Long Presumed Poems
Long Presumed Poems. Below are the most popular long Presumed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Presumed poems by poem length and keyword.
NiGERIA AT 59 A HOME OF A FAILED
MARRIAGE
On this wavy Atlantic sailed a white robe
With his skills in Holy book
Thou bringeth thy self to rob
As they used the book as bait we the fish to hook
The net they filled with us the pest
On which they feed with smiles
Their hearts overwhelmed with greed
As they took us on their wheel they sang the creed of greed.
We weaived and quivered while in shiver
They became weavers and achievers
Basket of rich fruits they found
Treasures of riches they discovered under ground
Pleasure filled their honey mouth as the bee took their flight
As they tested the depth of the river with both feets
A mistake they made without a look in sight.
Now the baskets begin to tear as the fruits rot in great delight
The marriage they celebrated with unpleasant feets
As in mockery they danced as they feasted in peace
Alas they broke their vows as the brigades
Fired their barricades
Uniforms interchange uninformed
As the abortion they failed
Begot the painful miscarriage
Presumed for yesterday.
A happy man marries the woman he loves
A happier man loves the woman he marries
But this marriage is due for divorce
The party is over and desolve
Even the rivers show no love in confluence
Give us the agreement of the conference
The urine has been held for long
So the bladder might burst
What ever will be said went wrong
It must be remember how they broke the trust.
Why do I care more about others than myself?
Isn't a rightful liaison a duty to give away a joy that
isn't perspicuously mine or should it be considered so?
And that brings up this poignant and perplexing question:
how to cope with criticism and still subdue my self-ego ignored?
Friends approach me and say with a sympathetic tone,
" You need to put aside some time to enjoy yourself,
to detach yourself for a while from the worries,
and troubles you constantly see in everyone;
more than anything else, take care of yourself! "
Would such friendly and egotistic words agree with my humane mentality?
It will make things worse, not better as I move forward to achieve social well-being;
I have been known to have taken the shirt off my back without hesitating,
and provide advice and care even in a small way to ease a friend's burden;
I been called gullible and definitely the nicest person alive unable to tell a lie!
Living for others is a commitment obliged by must,
I will gladly divide a loaf of bread and not take a single slice...
and I will be satisfied only when they are full and smile;
if saints have done that: going to bed hungry to feed the neediest,
shouldn't I act in the same way, instead of looking away and not serenely sleep?
Many not agreeing with me, may come forward with their vague view;
I will tell them without complicated words...without explaining actions for doing such deeds;
nobody will sway me from acting on instinct when the needy's courage is not bold...
selfishness is a shameful attitude in front of poverty...an ugly word, a presumed virtue!
Let them wonder and be amazed how I choose generosity over my self-ego ignored!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Ccrisci
The teachers and staff at the special school, Graysmill,
Did what they could to give the severes a life afterwards,
And they presumed I would be accepted to work,
At the CALL Centre of Edinburgh University, for a long time to lurk.
It’s now CALL Scotland, and researches special tech,
Develops assistive software, devices, and communication aids;
It digitalise written exams energetically and with voice,
For disabled kids who need to have their own writing choice.
But I went to Daniel Stewarts nursery, was well accepted, superior,
As I came top of the class for both words and numbers,
And as it is a top private school near Edinburgh’s city centre,
I found the sympathy hard at Graysmill ‘cos I was not inferior.
In the 70s and 80s they thought the special pupils couldn’t interact,
In mainstream schools where the able-bodied were understood;
Most of my friends had a dislike of normal, ordinary kids,
And didn’t understand my perceptions of relationality and brotherhood.
So as it was sometimes an effort for me to be part of the school,
And I just wanted to walk away from all things disabled or impaired,
The moment I started university where opportunity beckoned,
Where my intentions and abilities could be so aired.
I wanted to maybe be a software engineer for organisations,
But knew I couldn’t type all day every day with my foot,
So after uni got a part-time job at the CALL Centre, but felt self-defeated,
‘Cos I'd had blows with my parents about my own mechanism of input.
I did home computing growing up using my hands on the keyboard,
But did my school and homework with my foot, not good,
And since they wanted me to go to university, no big deal,
They forced me to keep using the faster mechanism, the switch for my foot.
