fire with the steel birds
We never made up the suffering we face
Neither did we want a troublesome land
For too long we voted for
Peace love prosperity progress and care
We were innocent of the lies from strange men
Men whose action are far from their words
Days after days our life's remain unchanged
Our stories remains the same
Despite how much good we are to the law
So tell the preacher man
To say the truth to power cos
We are not going to hell
We are the ones beaten
Black and blue
We are the victims of lies
So please when you preach
Tell God how much we suffer cos
There's no better hell
Than the ghetto life's in the third world
So please tell the preacher man
that when we die
We are not going to hell
We are not going to hell
There must be a heaven
For an African child
Whose life on earth bleeds with pains
Just for a mere basic survival
Yes there must be a paradise
For the innocent whose life were
Wasted just for greed and hatred
There must be a better rest for the brave
Whose life was cut short by evil
So tell the preacher man that
There is no hell for an African child
Cos we are already existing in one
We are already burning on earth
We've lost our valuable to hunters
Lost our dignity to the west
Left our spirituality to an idol
We are naked to the world
Despite our input to nature
Our troubles never change
And there is no better hell
we can burn no more
So tell the preacher man
To be upright with his words
Cos after this longs years of slavery
After this longs time of suffering
After facing the worlds isolation
Sorry mr preacher man
Their must a heaven
for an African child cos
We are not going to hell
We are the ones beaten
Black and blue
We are the victims of lies
So please when you preach
Tell God how much we suffer cos
There's no better hell
Than the ghetto life's in the third world
So please tell the preacher man
that when we die
We are not going to hell
...He spotted Jones, and three other rough men,
digging at the ground beneath a large spruce.
Jones was grousing, “I know it’s buried somewhere,
if if it’s not here, I’ll beat it out of that youth!”
It was them Elias spurred his horse on,
emerging from behind a smallish grove,
they all spun and saw him, pistols ready,
said Elias, “I had wondered…now I know.
“Why a criminal could care much for me,
they say there is no honor among thieves,
you didn’t care for you old pardner’s son,
you just though that I might have what you need.”
Trigger Jones stood up with a vicious grin,
said,” Well god damn, if took you long enough.
Who would’ve thought the preacher would buy the land
where old Kerwin used to hide all his stuff.
“I’d hoped you could tell me, show us the loot,
that’s why I bothered toying with your head,
but I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way,
if you know, speak, or I’ll shoot you dead.”
Elias just laughed, “I would never help you
even if I knew, don’t you understand?
You call me Kerwin, but my name is Jensen,
my father raised me an honorable man.”
Jones just said and said, “Well ain’t you a daisy.
I guess you’ll die a stone’s throw from your home.”
Elias just smirked back, said, “Do you think
I was fool enough to ride out on my own?”
At these words six others rode into view,
surrounding Jones and all his bandit scum,
the sheriff led them, six shooter in hand,
barked, “You all throw up your hands, or you’re done.”
Jones looked like he might make trouble for them,
but around him his men threw up their arms,
and the old crook realized there was no escape,
he dropped his pistol, saved himself from harm.
There were rewards on all the bandit’s head,
the sheriff rode off quite happy that day.
Elias rode back to his home relieved,
no longer could anyone doubt his ways.
For all the past, his temper, his worries,
none could ever now doubt he had honor,
he wasn’t bound by a bandit long dead,
and now could live the life that he deserved.
My Beloved Father
My Dad, great and grand
I am so much glad
to pay tribute rather,
My Beloved Father
My teacher, preacher, philosopher and guide
taught me to think, analyse and to decide.
From you I learnt Universal moral values of life,
firm rigid truth to follow even being sharp as hard knife.
Ten years have passed since great soul passed away
as great scientist to capture Cosmic Ray
in your self invented vertical cloud chamber
In Nineteen sixties you acted almost as a pioneer.
You were bright, brilliant in academic field.
