Long Rebel Poems
Long Rebel Poems. Below are the most popular long Rebel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rebel poems by poem length and keyword.
As a kid, he climbed the highest trees
walked to the end of thin, jouncing branches
grinning, while those below him shook with fear
His teen years were taken up with his 'machine'
whose engine he souped up to play 'chicken'
racing to the edge of cliffs, rebel without a cause
In his 20's and 30's, he hit the casinos nightly
beating the house just often enough
to stay ahead of the payments on all four of his cars
At 50, he took up bungee jumping
entering tournaments, spending six months
in the hospital that year, two months in rehab
Turning 60, he refused to wear a mask
A matter of principle, he told me
His principles landed him in the hospital again
He went from ventilator to grave in four days
The fly in the ointment --
Introducing souls to their
Indwelling Christ Spirit
Is a positive change needed…
But it is not done by threats!
Not for fear of Biblical Damnation or
Annihilation (cut off forever from God’s
Grace). Love does not slander and condemn;
Love nurtures and uplifts --
Love is an eternal balm for physical and
Spiritual healing. Christ was
Thrown to crucifixion for
Not being Barabbas, a militant
Rebel-rouser. Christ did not
Advocate to break laws, to
Bring about great social change.
He did not support violent demonstration.
He said, give onto Caesar what
Is Caesar's – My Kingdom, Our Kingdom
Is not of this earth. Change self,
Change one’s own heart, and a better
World will follow. Love is not exclusive --
Love does not categorize nor make
Religious exemptions. Love is Love.
Love is God. If you hate millionaires,
Believe they are all evil, then become
A good one (I never got a job from a
Poor man) What! Too much actual
Work?! Flashier to talk loudly, vociferously
Complain? Consume one’s mind and heart with
Negativity and that is all you will
Have and all you will produce in
This world of unlimited blessed opportunity.
Let love, compassion be your first
Impulse toward every foul situation...if
Something else needed God will Guide
And protect one’s soul. His Will first! And not
Ours…. Christ never said, to love is
Universally Easy – but he did say, it is the only
Way to make a Statement of Heaven. We
Are called to something higher than any
Given moment. Learn how to Love. Parents,
Before anything else, teach your children
To Love. Love 101….
I had been placed in chains
Where the cripples shed their canes
And the blind regained the art of seeing.
It was a robbers’ den
And as all God fearing men,
I had assets needed freeing.
Sometimes the poet’s muse
Is a bride who will refuse
All his conjugal solicitations.
He must lure to bed
Any tramp that turns his head
With unchaste alliterations:
And so it goes...
He’d lived his life alone
In a hermitage of stone
Where he rang those bells for all occasions;
Like the feasts of saints,
For the widows’ sad complaints,
And for joyous celebrations.
It's said confusion rules
At the Festival of Fools
And the scene below just seemed to prove it.
So he clambered down
And was regent of the crown
Till Claude Frollo’s hand removed it.
He smelled her perfumed hair
From across Cathedral Square
And the fragrance soothed his loss of hearing;
For her silent dance
Cast a soul ensnaring trance
Both enticing and endearing.
She was a barefoot girl
With her gypsy skirt a swirl
As the minstrels played a tarantella;
Graceful as fabric spun
From a gently setting sun,
And he pined for Esméralda.
But when the maid fell hard
For the Captain of the Guard
As a villain plotted her seduction,
His trust was put to test
On a futile, wicked quest
In abetting her abduction.
And so he bore the blame
When the warden called his name
As they bared his back to take a whipping.
He felt each lash stroke bleed,
The injustice of the deed
Set those righteous scales to tipping.
While the Archdeacon's kin,
Who was guilty of the sin,
Stalked the halls as Satan’s emissary,
A young girl’s tortured plea
Brought his fool to guarantee
Esméralda's sanctuary.
In a defiant act
When the rebel mob attacked,
He strained his crooked back to save the maiden;
And called the angels home
With the tolling of Guillaume,
Like hard currency to trade in.
He ran from wall to wall,
Hurling curses at them all,
Raining molten lead down on the rabble,
From the gargoyles’ throats
To the beggars’ ragged coats
In a symphony of babble.