So I resented the CALL Centre right throughout my young years,
For not believing or ingratiating me when I told them of my hand dexterity,
And as a graduate able to deliberate upon my case of disrespect,
I can say that my parents should have certainly been certified for neglect.
I did not renew my contract with the Call, was only for four months,
As I didn’t want to put myself through that close contact and innocence assumption,
But think that they do an note-worthy job for severely disabled kids,
And that my case was an exception to their loving, kind gumption.
Mi Amigo
Flying Fortress Mi Amigo Remembrance
Mi Amigo
It happened in the year nineteen forty-four
Ten young lives from that day were with us no more
Flying a B17 bomber plane
A ten-man crew “Mi Amigo” her name
Returning from a raid over Denmark
Badly damaged and struggling back to her mark
Her radio dead and engine misfiring
The skin in tatters from all the shell firing
A nurse plane was left to guide her way home
But they lost sight in the clouds and presumed she was gone
But the pilot valiantly searched for the English coast
He needed to reach Charleston but managed Sheffield, their last post
It was just before five on that February day
Children in the Endcliffe Park with a football to play
Mi Amigo couldn’t wait, she had to come down
She spiraled and tried to land in the Park ground
The pilot he saw the children playing there
He lifted the nose and tried to climb in the air
There is a Memorial Stone in the park these days
They planted ten oak trees for the boys they couldn’t save
The boys were all American aged twenty-one to twenty-four
February Twenty Second, they were lost far from their own shore
The Pilot determined he missed the children and hit in the trees
Heroes to the parents of the children playing in that February freeze
My mother watched the plane as it struggled overhead
The engine sound and smoke from above filled them with dread
They had souvenirs made from the Perspex nose of the plane
But they are now lost like the lives of the boys that were claimed.
© Amanda Tams 2012
It was the anniversary in Feb of 10 American boys that died in a Park where I played as a child. My mother would normally have been playing there with the others, but she watched it from her sick bed at home as the plane passed yards from their roof. Although she was an eyewitness this information is from A book By D Harvey called Mi Amigo Sheffield's Flying Fortress
Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...
Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.
Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.
Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.
Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).
Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.
A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.
That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.
Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.
quick figurative brush stroke drawn out character sketch
(serendipitous verisimilitude)
i stand in awe
(with mouth agape) at elegiac, fantastic,
and graphic idyllic Kinkade magic
leaving breathlessness from craw
at such artistic talent oozing
spellbindingly, whatever
aforementioned noteworthy craftsman
doth paint or draw,
and chanced to comment
about sad affairs leaving flaw
in regard to questionable business ethics -
where press hee haw
contradicting, maligning, undermining, and jaw
boning sans said late talented mortal
engaging in sketchy traits of south paw
city when contrasted with a dog given gift -
ooh...such rah...rah...rah
when he first appeared on the scene,
where most viewers saw
utmost dynamic, fantastic, and harmonic convergence
displaying such prosaic, rhapsodic,
titanic art show events
hum...and perhaps not surprising
his illicit in dull gents presents stark contrast,
staring hypnotized as imagination invents
experiencing peaceful, restful
and tumblerful joie de vivre espying
honorable mentioned nonpareil oeuvre
that placidly rents
craving to disappear into bucolic landscape whence,
splashed upon canvass,
attempting to bat
presumed "FAKE" rumors aside as nonsense - fat
chance prevailed constituting:
deceitful, immoral, unfaithful sly kat
nocturnal antics, despite scathing attacks
(cut him down to size), niggardly praises spat
out for me, I maintain cult of personality (his)
setting Mac Book Pro wallpaper
with exemplary landscape, either authentic or copy cat.
My first grandchild was turning three,
sweet girl with a motherly bent.
The perfect present seemed to be
a dollhouse; so, shopping we went.
She found one not by accident -
real bells for the front and back door,
three stories, carpet on the floor
two-car garage, a three bedroom,
kitchen and bath. Who could want more?
Memory on the breeze, presumed.
She had moved on, Kid's Kraft was done.
Trying to hide my discontent,
I asked, “What is wrong with this one?”
“It’s not real.” Not like home she meant;
her place, the five-room flat they rent.
The Little People caught her eye
"Here is my house," I heard her cry.
there's mom, dad and me, just like home."
With three dolls to boot, a good buy;
no chic decor, no polychrome.
Happy memory? not so true,
but truly it is in a way.
Only one went shopping, not two.
