Long Rebel yell Poems
Long Rebel yell Poems. Below are the most popular long Rebel yell by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rebel yell poems by poem length and keyword.
Ah... tis nothing greater than...
malfunctioning heater on brisk winter day!
Thee particular date being
December twenty eighth,
two thousand nineteen, I saith
the Jack of all trades
maintenance technician
Kevin Blank said he would notify
HVAC expert in good faith,
yet to compliment clangorous din...
I called upon the ghost of Marley's wraith.
Thus despite compressor issuing
cacophonous, deafening,
ear splitting noise
clattering din louder
than convention of reindeer -
doubled as all boys
(choir) followed by cavalcade
of santa claus, he employs,
the missus of course with equipoise,
and countless elves pressed
for service mending
broken brand new toys.
Why... yes twas during
recent brutal bitter cold spell
methought, yours truly got sent,
where absolute zero temperature
more frigid than hell
of course, I felt like human popsicle
management didn't give a lick,
no matter yours truly gave rebel yell
Billy me you, I immediately
yearned (some weeks back) for April
May, June... some tell
tale sign to alleviate pell mell
bone crushing polar vortex
preserved frozen awful
botox smile impossible mission to quell,
nor avoid frostbite
to deep freeze every cell
millenniums later despite
climate changed dystopian future
thawed out body reason to kvell.
Forsooth mindlessly jabbering away
jaw frenziedly attempting to convey
how this schlemiel,
would be war re: not game to foray
toward distant forbidding terrain
fifty shades of gray,
alien unrecognizable – nay
boor hood of the late Mister Rogers,
nonetheless expressed gratitude
confessed, I unconsciously did pray
while suspended animation did stay
slowing or stopping
of biological function
physiological capabilities
unpitted and preserved - yea.
Hence upon being
and getting woke
feeling like I slept forever
and a day - no joke
most certainly well rested
constitution I did evoke
intensely scrutinizing men
chilled wren, and women folk,
who appeared out of this world
mutated into Roanoke
smooth as glass skin cloak
against ultraviolet rays
causing skin cancer
their attenuated limbs strong as oak
versatile to prod and poke,
whereby superior petsmart
doggone noggin could invoke
telepathic communication
interestingly enough issuing smoke
signals, whenever danger present
and capable to disappear
as if doing breast stroke.
I dress with less for my body flouncing
My titties jiggle and my ass is bouncing
I prance around to ring your bell
And call myself an Instagram “model”
I make up my face and pout my lips
I put on the music and shake my hips
I do up my hair with lots of gel
Pretty me, your favorite Instagram “model”
I tease to milk men of their hard-earned money
You stroke yourself instead of me, honey
I’m here to make your life less dull
That’s the charm of an Instagram “model”
They call me an e-thot, fishing for a “like”
That Ho Over There all girlfriends dislike
‘Cuz I record these videos of my body to sell
Look at me, I am an Instagram “model”
Some women before me took to the street
They marched and protested, refusing defeat
They burned their bras with their rebel yell
Nevertheless, I became an Instagram “model”
Please hit “like” as a natural courtesy
The more I get brings me closer to surgery
So I can flaunt again, making my head swell
In excess for me, an Instagram “model”
Lonely boy, did I satisfy your desire?
If not, I can take off more attire
I’ll entice all of you so very well
For I am the ultimate Instagram “model”
This is what has become of me
Since my daddy paid no attention, you see
All he did was shout and yell
Propelling me to be an Instagram “model”
Your best relationship inevitably ends
When your girl saw your likes on “With Friends”
Social media’s suggestions often tell
That you adore me, an Instagram “model”
I’m blamed for all the love that you lost
My curves seduced you at a high cost
You lost your love and then hit the bottle
All because of me, an Instagram “model”
This is only a breeding ground for me
Up next on Only Fans is where I’ll be
Attention seeking as you cuddle your cell
‘Cuz you can’t touch an Instagram “model”
Deep down the many problems I face
Are hidden well in teddies and lace
But the emotions I hold are worse than hell
Since I am an insecure Instagram “model”
After you peel off all of the layers
And strip away all of the players
I’m just a little girl who desperately fell
Into the trap of being an Instagram “model”
Do you ever write….just to write
Just to let your heart explode
Into a kaleidoscope of word colors
Embellishing the page of someone's life?
Does everything have to be a contest?
