Long Protestant Poems
Long Protestant Poems. Below are the most popular long Protestant by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Protestant poems by poem length and keyword.
An Irish lad
Of seven or so
Bears witness to the hate in his fathers eyes
As the British with guns walked on by
Never knew a soldier who wanted to die
Especially one not seeking battle
Ahhh but if eyes could kill
That Brit be dead dead dead
Poor little boy to see this at all
Fathers breeding hate to the sons
That British lad carrying a gun
That helped him not a lick
As the bomb went off
Nicked them all that day
Ten more Brits in boxes like chocolates
For an Irish feast
A young lad in London
An orphan created by cowardly acts
He longed for revenge
Said one day, I shall make Saint Patrick pay
One day, I shall make me father proud
A paddy bastard I shall stab
And feel might righty proud
Well luck seemed to be full of four leaf clover
For those two lads of hate would meet
Far away and across an ocean
Where two solitudes already live and breath
In a summer camp of northern adventure
Why they had such times and bonded well
They had no idea of their respective bloody hells
They were boys of dreams beneath it all
Hate had not the chance to fester and swell
So when they returned to their respective colors
They had learned from friendships and love of life
Hate should belong to the fathers
Never the sons
Clarification on:
Hate should belong to the fathers
Never the sons
Hate should belong to no one, I simply meant that we could solve alot in this world if it wasn't passed from generation to generation!!
Notes:
During the conflicts in Belfast a group in Quebec ran summer camps for Irish kids of both Catholic and Protestant areas of Ireland. Much harder for the parents to hate each other when the children bonded and became friends. I am trying to find out what group organized this so if anyone happens to have any information love to hear from them. I know there was a group that did the same in Chicago but haven’t been able to find any info about the group in Quebec.
In Quebec, they often refer to “The two solitudes” meaning the English and the French here, oh the irony that such a place saw fit to bring another two groups of people together. The world is always full of surprises!!!
662.
The 2nd Period of the American Era of Philippine History:
Our American Heritage
For 3 decades of American colonization
Much from the Americans was gained by our nation
From government & economy to society & culture
We became Americanized even in language & literature
In government, we adopted a system called “democracy”
A form of governing done by many
We were granted freedom of speech & expression
In public offices there was Filipinization
In economy, we had free trade with the United States
Modes of transportation & communication were in increasing rates
Products of agriculture & manufacture developed drastically
Industries & factories were brought all over the country
In society & culture, came the Protestant religion
There was progress in health, social services & education
In language & literature, English became a hit
American food, clothing, media & technology became our favorite
This is the 2nd Period of American Era – Our American Heritage
It became our fad & penchant until the present age
They brought us here the blessings of prosperity
God through them had drawn the Philippines towards modernity.
-05/21/2019
*Periods on the Eras of the Philippine History
Sound of a song softly sung rose in the air and through windows
Barred to let air and light in and little else.
A lament sung in Gaelic tongue foreign to ears used to French,
But its meaning understood bringing tears .
Longingly she peered through the bars over the countryside and trees,
Fine they looked in their fresh green coats.
White cloud scarse in the azure blue of afternoon sunlight,
Her heart broken in myriad pieces.
In this old castle surrounded by water was this to be her fate,
To die in a stony room of shadows.
Her resolve it grew and plans were formed to escape this place,
Meeting a friend of old named Douglas.
One dark night a boy crept close holding a key for the wooden door,
Disguised as a woman of servitude she escapes.
In a small boat on the dark waters of the loch oars slashing ,
Taking her away inch by inch .
Fearful of pursuit by her captors hearing the oars dipping,
Hoping the dark night would cloak .
Was it a failed marriage that brought her here trickery abound,
Perhaps because I am a woman bold.
A queen she was of royal descent staunch in her beliefs
Castigated by a bitter old man .
Tricked and used by men of power abuses beyond her ken,
Unable in accepting a Queen especially o a different faith
Gaiety an sobriety wurnae fur them.
Allus dressed in black lukin like giant craws
Strutting aboot as if they themsells were yon creaturs o the Earth,
Using their Holy Buik tae tell ithers whit tae dae,
Nae room fur forgiveness frae them big craws.
They plotted oan weys tae rid themsells o this decadent Queen,
Ne,er mind that she wus Queen o their laund
Rather be under Eglish Liz she wis a protestant efter aa.
How foolish ur the plans o men who hae a conceit o themsells.
Who wid use ithers tae dae the durty work
Aa tae keep therr ain hauns clean an free o blud,
But a budy kens who they wur especially therr Goad abune
Lookin doon oan those who plot tae kill,
Tae further therr oan station an fortune.
Gawin agin whit the Guid buk seys deceived intae
Daein the work o the deil.
Shame o these guid men o Scotlands past,
Shame oan therr deceitful weys
An tae thie dey their descendents dae the same,
Selling an betraying therr kintrey for profit an gain.
Andy McIntyre 16/05/2021.
