Long Rags Poems
Long Rags Poems. Below are the most popular long Rags by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rags poems by poem length and keyword.
deep in the woods where shadows creep,
where secrets lurk and willows weep,
a girl in rags with locks of gold
walked paths where none but ghosts grew old.
a house she found--quaint, warm, and neat,
with honeyed air and scents so sweet,
but locked doors made her fingers twitch--
what’s theft to those who dare be rich?
inside she stepped, no fear, no shame,
no knock, no word, no rightful claim,
she stole their food, she broke their chairs,
her laughter danced on midnight air.
"too hot, too cold--oh, this will do!"
"too hard, too soft--I'll take from you!"
"this bed is mine, I'll rest my head--"
"what fools to leave their home unsaid!"
but as she slept in stolen rest,
a heavy step, a growling chest--
the owners came, with fangs and claws,
with sharpened teeth and sharpened laws.
"A thief! A rat! A filthy pest!"
"She dares to steal, to break, to rest?!"
"No mercy here! No tale rewrites--"
"A meal she’ll make on this dark night."
three pairs of claws, three snarling throats,
no prince to save, no fairy's notes--
just echoes left, a lesson grim,
on what befalls the ones who sin.
and in the woods, the whispers say,
beware the thief who dares betray--
for locks of gold may shine so bright,
but stolen things bring no delight.
If I stripped you of your garments
And gave you my rags to wear
Would you feel the fear and anguish
Of thinking I care
If I took away your high position
And brought you to my estate
Would you believe that I think
You are no longer an educated great
If a storm blew down your house
And leveled the playing field
Would you think I uttered a prayer
That held the sickle to wield
....such destruction
If I took away your friends
And left you with empty connection
Would you think I am the reason
For such unanimous rejection
If I left you bare, naked and hungry
On the street to live or die
Would you choose to believe
That LOVE would never cry
....a single tear
What you don't know, is that I am,
Already at the place you still fear
The only difference is that POSH PRETENSE
Pushed me away, when LOVE drew me near
Written by Trudy Schrader on 09-02-2018
A spell, a well soaked rag
sits well and nearly out of reach unless.
A spell is when it's open dirty, but is closed.
Oil soaked around the bend my elbow is.
The smell around the bushes yes they do.
A little stunted here and there you know because.
Oil-soaked, where gas is sold, soaked coal oil rags.
Patches on the asphalt black translucency.
Pumping, pumping, pump the moving evening dress.
One cut above the knee around the tree.
The motel in the lobby by the pump the awning shows.
A woman pumping gass beneath the moon star light.
The window shows her face, it really can not be but really is.
Sweat drips from little dust covered faces in the grim back-alley factories
No time for rites of passage other than fingers nimble enough to spin and
Balance wheel spool spin and stitch regulator to their master’s instruction
Anyana is not unique but one of the ‘fortunate’ ones
Gloved hands mop up droplets of perspiration from a lace veil and seduce
A myriad of lovers before she even enters an intricate parquet dance floor
Takes a cue from the orchestra and whirls on stilettos and rhapsodic flair
Chantelle did not purchase her dress at the charity shop
Their stories unite as neo-liberal gangsters spin a yard on wheels of fortune
While their procession fails to trickle down moderate glimpses of hope
Some stride on the cat walk of privilege and others are scavengers in rags
Exposed nipples are rather dissimilar but follow a different path
Anyana gathers her virtues and sends love across the boundary of despair
Her shoes bear no fairy tale stories when midnight strikes at the fashion
Of stolen passion from sweat shops for garments scented with perfume
Cause and effect cannot moderate nor gloss over amoral fabric
03rd November 2019
Atrocious affliction trembles voices of anguish
Brewing vile horror in death of tomorrow
Fearing for the newborn, women, and children
For yesterday’s massacre killed her husband
And the war-torn town screamed in agony
Wrapped in rags of shattered hopes,
Quivering hearts of disassembled valor
Incapable to assuage a hapless mother’s sorrow.
A lone crow caws atop heaps of rubble
Amplifying appetency for affinity of life,
Abjuring the blood thirsty hiding in disguise
To rob any remnants of civility and pride
From dismantled lives, walking shoeless,
Upon splintered glass littered in broken paths
When pigeons too left the desolate grounds.
Dreams once auspicious acquiesce to nightmares
Within awry silence of a burning dawn
As the allure of a new day inconsolably cries
When her only surviving child dies in her arms.
Divinity won’t absolve them of despicable sins,
That echo from playgrounds, shuttered bakery shops,
And the shrieks of families mingling in market
Where aroma of fresh bread once permeated air
And warmth of hot tea glasses greeted the day.
Wary footsteps march slowly to the other side:
It’s a bit safer there where a wedding is planned--
They don’t yet know, the young groom has died,
In a senseless war lost in poverty of thoughts.