In my life you protected me under your affectionate shield.
Successful scholar, competent teacher, but over all
A loving dutiful father to establish yourself as my Idol.
Till today your best wishes and showers of blessing
show me the light and direction in each stepping.
01/03/16
Tell us about your Dad Contest First place
Sponsor Judy Konos
I was the only son of a Baptist preacher,
who had three daughters as well.
He and my mother were fine teachers,
on how to get to heaven and stay out of hell.
We lived in a small town where you knew everyone,
so there wasn't anyway to sin and not get caught.
It was a real challenge to be a preacher's son,
who loved to do the opposite of what he was taught.
I was told that there was joy in sin, for just a season.
And why they told me this, there must be a reason.
But I just couldn't help finding the trouble,
in spite of Sunday sermons, that I had heard double.
My bad reputation that I meticulously grew,
in a small town, where people were few.
Finally reached the ear of my dear old Dad
and all of my transgressions enough he had had.
So this Prodigal's son soon came to his senses,
and realized his wise parents were right.
No matter the son, from beggers to princes,
to fight against God, just isn't too bright.
Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old
he will not depart from it. - Proverbs 22:6
10 / 27 /18
I thought that I could resist you
Until you fell down at my feet
Seeing those hungry wanting eyes
I prayed, my soul you would not eat
Now the preacher could not save me
As I succumbed to your embrace
A feeble man that seemed so strong
Would be ensnared by one in lace
You made me scream like a baby
For I knew that I had a choice
A mad quest for carnal pleasures
I was enticed by sultry voice
Luscious whispering in my ear
The simple promise that you made
We just had a single evening
Yet within my mind you stayed
Why couldn't the old preacher heal me
when before him my sins were layed
Although the pleasure was fleeting
The memory of you wouldn't fade
All I had was that one photo
Of you the girl with wanting eyes
I've consumed so many hours
A fool holding onto my lies
For as the Mercury rises
Silver tendrils reach for my hand
I'm a man who feasts on famine
Cracked hourglasses hold no sand!
The preacher revealed my secret
My indiscretion was exposed
In the end I found my freedom
When the chapter of lust was closed!
A write for Lyrics II Rob Carmack's Black Crowes Contest
Inspired by their song "Descending"
A purely fictional write.
dust-wearing-wind carries a feeble cry in its palm,
settles it near ears that can no longer hear.
Cries arise from hollows of your hungry face,
a pulpit of high cheeks bones— in sharp relief
to sunken skin-scape sallow and paper thin—
a preacher on the harrows of hunger.
Vulture keeps a still, silent vigil,
a patient witness to your starvation,
comrade and adversary
in a fight for your last breath and beat.
Your loyal companion, a symbol of death
where drones rain with flames on tents of refugees
and sky splitting missiles make shrapnel of the sun,
where dragon fire artillery shoots the moon
and shreds stars till they fate-fall
like the last nightjars from nocturne skies.
Dear child of war,
alone with nothing in your belly but a stone,
rib bones a famine cage,
thoracic fingers squeeze your soul.
Your heart a hostage,
flutters like a lost moth against your sternum.
I long to hold you and feed you
honey made from a million wild flowers
uncrushed beneath metal plates of tank treads.
I yearn to bathe you of collapsed concrete dust
cleanse you of your mother’s blood, her
rattle-boned, battle-owned, maternal body wrapped
over yours as they fed her Kalashnikov lead.
My faraway ache for your plight pales
against your tiny body’s black-rose-throes,
a pawn to thorns of soldiers
grown on rocket-torn-boot-worn streets.
War-zone fig trees bear no fruit,
hibiscus buds die as hornets knit nests into shrubs,
tomorrow but a diseased wheat field laid to waste.
Dear child of war,
deliverance will come when pall-bearer winds
carry your cries elsewhere…
You've been with me all of my life and I love and
appreciate you.