November 6th 2018 - election day
Later today after
all votes get cast
post final countdown,
the winning candidates
ought to be known
way before break fast
cometh on the lanced
morrow (for champions),
nonetheless
my fingers and toes crossed,
that those donned diametrically
opposed to establishmentarian
(reed conservative
buttoned down
MAGA stalwarts) deemed
more dangerous than
beastie boys, or
foo fighting, Outkast
sans, these progressive forward
thinking Democratic activists
(purportedly threatening
gerrymandered territory,
where white Anglo Saxon
Protestant hegemony dominates
status quo regarding
dhow ting Thomas Nast
tee Donkeys as
hashtagged by Trump),
I pray these true
purring blue state
representatives clinch,
the majority to oust vast
Republican politicians cowed,
demeaned, and excoriated
for NOT fawning
prince supple lee,
nor paying expected
obeisance as mealy
mouth sycophants, that she
push hilly accede toward
belligerent, execrable,
and incriminating, nee
Machiavellian hot headed,
quasi coiffed,
donned, and puffed que
hair raising bully,
whose vindictive
uber lyft tartly tinged
tongue lashing,
they risk acerbic
punitive un re
lent ting vitriol stemming
from recalcitrance determined
by the fuhrer wannabe
wool shear lee be silenced
unless that bigoted,
"FAKE" man hat
tinned unabashed, unhinged,
and unruly
villainous president we
the village people nominated
to bulldoze zee
American free
dumbs, now made irrelevant!
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping hunger and abuse of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
When a was just a wee lad,
When I was a young boy,
I had a friend called Michael
We played soldiers with our toys.
Michael he was Protestant,
And I was Catholic born,
There was divide between us
But friendship we had sworn,
"Don't be friends with them,
They are all the devils scum"
Said the lads at my school
They didn't like my chum.
Because of this I left a friend,
Never thought I'd see again,
Until I came face to face,
With Michael at a fence.
Now Michaels face was covered,
But I could see it in his eyes,
My presence in the Belfast streets,
Had Caught him with surprise.
As I'd embraced a rebels life
He'd joined the RUC,
And as we stood in Belfast's streets
His gun he aimed at me.
Michael, please remember,
we were once great friends,
We've known each other all our life
This isn't how it ends...
I'm sad to say this story
Is probably not alone
In friendships that were frozen
So hate could take the throne.
Enemies were once friends
But now we are all alone
In this empty graveyard, just a box full of bones.
Form:
Call me small, petite, skinny and/or tiny as these names have aired
during my life on repeat. I wonder if my size is just coincidence
or predetermined to be dispensed because my first name came
from my paternal great-grandmother who was likewise ‘condensed.’
Born in 1857, she died in 1952, years before Mama was in Dad’s view.
I know she liked to be barefoot most of the time, bore nine children
who all thrived, loved to fish which she did to feed them in their
farm-poor, struggling existence. Her entire life was spent in one of
America’s most southern states, just like my maternal
great-grandmother from whom my middle name came. Though her
portrait adorns my home, I only know she bore four children without
a ripple and lived a long life in a middle-class vision as toned by her
unrelenting depression.
These two women seeded my future existence. They share a divine
tapestry with me and surely some features of their physical, mental
or emotional traits are visible in me, in addition to the 'tiny' gene.
I also feel them when I watch a movie containing nuns because
my combined names will belong to one, every time; Sister Mary
Catherine
This amuses me because all branches on my family tree have long
bloomed protestant leaves.
...CayCay aka Mary Catherine
Dream on man
War is constant
It has gone beyond
Catholic or Protestant
Religious wars
From our short lived past
Will never dilute
As long as we last
In this modern world
We fight for different reasons
What ever the excuse
And in any season
We fight over land
Imaginary WMD
Even over soccer
How the hell can that be
We now fight over oil
In a camouflaged war
Taking innocents with us
In public deplore
Guerrilla, assault
Bombing with precision
We vote them in
As they twist their decisions
Dream on man
War has changed
Greed has taken over
From the pasts deranged
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-3.php
My serenity and revenge
So come with all the nonsense you can come with
Intensity, the pleasure in this needle and syringe
Climax to suspense I’m done with
This is my serenity and revenge
Sophisticated or not
I’m obligated to my plot
The weather and changes
Together we strangers better our ranges
Posted number nine
The most I boasted, I’m fine!
Seems I’ve a fetish for waving goodbye
Means of politicians turns cheddar to reddish
Yea I’m saying you fry
I’m lusting for one last sin
Trusting for one past beginning
To much jibber and blah blah
Gets you swept up like a dust bunny
Please don’t make me bust honey
You think I lost my fire, my spark
It’s so hell and life is dark
It would be a sin to kid you all
So let this be a sucker punch
For any group or individual
Whom dare challenge my presence
My spirit murders in the same vibe
I use to rally my contestants
Stressed protestant
Against the gods, my odds my only chance
Form:
Three hours suppressed before breaching the tight-lipped
container left neatly wrapped in homogenous foam
and smoky demeanor. Its lid caved in, having been tapped.
Through misspoken holes sprung arcadian visions,
lacking Peloponnese disposition, still semi-smoldering
with the tinder touch of Hephaestus extracted from
less subtle artistry attributed Zeus, high up on his steed,
bare-chested. Arms crossed.
How he used to look down on we mortals, wee, buttressed
by oxygen, in two-
parts hydrogen, one-part dioxide.
But this was real, not some Florescent church.
Outside the perimeter lay black stacks of texts I had gradually
gathered through time’s non-existence, way back when time
weighed as factual matter. Of course they still mattered.
Yet, I chose them to lay there, bathed in the soot of three daughters
I failed to veil. What do you say, Rita Dove? to wear
my white-skinned daughters spun lesser as still lovelier silk?
Is there anything clumsier to misappropriate than weather-vane hate,
with its gallant gait, with its augmented pigmentation,
when there’s no room in storage?
A grey-haired protestant behind me prayed;
“Oh, Thank God!
Oh! Thank God”
He praised through my bedroom window’s socket, shocked to shatter
by fire, fresh come splattered beard. I had not known him prior, this man I would learn was a fair-weather friar. So; I blew him a kiss.
But in my eyes,
he saw an unwell wish, so;
It needs to be done with this.