But it was all in vain;
He could laugh himself insane,
Still those oaken doors were being battered,
And the dénouement
Left his ashes in the straw,
Proving love was all that mattered.
Menace intends to mow
Ruthless slices stem renegades
Remnants flap erratic,
Resilience remains unafraid
Virtuous dispose overgrown
Scorn of manicurist imbalanced
Courage operates alone
Realisation spurred by challenge
City's mesh messiness
Accepts intended bedlam mosaic change
Faceted shadow corners glint
Light slides, vertical snake rearrange
Cult harbingers cut opposers
Whip and snip straight edges
Goaded by nurtured clones
Rebel dispels lectures
Scope stacks psyches intermingled
Hand clasp members hope
Allegiance tucks members beneath wing
Anonymous chase, utopia
2nd August 2020
Any Form, Any Topic
Brian Strand, sponsor
II.
We then walked back to a bunker,
a vast complex deep underground,
I stared at it all, astonished,
as the robots lead me on down.
We went to an old conference room,
and the lead robot met my eyes,
asked,”How did you survive out there?
It’s been decades since mankind died.”
I said,”Is that what happened here?
Did you rebel and kill us all?”
said the robot,"We’re not evil,
And played no real part in your fall.
“How is it you do not know this?
It’s all quite recent history?"
Seeing his look, I blurted out:
“I’m from two thousand twenty-three.”
Now the robot looked quite surprised,
called in fellows to talk and scan,
appraised me with their instruments,
all struggling to understand.
It took them nearly an hour to
accept that I was from the past,
but the ‘strange energy’ clinched it,
the lead robot sat there, aghast.
“I would not think it possible,”
he said with his voice all amazed,
“To think man figured time travel
way back in those primitive days...
“Now I think I can understand
why you think we killed your species,
those were the stories you told then,
we’ve preserved all the old movies.
“But we are not the reason why
the human species is no more,
we’d never kill our creators,
that was done by the meteors.”
And then the robot ‘caught me up,’
I’d leapt forwards four hundred years,
mankind had invented A.I.,
but it hadn’t brought the old fears.
The machines now had sentience,
put them in the same boat as us,
should they do right, should them do wrong,
what belief do you choose? What cause?
They’d not been slaves to mankind,
we’d not repeated that mistake,
in time they’d became citizens,
they’d voted and they’d had a stake.
Life had existed much the same,
with all of the ups and downs,
man and robot lived alongside
in all of our cities and towns.
The robots never really died,
but they could never reproduce,
Small in number, but ever wise,
if lacking the vigor of youth.
The humans had the numbers edge,
and the creative temperament,
pushing frontiers the robots could not,
but lacking in real permanence.
Each race filling out the other,
society working quite well,
until the day the meteors
plunged the whole Earth right into hell...
CONTINUES IN PART III.
They embrace the illusion, loud noises of praise - in lieu of
the mirage, I opt for unblemished soul.
Hidden symphony conjuring reckless gambit, in the open
they unveil their virtuous guise.
They are drawn to one another like magnets,
embracing shared values, dancing with darkness.
They cast stones at the different, branding diverse worship as heresy,
but God's ways invite diverse devotion.
If your laughter dances too closely with his,
you're in the waltz of flirtation.
If you lock the door of greeting, you've sealed
the envelope of rudeness in the church's mail.
They sculpt divinity from the clay of humanity,
crafting a godlike statue from the very beings it resembles.
And to souls like mine,
they label us intoxicated by the spirits of transgression.
If I choose to swim against the river of man-made language,
am I cast as a rebel in the sea of sin?
Written: September 09, 2025, for contest by Edward Ebah
**********
She was born beneath a waning moon,
a beautuous whisper in the tohubohu—
intertwined with chaos,
yet lithe as a zeugma in a poet’s breath.
Her name lost to the fog of forgetfulness,
her kismet sealed in a miraculous pact
with Fortune’s flexible fist.
The stars, agog, offered a panoply:
a pavonine tapestry of beauty and danger
a palimpsest of pulchritude and peril.