For God created you as my equal, my protector, my near
sequel and projector of unforeseen things I don't see...
but you do.
For you're my heavenly sister and teacher...
The vision of God's loveliness...
A true preacher of my forgiveness and a scent of love
that comes from my rose;
What a true since of being... While being drenched in
trust, love, and happiness and all that God brings.
From your red hair
to your see through silhouette... an amazing figure and
beauty invisible to the necked eye... yet, a vision that was
always alongside... piercing through my soul... for you were
always there my spirit, my rose, my love, and my guide.
So,
Now as we meet I embrace and thank you for protecting
my heart, and my love... My spirit... My rose...
For now it's time for me to put old chapters to rest and
to a close; for my lesson has now been learned. So please
give back my heart of love and true honor. My spirit, my
angel, my one in a million... my one and only... My rose;
for which God appointed and chose you as my whole
being... my hero, my blessing and lastly; MY SPIRIT...MY
ROSE...
Ray Richardson was known as a fighter,
and a big hit amongst the boxing fans,
though few of them ever called him by name,
his sobriquet in the ring was ‘Steel Hands,’
like Forman, Wilder, he had power,
his fights rarely lasted a quarter hour.
Now Steel Hands Richardson held a title,
which brought him big money, and big challenge,
he’d knocked down six men who tried to take it,
and believed he could handle the balance,
the next man in the ring was ‘Bandit’ McGill,
a slippery boxer, trained to great skill.
Steel Hands was not that concerned with his foe
when he stepped through the ropes into the ring,
he figured it would be an easy bout,
the flag was waved, the singer did their thing.
Finally, they rang the opening bell,
and Steel Hands came out to give the man hell.
But the speed of his foe stymied his blows,
oh, how McGill could duck shots, bob and weave,
then slip away quick with fancy footwork,
how the man moved Ray just couldn’t believe,
his hard punches would hit nothing but air,
then two jabs would come back as he stood there.
His corner shouted he was losing rounds,
before he knew it six had slipped away,
to loose the title to such a fighter…
the more thought of it filled Steel Hands with rage,
to think that another could be the best
was not something to which he’d ever attest!
When he got back up for the seventh round,
he noticed McGill was starting to tire,
but even worn out, his jabs kept coming,
not that hard, but scored points rapid fire,
but Ray would not accept tossing the thing,
and used his long legs to cut off the ring.
In the ninth round he saw his opening,
cornered McGill, landed a body shot,
with his man stunned, Steel Hands threw a hard right,
putting all his strength in a blow up top,
it dropped the bandit, right flush with his jaw,
he would not get back up, everyone saw...
CONTINUES IN PART II.
Sally saw his expression, and smiled at him.
“Prent, I never thought you’d be back.
Whatever happened to make you return?
Whatever blew your great plans of track?
What was it that the big city lacked?”
He nodded his head, and said it true:
“Boston has much, but not women like you.”
Sally’s jaw dropped, how could it not?
She stared at him, fixed on his eyes.
He said,”If you’ll have a foolish trapper,
I was thinking we might give it a try.
You’re the best girl I know, that’s no lie.”
The café went quiet, all looked on
Then Sally his lips brushed a kiss upon.
“Well I guess you leave me no choice now,
We’ll just have to go and get wed.
You heard me folks, the café’s closing!
Find somewhere else to get fed!”
Nell squealed, and Sal tussled her head.
Prent wrapped them both up in his arms,
vowing that he’d never do either harm.
Within an hour the preacher said the words
and together the two were bound.
Word spread quick and folks came out
from all of the buildings in town,
to see the new couple riding down.
Prent he ignored them, just kissed his wife
knowing together they’d raise the girl right.
Along with any others that might come along…
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of yellow, metal Caterpillar’s.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
He moves under tree shadows,
if there are no tree shadows
he takes a bus.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the Green Man,
he is not a straw man,
or a hollow man –
he is green
at least for now.