Long Rallying Poems
Long Rallying Poems. Below are the most popular long Rallying by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rallying poems by poem length and keyword.
The restless wolves begin to howl
A rallying call for the hunt
Watching closely, ravens caw
As hungry wolves growl
Then the pack starts off in a trot
As the alpha male leads the lot
The hunt is on, the ravens follow
Hoping for some scraps to swallow
The elks in the distance start to run
But wolves can run all day
A nearby river glistens in the sun
A chance for the elk to swim away
But gray wolves are excellent swimmers too
And they pursue their prey to the other side
The elk, now tired begin to slow
And powerful jaws deliver the death blow
The wolves now feast on their new kill
Supreme hunters of the plains
The ravens too get their fill
As Canis Lupus howls again
3/12/2015
Some people have drama every day.
Their house burned down three times this week.
They are wearing a cast on their leg again.
Their dog ran away, dragging her dog house.
Their wedding ring popped off and down a sewer drain.
They discovered their husband has three other wives.
I know one of these Bad Luck Queens quite well. She is always stirred up.
Loud and proud, a horror story, and perpetually late to work besides.
Notoriously late, expectedly late. Let’s call her Agnes.
She has the worst luck every day. A strange man was in her house.
She could not come to work before she got him out of there.
She had a fender bender. There were no witnesses,
so she had to wait for the police.
Someone broke down the front door of her house in the middle of the night
And took all her kid’s Christmas presents for the sixth year in a row.
Her grandmother ran away from the old folk’s home on Tuesday.
She has been found, but Agnes has to take off early today
to find her a new place.
Suggestions are made but Agnes has tried everything. Nothing works for her.
Her life is perpetually upside down, topsy-turvy, in the toilet.
She has a small cut, and she wonders if it is cancer.
It is almost like she hopes it is.
She never has enough money for lunch.
Can she please have your extra can of soup?
She is so grateful for any help she can get.
When we first met her, we were more than willing to loan her
a candy bar, can of soup, and
Sometimes money. Nothing ever gets back though,
so now it is the newbies who are rallying
To have a little party for her.
They think we savvy survivors are horrible for not wanting to cough up a mere dollar apiece for her grandmother's funeral, not realizing we have already coughed up a dollar for nineteen of Agnes' grandmothers' funerals.
Agnes, the Bad Luck Queen, interesting every time she is seen.
They gave us a gun and called it freedom
So when you tell me you care
I dont believe you
Your performative allyship
And yes talking to you white liberals
This 'white saviour' act you've got going on
You can end it
And stop pretending
Let's call it what it is
It's your guilt manifesting as being seen as 'progressive'
But really it's just you trying to be The 'centre of attention'
Because it was never about us
It was about proving that you are better than white Conservatives
But in reality you're just as bad or even worse
Because you fake activism
Just to boost your ego
But we see right through you
If you cared about black lives matter
You would do better
By letting go of your pride and ego
Instead of boasting on social media
How about you educate yourself
On the real problem like racism
Instead of boosting your platform
Instead of posting a black screen
How about rallying behind black communities
Let them take the reins
Whilst simultaneously still supporting
Because contrary to popular belief
Not everything is about you
But your Whiteness is a privilege we don't have
So the best act of real activism
Is actually you using your white privilege
To get us Justice
Because that's real allyship
So instead of giving us a gun and calling it freedom
How about you stand up against racism and help us get freedom
Instead of making fake promises
G-rand someone whose old but yet young, leading the youth with wisdom;
R-ossting royal comings to be completely bald, yet teaching the truth never fail;
A-ppraisals and appearances up keep while rallying children get off the streets;
N-ews today and days to sweep, remembering history and history feats;
D-oing most things for others not selfish relentless gathering family reunions;
P-leasing all well almost all else, elder Mother, elder Father, grand...
Almost dying, yet still revealing one's self;
R-epeat turn the other chin cheek, little children, young adult in Ahh! in
shock can't speak!!
E-nter in the rustic dried out golden
N-ever say no to friend or for, always respect your elders;
T-odays the day for being golden and born
Simple said, simply heard senior minded stop the habit of disrespecting the aged;
Close your mouth open your eyes hands and heart if you wanna live long life like them you should
these are the words for the Grandparent HOOD
07/31/14
Where once the Seventh Cavalry heroically stood its ground,
Winter winds now moan o'er the desolate Montana battleground.
Drifting snows blanket the horse soldiers' lonely graves.