Guided by a theme
You forget the dream
Of your own magnificent thoughts?
Do you ever write…just to write
To release that fantasy
That prowls around in that gilded cage
Not sage
Not tamed
But that wildness that you keep
hidden inside
oh so unbridled
savage!!
Let it go free
unleash it for me
Write!
Write and break the bars of norms and forms
Of expected rules and lines
Rhymes and syllable straight jacket crimes
Oh…do you ever write
to let that madness free?
Do you ever write…just so you can breathe
To let go of pain so deep
the scream that tears across the page
Primal rage
At all who did you wrong
Killed and butchered your song
Eating you alive
Demon cries
clothed in sheep words by others
Not you
Let it be heard
That rebel yell
From internal hell
"cleanse me!"
Let your tears drop on the page
spent of rage
Knowing I will feel
empathy symphony of kindred souls
Write
For YOU
Write
For ME
Write
For what will be
No contest consternation
Just…
an disrobing of "spirit's clad in veils"
a naked camaraderie
we are both the same
What a shame
To twist and turn
And dress to please
Someone whose
taste may be stale
Who knows not how to tease
PLEASE
Just
Write
For you
Write
For me
And that contest
for NOW
Just
LET IT BE!
I want to see
Your naked soul!
Eileen Manassian
The quotation is from Christopher Cranch's poem, Gnosis...I will share an
excerpt of this amazing poem...
Gnosis
THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought:
Souls to souls never can teach
What unto themselves was taught.
We are spirits clad in veils;
Man by man was never seen;
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.
Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete.
Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.
Christopher Cranch
So...let's disrobe and undress...without rules...Let's confess. Let our light
shine...not scattered but whole...body and soul.
I said, "Son, you look too young
To wear that uniform.
You ought to be home with your ma,
There, by the fireside warm.
"That bugle hanging 'round your neck,
You sure can blow it fine,
But you'd be home, singing in the choir
Were you a boy of mine."
The bugle boy's blue eyes flashed fire;
His freckled face blushed red.
He slowly shuffled his booted feet
And cleared his throat, and said,
"I guess I'm older than I look.
I'm kind o' thin and lean,
But I'm not "son" by a damn long site!
I'm goin' on fifteen.
"My ma, she died when I was born;
The Rebs, they killed my pa,
On a battle field called Prairie Grove,
Out west, in Arkansas.
"One brother died at Chancellorsville.
He got in a cannon's way.
Another was lost at Gettysburg,
In Pickett's Charge, they say.
"Well, that leaves only two of us--
Just me and brother Phil.
He's with the troops on the forward line,
In the woods, just down the hill.
"They don't let me tote a rifle;
Guess I don't shoot so well.
But I can sound a bugle call
That'd send a charge through hell."
The bugler's story ended there.
No time for more to tell,
For, the midday quiet was shattered
By that awful rebel yell.
The cold air rang with musket fire
And cannon, from both sides.
Soon the sparkling snow was crimson stained
Where the fallen bled and died.
The blue line held; the Rebel thrust
Was slowly turned away.
Now the boy was told to sound the charge
In the fading light of day.
The blackness of the winter night
Brought fighting to an end.
The moaning of departing souls
Mounted up the wailing wind.
The bury detail found the boy,
On their grim, morning beat,
The bugle grasped in his frozen hand,
He had never blown retreat.
"Why, sonny, you look peaceful there
In that blue uniform.
I guess you're home, now, with your ma,
There, by the fireside warm."
Form:
The screen door slams behind me
As I rush out into the blinding sunlight
Wondering where my big brother is hiding
I better get to the pool before he finds me
And throws me into the ice cold water
That flows daily into the pool
From the cold mountain streams
Of the Elbrus Mountains
I have my pretty pink flowered bathing suit on
My second skin
I smile as I remember someone calling me a dolphin
When she saw me swimming in the water
Now I can’t wait to get in again
I feel the prickly yellowing grass beneath my feet
As I run toward the weeping willow….