Written: October 15, 2019
Submitted on 1/22/2023 to:
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 25 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Placed 1st: Crazy A’s poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Required words in the order included in this poem:
Atrocious, anguish, assuage, appetency, auspicious,
awry, allure, absolve
Placed 3rd: Strand choice poetry contest by Brian Strand
My dad, born today, the 17th of February
bucked fate head-on, courageous and daring
Raised in a home on a block so poor
he swam upstream, de rigeur
In 1926, all his teeth fell out
lack of fluoridation won that bout
In 1929, young brother Sidney died of malnutrition
the family couldn't afford to see a physician
In '33, he chucked religion, came to Chicago on a mission
to look for a job midst the Great Depression
His family had gambled on their decision
that my father Maury's iron-willed ambition
Would see brother Herman through dental school
which my dad would pay for, as a hard-working fool
And so he did (!) and so it went, 'till my father Maury was
sent overseas, B.A. in hand, to fight Adolph Hitler in a foreign land
When he returned, he earned himself a law degree
married his sweetheart Maxine with two pennies
or three to his name, he toiled at his law firm's bottom
'till he saved so much money that a ranch house he got him
in Highland Park, Illinois in a subdivision on a tree-lined street
my dad's rags-to-relative-riches story, a Horatio Alger throwback treat
From Riches to Rags
Most human beings are living like ghosts,
Not really knowing what the future holds.
Whilst we wash in the slime,
In our own cardboard homes.
There is a building, that is your home.
Once picture perfect; now in ruins after a cyclone.
Now like those you once looked down upon,
From your self appointed pedestal;
You too have become what you used to call a bum.
But now you must call them what they are;
A friend, an enemy, a homeless dying drunk,
Sleeping in a burnt out car.
In need of shelter; just as you are.
But the tramp that gave you shelter;
Shows charity starts at home.
For when the streets become your home
And you have lived that way for many years;
You will look at people in their suits
And recall once hearing all the cheers.
Success was such an easy thing to attain;
But compassion for your fellow man, has become your new aim.
For when you have lost all your worldly possessions
And you have realized your working life, is simply a profession.
Then maybe you will see clearly, find some sort of consolation;
Once you have regrouped and once more risen.
You have to begin your life, all over again.
But the partner standing by you, is in the same situation.
Then three years down the line,
As you sit there upon your throne;
You remember the bad old days have now come and gone.
But you are no longer a snob;
Now you no longer live for your job.
Now you no longer choose to live alone;
You can now open up to a fellow human being and live life as one.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
educated dalit, working in office elite,
his journey from rags to riches,
hardly matters for high caste there,
safeguarded through religious care,
see the dalit with crucifying glare,
wonder how could a dalit dare,
to overcome his sordid tale,
of breaking away his caste jail,
for them its not his education,
but simply unearned reservation,
well, they prefer to stay ignorant,
rather than be observant and agree,
to their sly ancestors religious vagary,
of keeping majority of population,
religiously away from education,
widely making negative propagation,
low caste deserve condemnation,
now in era of globalization,
they provide legal justification,
by granting on paper certain reservation,
but see the anarchy of socialization,
majority of dalit population,
struggling for handful reservation,
while minority ruling population
gets the rest as gratification,
the educated dalit wonder,
there are many like him who thunder,
for the dalit rights to be consider,
and its time to learn from past blunder,
individuals fight and meek surrender,
unless someone like dr. ambedkar,
been true dalit caretaker,
gather the courage again,
to teach the dalits how to gain,
social rights lost in vain,
perceiving false political fame.
...rAHHUL
Some friends willfully forget an unlucky heart
from whose trine flowed the richest waters
to soothe their qualms
as desert shady palms.
It gave them all it had, leaving nothing for itself;
hasn't forgetfulness replaced the warmth of that light?
Someone should remind them by writing on a wall:
that God never forgets a goodhearted soul
for the generous deeds it has done:
giving everything and receiving none!
" Shame " should be written on each face...
proclaiming to be righteous and favored by grace!
He lives in a shack built on wood poles shaken by cyclones,
and he survives on water and crackers,
a candle has replaced a light-bulb with thirty watts...
even tap water can't satiate his empty guts;
a slice of bread is a rare delicacy,
not mentioning cheap, tasteless coffee.
God never forgets a goodhearted soul,
the one that helped others face life with grit
and feeding their mouths by uplifting their spirit;
where are they now: distant as a cloud, looking down as a seagull?
Why can't they attend to his needs with generosity and wit?
No, he is not one of them anymore...only a disgraced destitute!
Rags clothe his body, but joy dwells in his faithful soul,
prayers keep him alive...he rejoices greeting the dazzling sunrise;
into the pristine river he bathes daily and sings with truthful and joyful eyes:
he will have tasted Paradise even before his death!
The poor man, so rich in faith, will sing until you runs out of breath;
the forgotten man, so weak, will reach Heaven having completed his earthly role!
No! Nigeria! Why!
We have always been happy despite the hitches.
We have wept together despite our half-baked unity.
We have laughed together despite our different trinities.
No! Nigeria! Why!
But came OCTOBER the overwhelming independence.
We are free! We are free from the shackles I hear!
We are still slaves to our own mother you will attest.
No! Nigeria! Why!
Independence where are you?
We tried to err our inconveniences using our discretion, but we got an invite to the funeral of our freedom of speech.
No! Nigeria! Why!
We kept on the protest in one voice,
And we were shattered with a Bang! Bang! to many heads.
Blood of the innocent flows like the river Niger.
Tears of the concerned flows like the river Benue.
Bodies torn like discarded rags.
Lives wasted so they tell no stories.
Every where has become a dark cloud.
Things have fallen apart.
No! Nigeria! Why!