I bought that dollhouse on display
the fancy one, for her birthday
and sensed her dissatisfaction.
Her mom had bought the other one,
small with three dolls a child could clutch.
Three’s magic, mom’s gift so much fun
while mine sat at my house untouched.
written 02/03/2018
[Written during a twelve hour power cut caused by
Storms this past winter]
The storm that arrived in the depth of the night
Got even worse with the new morning’s light
Although I presumed that they’d already know
I contacted the electricity co
I asked if they knew the whole town had gone dark
Are you fixing it or just having a lark
I think that I upset the man on the phone
He told me to wear a coat inside my home
Just listen to me, I said to the geezer
I think you should know I’ve got a dead freezer
Without any leccy it’s gonna defrost
And all of its contents are gonna be lost
We’re trying to sort it all out said the man
But I would suggest that you eat what you can
So I checked the freezer to sort out my tea
My cooker is gas which is lucky for me
I made my selection from my warming freezer
Fish fingers and chips… and ice cream and pizza
Sausages, drumsticks, a tasty rib-eye
Two rocket lollies, a steak and ale pie
Some prawns that I think have defrosted before
(I’m still gonna eat them because I’m not sure)
Some old sausage rolls from Christmas last year
A fisherman’s pie I’d forgotten was here
Another small pizza with awful fake cheese
An out of date bag full of freezer burned peas
Four quarter pounders and thinly sliced beans
I think I might loosen the belt of my jeans
This town is a strange forest of individuals
yet they do not belong to the forest.
each tree here bears fruits to nourish
yet fruits are not shared despite hunger,
fallen fruits are cleared with autumn leaves,
while starving children wait outside.
even squirrels are given race and religions ,
as they scamper and play in their freedom.
Birds have characters as it fits prejudice,
even their calls are judged in octaves.
flowers grow as it suits their choice of beauty,
and there are weeds that do not fit such plans.
nature showers the forest in monsoon rains,
and makes no choices or does undue favours.
howling winds laugh their way through,
mocking the presumed owners of this free land!
This place could be a better place, this forest,
where we can all belong, and everything shared,
yet, the divisions continue, boundaries are set,
what grows from land is free expression of nature,
yet what is bred is avarice, greed and suffering!
But on knees they pray, they pray each day,
mind is shut! even God cannot show them the way!!
Written 6/10/2022
when dawn wakes me to wisdom
The Untold story of a Sitar 1 of 3
.
.
Few days back
I got hold of a strange gift
Of an old and slightly broken antique Sitar
It must be older than
Seven to eight decades
Or maybe it came to see the first light
On Earth
Around a century ago. 01
.
My heart was throbbing and almost jumping
To think and imagine
That I posses something
Of unprecedented beauty and melody
With an untold story
Still breathing
In its heart. 02
.
Thinking that I may get success
In adding again
A replacement of those
Strings and knobs
Which may bring back
All its missing tunes and music
Which the Sitar has lost
With the passing
Of many decades of time
When the Sitar got forlorn and neglected
And gradually
It lost some of its most essential
And dear body parts. 03
.
One day I was watching it minutely
To appreciate
The beauty of this antique Sitar
When I suddenly found
A name ‘Tan’ written
On one of its broken keys
And unknowingly
I began to anticipate
That with the perhaps
With the passing of time
The Sitar would have shifted
From the soft hands
Of its first owner
Whose name was perhaps ‘Tan’. 04
.
And surprisingly
This name ‘Tan’ was still
Faintly visible
Written on one of the broken knob
Of that antique Sitar
Which I happened to posses now. 05
.
I imagined and presumed
That perhaps
It’s unseen owner Tan
May had left that beauty mark
By writing her unique lovely
Name ‘Tan’
Which still appears to be
Singing silently and shining dimly
After many ignored decades
The untold love story of Tan. 06
.
That faintly written name
Appeared to me
As the last impression and effort
Of a beautiful skilled
Musician woman in love
To immortalize her name & musical lore’s
By mildly engraving that name
On one of the knob
Of this beautiful Sitar
Which for me was
No less precious
Then the Grecian Urn
Which was spreading the same
Beauty and stillness
With a difference
That the Sitar was still capable
To reproduce
The vibrations of all those sweet melodies
Which got lost on this unique
Musical instrument of the last century
With the passing and change of time. 07
Ravindra
Kanpur India 13th April 2016