My favorite tree in the whole compound
First phase of the run complete
I head toward the ancient mulberry tree
How I hate the squishiness under my toes
As I trample them in this patch of green
Where the grass is protected by the mighty branches
Of this gracious tree that provides us
An abundance of luscious fruit
We gather every summer in big bed sheets
As people up in the branches
Shake the tree
I’m on my final leg
Almost there
A rebel yell
And my brother swoops down on me
From behind the tree
I scream as I try to get away
But he sweeps me up in his arms
And runs the last few feet to the pool
I shriek at the top of my lungs
Which will probably bring my uncle out yelling
Awakened from his afternoon nap
I want to go into the pool gradually
By degrees…
To get my body used to the icy coldness
And so I beg to be released
We are there
At the edge of the pool
One sweeping motion
And water splashes up in rainbow sprays
As I sink below
Down into the icy depth at the deep end
Thinking this time my heart will stop
This time I will turn into a block of ice
And sink to the bottom
I will drown
A lifetime later
I break the surface and see him smiling down at me
The one who taught me how to swim
My strong older brother
Who would rescue me in a heartbeat
If need be...
I smile up at him
As I break into a smooth swim to the other side
Happy that he didn't let me play the fool
Standing at the edge of the pool
Waiting to come down the steps
By degrees
Waiting
To get lost
Into this liquid paradise
Of azure blue...
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Since advent of *****sapiens
objection overruled against immortality
all across millenniums humans
generated, amplified, and
idly reverberated (Billy me) rebel yell,
when finality 'twixt consciousness
eternal existence doth die as well
grievous news laudable hospice staff did tell
us (meaning yours truly plus
his deux darling siblings), I
in addition to older and younger sister,
thru passionate love making
intercourse did propel
seeds of life embarking
upon parent trap role
til sands of time did runneth out, and
for whom (him) the death knell
bell tolled, now funereal shroud covers dell.
Born April 9th, 1929 - Hebrew
ancestry papa never witnessed affection,
whereby his father - a liberal Jew
(mine paternal grandfather)
purportedly gave nary a blues clue
about welfare regarding youngest son
christened Boyce Brandon Harris,
who harbored quashed feelings
glommed like figurative ague
nsync with chowing down
into his esophageal flue
peristalsis allowing, enabling,
and providing gurgling goo
gull faintly sounding
to (my lard) Doctor Seuss
eerily similar to Horton hears a hoo
after milk (deciduous) teeth
gave way to papa's adult choppers
(by George), whereby
he could thoroughly chew
heavily saturated high caloric ethnic cuisine
(albeit American, Chinese,
and eats of ethnic Jew),
which high cholesterol comestibles
probably contributed to congestive heart failure,
now plaguing papa on his deathbed - loo
zing his tenuous grip on life,
where rigor mortis will find his body
chilled courtesy cold storage queue.
I feel sad today (September 29th, 2020)
and inconsolably weep,
cuz the man who helped beget me
after coroner pronounces
lovely bones lifeless heap
immediate fate most likely cremated
versus buried six feet deep
despite absence of his presence
cherished memories of his value,
yours truly will keep
plus recalling mine boyhood
chuck of full of bliss
particularly driving, fending, staving... off
bogeyman or any other menacing creep.
The Watcher
The Watcher
When the seventeen men neared the end of the bridge only one remained in
sight all the others were lost in the shadow from the moonlight. He was dressed
in tattered cloth; homespun gray, and eaten by the moth of strang decay
“No livery”, He cried “no making strides in death” “my life has ended on this
bridge?”
There is a plaque in place to mark this day it says on
The Plaque
Friday June 13, 1864 PFC Dreardon Age 14 was marking time in a prisoner
exchange at BENTON creek when he was shot by Federal Forces. The miniball
penetrated his left sleeve and took off his arm. He bled to death.
His body was torn and bleeding so forlorn the tatters of his homespun sleeve
stayed hung upon his stump of arm there.
War is something no one cares for Mr. Sherman.
MOFW 1964, June 13 Commerative
The watcher was on the water making footprints on the surface when the Federal
Forces under Sherwood marched into the History. He seldom interferes with
history but makes the markers seem to be the truth. He saw the miniball tear off
the soldiers sleeve the man had been a prisoner just released this crime is not
unpunished the man that pulled the trigger is lying in the river at the Watchers
feet. The Watcher broke his prime directive and almost gleefully erected the
YANKEE soldier in the mud.
A Watcher is no more A Watcher for when he acted he lost his power over water
and he stands upon the battlements no longer but He is tearless in his vigil of
the bridge.
Every Friday on the 13th of the Month of JUNE of every year that has its ending in
a FOUR, he gives a shudder of relief certain that his judgment has not been
ignored.
The rebel soldier gives a rebel yell and leaves the bridge.