They were out-fought by Crazy Horse and his determined braves!
After decades of broken treaties, recrimination and hate,
The Red Man's frustrations were culminated on that fateful date.
Many moons have passed since they clashed in mortal strife,
That forever changed the Native American way of life.
A marble stone marks where each trooper that day was slain.
A stark, lonely memorial on that ghostly, windswept plain.
They now sleep together 'neath a monument grand and tall,
Awaiting the rallying 'CHARGE!" of Gabriel's bugle call!
Perhaps if their pompous commander had been less rash,
Gallant cavalrymen might have survived that bitter clash.
But such was his zeal for national glory and fame,
That he heaped upon himself everlasting shame!
Tho' the Bighorn Battle brought a modicum of peace,
Alas, the harassment of the Red Man did not cease.
They scattered, their plight not worth pursuing anymore.
The Red Man won the battle, but alas, he lost the war.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
I took umbrage over a comment in a current blog, in part stating that poetry, "... is a battlefield..." No. There should be no gauntlets thrown, no darts hurled, and no negative words hurled as if Poetry Soup is a battlefield. I was motivated to write...
Over and over again, blogs become a wallowing hole
where ugliness brews contempt and always takes a toll
on those who are trying to make a simple observation.
Someone takes offense and that provokes confrontation
by a tadpole who'll be a frog and not Prince Charming.
Ya know... the narcissistic type who think it's alarming
that they're ideas are not accepted by others on the site.
Then, it's "Katie, bar the door" and get ready for a fight!
Pollywogs keep swimming in rippling waters of the Soup,
where they take a dump, but don't think of it as 'Poop.'
Blogs are sandboxes where nasty words become litter.
Catty remarks are made by the arrogant and the bitter.
Not surprising, the same ones cut up with their mocking.
It's the same MO they use when they come a knocking...
knocking on new blog doors and causing a ruckus inside.
That's crossing a line that no one should ever take in stride.
Some abuse blogs, as if they're churches or synagogues.
If any part of Poetry Soup should go, it should be the Blogs.
Not as some redundantly claim, should be poetry contests...
Objected to by rallying sponsors and poets in fervid protests.
Blogs serve as playgrounds but break all schoolyard rules
when some can't stop themselves from acting like fools.
There's fighting and tugs of war... never for a good cause.
Gettin' tough over trivial stuff puts a pinch in their drawers.
For gosh sake, act like adults instead of flakes and nuts.
There's never and excuse for acting like a rattlepated putz.
What I the things
I choose to write about
Come through my pen unto me
Out of seemingly nowhere apparently
So even I myself seldom do not know
The places where my imagination goes
In order to fetch and find them from
Is often darker than the deepest
Color scarlet congealed and cellular
Blood vein viscus red ink
That flows throughout and from my sanctity
Mind body soul heart head to toe
Best described as like a donation or transfusion
Alluding to reading again to this conclusion
Is the ink my thoughts and words
Merely simply just an illusion a trick
I play unto myself but prefer to share with an audience
For the sole benefit of placating me
Rather than supposed to being
Of hopefully some use and help
To someone else suffering in need out there
Who unfortunately feels can relate and sees the world
As I do both them as well
Poetry is an art form of blood letting
But although words are a rallying cry
A way or means to an end
Words not backed up with meaningful actions
Then becomes inconsequential and superfluous
Both worthless and demeaning no descript
And a sure fire sign that the undersigned author
Writes for no other reason than
To do so for the sole benefit of pleasing themselves
And my heart bleeds for them also as well
As they are the unfortunate kind and likes of people
Who will gladly and willing steal others
Pennies out cast into a wishing well
And yet still somehow be able to
Sleep soundly well at night
The great Kings and Queens have now returned
to a time and a land so foreboding and spurned.
Since the time they had left what could have gone wrong?
For what had once been, all Narnia now longed.
Little did they know the adventure in store,
the reason they were called back through “the door”.
This castle so strong an army had attacked,
Narnia was passing from sight- this to them was fact.
But one was born to rule and restore all things,
a Tamarin prince who was meant to be king.
Young Caspian grew up amidst deception and lust,
hardly was there now a soul he could trust.
Circumstances threw these young ones together,
choices they made would seal Narnia’s fate forever.
Hatred for the past fuled the world of men,
they swore the land of Narnia would never rise again.
Prince Caspian and High King Peter led the fight
rallying Narnian creatures in the quest for the right.