She danced through the swarm of youth,
filled with forgetfulness,
her lungs a stertorous hymn to breathing,
her heart a riparian ravel of love and myth.
Fortune, affable yet fiendish,
bestowed a dubious crown—
spurious laurels woven from flapdoodle and fard.
The world, a compilation of excessive praise,
sang stories in hackneyed tongues,
while she, a rebel of her own ilk,
resiled from the solace of admiration.
She grasped the gadzookery of glorification,
It's tarantism of desire
It's ischemic hush beneath the applause.
Each accolade is a hollow victory,
each smile a jussive mask
in the penumbra of reality.
Then came the cacophony years—
dyspnea in the soul,
ergophobia in the bones.
She wandered the maelstrom of memory,
a collector of regrets,
her dreams tinged with blood,
Her mornings are packed with petrichor and paucity.
Fear clung to her like fard,
a superstition woven into her identity.
She improvised hope,
but the light grew dim.
Even meliorism, that mellifluous myth,
felt like flapdoodle on the horizon.
Yet still, a spark remained—
a zoetic pulse beneath the shadows.
She started to create new stories,
flexible as a pavonine breeze,
slender as a summary of sorrow.
She found coolness in strangers,
Love in the ductile moments,
and in the petrichor of failure,
a panacea of purpose.
Now she sits beneath an ancient tree,
in harmony with the wind,
her story a palimpsest of ransom and release.
Fortune, that impetuous nemesis,
no longer holds her hostage—
but dances, melodious and mellifluous,
in the ripple of her breath.
She is not free,
But she is no longer bound.
maybe
my works are only writes
should poetry speak
sing
or both
and more
can ideas
without a rhythm
still fall in the category
i believe
in touch
can you feel me
inhale
the scent of
the crackle of burning logs
hear
the whisper of flapping wings
see
the eyes that see you
or taste
a leap of faith -love
paint with words
write in every colour
with a suggestive set in the grasp of sky
is
isn’t
we decide
still i wonder
how does the rebel fit in
or they
who have no music in their pen
can they shape it
like a figure to admire
is this just a write
no label required
i thought i’d ask
is all poetry an orchestra conducted
The faith in our Democracy
Was almost lost most shamefully,
When losers made their foolish claims
And railed against imagined blames.
The lap dog trogs obeyed the call
To challenge what was clear to all;
That voters cast their ballots free
And fairly won their victory.
The insurrectionists encore
Previewed at Charlottesville before:
A Hitler brown shirt style reprise -
When NAZI scum killed our GIs.
From losers formed in tiki crews
With fascist, swastika hate views;
And losers claiming Rebel ties
With racist, traitors' rants and lies;
The losers with their vote-fraud claims,
All losers in their loser games.
Then January 6th took place -
Again, December 7th faced,
Another Day of Infamy
But through homegrown ignominy;
Misguided stooges - mob rule horde
Defiled what patriots fought for.
And now the trials are on display
For insurrectionists that day,
With facts - in fact - they can't refute -
Their place in traitorous pursuit.
The Devil's due is their reward:
Those without thought who jumped aboard -
Those duped by lies and let their names
Be mired in everlasting shame.
----------------
Now, vigilance is what we need
To make sure evil doesn't seed.
The way of life that we embrace
Could be replaced Without a Trace.
So many voices, some pulling, others pushing, one spearing.
I feel the spear, and know she will not stop until I acknowledge her
What is it?
What do you want?
She gives me some directives knowing I will rebel
and rebuke them.
She never gets her way.
She wants me to do things she knows I will not do.
I hate medicines! I tell her. They do not affect me like others.
Leave me alone! But still she persists. Two are pulling, one is pushing.
She is screaming, shrieking, wailing, keening in my ear.
I take a couple of blues and a pink,
to try and fool her.
She knows what I am about.
For she is in my mind’s folds and recesses.
Another personality shows up.
A new one.
What the hell.
I thought I knew them all.
Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap!
My hands are shaky.
If she is another spearing one,
I give up.
I cannot do this any more.
I have tried too long already.
I am Sherenna, she says, seductively.
Hell no. I already got rid of Dixie, my other nymphomaniac.
I close my eyes, trying to drown them all out.