The Yankee minion that has shot him just turns over once and lies back in the
mud. For this is judgment.
The Watcher roars.
Redemption Knight
He rode the wind on mighty steed
He drove it fast to gain more speed
To win the maiden: noble deed
As he galloped in the night…
He found his damsel in distress
With dragon claws clutching her dress
Disheveled hair and heart astress
As he galloped within sight…
One swift leap and he came aground
His rebel yell a mighty sound
Courage to fight in her he found
As he strode into her plight…
She gazed at eyes of azure blue
A depth of love she never knew
For handsome knight so brave and true
As she held on with her might…
He sunk he sword in to the hilt
Dragon heart blood to ground was spilt
Caught the damsel about to wilt
As his valor set things right…
In his strong arms she found her place
She gazed into his angel face
Between their bodies not a space
As the night was tinged with light…
He bowed his head to plant a kiss
A song of love, no dragon hiss
Her world now filled with utter bliss
As to heaven they took flight….
For Isaiah Zerbest Medaeval contest
August 3, 2013
2nd place win
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Knights are Dead
The knights in shining armor have all died
the damsels in distress are left...distressed
what once was chivalry and manly pride
by silence in the fight is now expressed
Where are the men who knew the right from wrong
who'd come to save a weaker one from pain
perhaps they have forgotten to be strong
their pleasure and their peace they want to gain
And so they leave the wounded in the field
Endeavoring to find what brings delight
forgotten are the ones they were to shield
They leave them there to suffer through the night
You were a knight, but that you are no more
those days are gone, they only live in lore
Eileen Manassian
You cower at my rebel yell
Envisioning hot flames of hell
I’ll cast on you a wicked spell
Before your plea for life I quell
My rebel yell, hot flames of hell
You tremble at my vicious might
As you are plunged into the night
Hope's angel now robbed from your sight
With none to save you from your plight
Into the night, robbed from your sight
Your faithlessness my heart did break
Your torture kept me nights awake
And now revenge will make you quake
I pierce your heart with jagged stake
With jagged stake, my heart did break
Eileen Manassian Ghali
PS....I'm LONGING to come up with a new form that would bear my name! That would be the ultimate poetic ecstasy for me. I'm so impressed with the Swap Quatrain, Suzette Prime, Questionku, Constanza....Some by people that I actually KNOW. It's such a thrill!
Anyway....here is something that I tried today. Tell me what you think. It is a poem made up of three stanzas. They are quatrain's but have a fifth line added. The fifth line of the first stanza takes the ending of the first two lines and combines them....the fifth line of the second stanza the endings of lines 2 and 3...and the last line of the last stanza has the ending lines of the fourth line, and the goes back to the ending of the first line. The object is to come full circle and reverse the events in the quatrain. In this case...I'm seeking revenge, and then the last line makes it plain that I'm the true sufferer. It must use a rhyme scheme. Please leave comments on what you think of this....It's pretty basic and elementary....but....It's MINE! ;)
Form:
'Round about eight o'clock each evening the massive iron gates are closed.
The moon's mellow glow shines upon spectral scenes that are now exposed!
Phantoms that by day lie peacefully in their graves now freely roam,
Reliving mortal dramas when the earthly stage was their home!
I've never witnessed such things but I've heard from reliable sources,
That nigh midnight a spectral hearse travels about drawn by ebon horses!
Six ghostly pallbearers march behind the hearse chanting a mournful dirge,
As they escort the macabre procession and at a gloomy crpyt converge!
A specter desperado is seen dodging 'mongst the moss-covered stones,
Chased by a sheriff, his moldy funereal shroud flapping about his bones!
"Crazy Bob" Womack who discovered gold up around Cripple Creek,
Sits on his stone guzzling booze and gazing wistfully t'ward Pikes Peak!
Pat Brady, Roy Rogers' old sidekick, races about in his jeep, "Nellybelle!"
Rebel soldiers scramble from their graves and loose a fearsome Rebel Yell!
A gorgeous young wraith clad in white wafts to and fro seeking her lover,
Adding to this eerie scene, perched in ancient oaks, owls hoot and hover!
Ghostly apparitions peer from windows of the haunted chapel on the grounds.
Grinning skeletons rise from musty tombs rattling about making their rounds!
Helen Hunt Jackson, author of "Romana" resides here in her special nook.
She leans against her stone observing all, perhaps researching another book!