And so both sides had at it till mighty Aslan appeared,
the coming of the great lion put down Narnia’s fears.
Now, a just king Caspian’s words were heeded,
King Peter and Queen Susan were no longer needed.
The young ones vanished from the sight of them all-
Edmund and Lucy would one day hear "the call".
So, a last look around as they step through “the door”,
a tree in the courtyard took them to “ another shore”.
They arrived the same spot, awaiting the train
but having been in Narnia, they’d never be the same.
***From the Disney- Walden Media movies based off the C. S. Lewis novels
“The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe” and “Prince Caspian”***
Trigger warning ??????????
This was a pretty hard piece to compile, and definitely a personal piece to post but my hope is it may reach someone who needs it.
Withdrawals
The pain is indescribable, but with my words I can but try,
To describe the hell on earth that withdrawals will supply,
It covers every single miniscule molecule of every one of your bodies cells
From every hair follicle to each tip of every toe, your head rings like orchestral bells
You can't concentrate in fact you simply can't think as your skin begins crawling
You want to cry but your eyes cannot even weep, you cry out but no tears come falling,
While the sensation of an infestation begins to infest you under your skin,
Your every muscle has lost its strength and then the sickness and diarrhea begins,
Beads of sweat trickle down from your face,
Yet your bitterly cold, no matter how many layers the shivers continue to play chase
They penetrate right down to the bone and you cannot hide the inevitable shaking
Try as you might because of your body's unbearable aching,
It's like a baseball bat was used to literally batter you,
Nothing helps to sooth any of the pains your being subjected to
You find yourself contemplating things you'd never thought you'd do,
This poison is like the devil himself whispering in your ear he's cunning acting like a saviour
But it's evil plotting conspiring against you talking you into failure,
Just one hit and you'll feel so much better, don't suffer he repeats and replies,
While the people who love me my family are the angels shouting loudly rallying I hear there cries
And it's now a game of tennis my head is the tennis ball, back and forth you can't construe
You contemplate continuously, do I have the strength or the willpower to see this through,
Or will the devil on my shoulder finally conquer and prevail taking my soul back with him
Back to the depths of hell from which I came which was grim,
But failure would mean I would never be free of this addiction of this disease, of this affliction,
Therefore failure isn't even an actual option?
The weeks of hell you endure of withdrawals comes with the greatest reward you could ask for
Freedom, of the mind, the body and soul, withstand the biggest test of your life because for sure,
You've got so much more to live for!
Wordless worries wander wearily working wayward,
Towards thoughts transgressing truth’s textured tide.
As always acknowledging agnosticism’s appeal,
Essence easily evaporates, exeunt Emile.
Very virtuous violent vowels vociferously validate,
Sanctimonious sessions some subtly sacrosanct.
Is it in incrementally immense ingenious imaginations,
Or ontology’s omniscience overcoming oceanic oratory?
Roughly rallying rage’s recessive righteousness,
Quickly quartered queens quietly quiver qualities quoi.
Under unctuous undeniably Umbrian utterances,
An astute and acute awareness as always arose.
Placing plausibly proverbial prevaricating predications,
Many morose morally myopic manly mighty men,
Eulogize everlasting ephemerally entertaining evocations.
Insinuating incredible implications, insomnia initiates,
Notably nullifying notoriously negligible nihilistic necessities.
Lies lay low, linking lofty linguistic lessons like laws,
Of optional opportunities oscillating on occult overtures
Until underlying unctions unify ubiquitous unknowns.
Joyless Joseph’s joyful Joy just jumped, just jumped!
Killing killjoy knuckle kosher korma koranic krap.
And announce another anonymous anodyne appointment?
(Empiricism’s emphatic emission, enter erotic Eloise).
Having Heidegger helps, hope’s homunculi hunting human.
Get gone ginger guesses, go grope Ginger’s grapes!
Immaculately ironic inquisitions instigate immediate impositions.
Once onto opaque ominous orbs, obey Oracles open orders.
Framing funny fractions, flaming far flung frivolous fictions,
Death defies dollar damnations, deliciously done devaluations.
Usually uncle umpire understands useful underlying ululations,
Also affirming apples avuncular altruistic assumptions.
Creeds crave caves, charms calm cause, come conquerors,
Be belligerently bad, betray birth’s beginning, balance budgets.
Entreating entirely empty, emphatically elusive, existential entelechy,
Is, importantly, incommensurably idiotic, inexplicably impractical indeed.