Long Rebels Poems
Long Rebels Poems. Below are the most popular long Rebels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rebels poems by poem length and keyword.
Some are proud to be illegal
For power, for wealth, for fame
Some are afraid to be illegal
For life, for safety, for shame.
The word 'Illegal' laughs in a corner
No one knows the reality
But they all try to become the owner
Calls it the business of cruelty.
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Are you, are you illegal!
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Tell me, are you illegal!
Afraid because of the terror
Proud because of the swag
And this is the prime error
They set here a wrong tag.
Not the drugs, not the guns
They all are out of the race
Beyond all, something runs
Easy to know, hard to face.
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Are you, are you illegal!
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Tell me, are you illegal!
Read the book of human society
The book of their constitution
Truth, the most illegal, their anxiety
Can't be found in any institution.
Read the life of all the rebels
The fighters, the thinkers, the inventors
They raised the truth in the jails
Unknown, insulted, someone wanders.
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Are you, are you illegal!
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Tell me, are you illegal!
Written: August 23, 2023
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In the realm where rebels reside,
A vessel of jade, a genre spontaneous,
There lies a poetic rebellion, untried,
A cathartic presence, quite wondrous.
Beneath the moon shattered light,
Where mutated motifs bear flight,
Poetry without lines, a form unknown,
In the contrarian court, it's proudly shown.
From the hollows of madness, they emerge,
Such moldy hay, their words diverge,
A tawny sunset paints the sky,
As whispers of the contrarian court fly.
With looping purple moors as their guide,
They revel in the beauty of being untied.
In this realm of sing jest,
Where conventional rules are put to the test.
Wind torrents darkness, through the night,
As improvised grief takes its flight.
But within these verses, a sparkle of hope,
As the contrarian court learns to cope.
Their words may defy, their thoughts may provoke,
But within their rebellion, a message spoke.
For in their whispers, truth is found,
Challenging the norms that cast us bound.
In the shattered moonlight, they find their voice,
A chorus of contrarians, making their choice.
To break free from the chains that bind,
To speak their truth, unconfined.
And as their whispers echo and resound,
A revolution in poetry is found.
So let us embrace this contrarian court,
Where creativity and rebellion are brought,
For in their words, a spark ignites,
A fire that burns, a beacon that lights.
The path to freedom, the path to explore.
The power of poetry, forevermore.
Slave ships drowning our names in the darkness of so-called “civilized” nations,
A Yalta of vultures: yen, yards, barrels — Africa sold without ever being consulted.
Exegetes in uniform: incense and executions poured into the same holy font,
Césaire cried out; the colonizers counted cocoa, skulls, and schoolbooks.
A kaleidoscope of crimes: kepis, Kalashnikovs, mass graves, leonine contracts.
They spoke of “assimilation”; above all, they sought enslavement without eyewitnesses.
At the heart of slave plantations, the glory of empire carried the putrid stench of the torn holds of slave ships,
A “French Union” whose only true unity was the whip striking scarred backs.
High priests of the Republic, triumphant vocabulary dressing genocide in elegant attire,
Uranium from Niger, monetary ultimatums: an independence controlled by the Nazi bailiffs of the French treasury.
Soldiers without scruples sowing social earthquakes beneath the sacrificed suns of the trenches,
Slaughtered riflemen, traditions slashed apart by racist tribunals too convinced they were illuminating the face of the slaveholding Republic of Enlightenment.
And colonial schools imposed shame: “Speak French if you wish to exist in the garbage bins of assimilation.”
Red rivers of independence fighters reduced to the status of rebels to be pacified,
“Humanist” West: an oxymoron where the Black man remains an object to classify in the encyclopedia of movable property.
Mutilated memory, demonic masks locked behind glass while African mines are privatized,
Africans called “brothers” when they must die for the liberation of the Republic of the Code Noir; “migrants” when they seek merely to breathe beneath the fountains of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
Imperialism clothed in neocolonial garments: interests, influence, Arab, Maghrebi, and Tuareg terrorists as intermediaries — the whip has gone digital in the colonial trading posts,
Our ancestors were not savages: they were simply too dignified to be tamed by negrophobic barbarians haunted by their own existential anxieties.
Dissenters dominate the streets,
The public dominion of demonstrations.
This POTUS threatens military domination.
Just forget the pesky First Amendment.
Sowing seeds of civil war
The best path to reelection.
Yet remonstrations rally relentless,
One man’s terminal chokehold
A symbol of structural racism.
A metaphor for the socioeconomic suffocation,
The clamor and commotion
torn and tormenting in every town.
Protestors street hue and cry,
voices of the marginalized and forgotten .
A human chain of disputant dissentients,
Occupiers striking for a new order.
Rebels demanding
a new systemic justice.
Sam is a novice gardener who stamps on all ants
He doesn't like them near or crawling on his plants
Their Queen was angry and wanted revenge
For the ones that had fallen she wanted to avenge.
They planned to get inside and under Sam's clothes
Cover his whole body from his head to his toes
The queen gave her order for her ants to attack
Every inch of his body, every orifice and crack.
There were flying ant squadrons in groups of twelve
Soldiers in lines and a lone scout out by himself.
The others were preparing for a mass swamping
While Sam continued with his clomping and stomping.
They entered inside both trouser leg realms
These little feisty red insects, these hardcore rebels
From somewhere inside it was smelly and breezy
And their night vision eyes made navigation more easy.
Sam's legs were hairy and wiry, like a hot tangled jungle
With volcano like spots and some weird looking fungal.
They battled there way through, this united strong army
While Sam was going mad and looked rather barmy.
They bit, they chewed, they spat and tickled
Sam smacking himself as he wriggled and wiggled
At all times they were all on high red alert.
To avoid being splattered by this mad dancing berk.
These tiny ninja assassins crawled under his shirt
His four limbs wildly failing; he went completely berserk
Flying ants swooping and diving to created a distraction
Sam's reaction to their actions gave them great satisfaction.
He jumped, he hopped, he twice did the splits
They bit here and there, including his small naughty bits
His limbs in and out; the ants hokey pokey
Limbs moving so fast they felt hot and smelt smokey.
Sam screamed "I am sorry please leave me alone
My garden is yours and every ants home
I didn't know aphids left you a sugary sweet treat"
I surrender, I give up, I admit my defeat."
Harmony and peace, balance restored
Nothing is mightier than a little ants sword
Sam's body now healed, no more ants in his pants
But beware if you ever harm a red or black ant.
04.06.24
I’ll never write another freakin’ poem
Be it Monoku or rambling tome
No more to tap upon unruly keys
Nor scribble on a pad be’twixt my knees
Won’t argue with the gods of pace and meter
For life within the poem becomes much sweeter
When I execute hard echoes growing flimsy
With the hardened edge of my poetic whimsy
For beyond the guarded walls of castle’s keep
Peasants wrote about rebellion in their sleep
‘Til those poems became the mantra of a life
Unmetered rebels waging war – no drum and fife
Therefore, e’er you chasten those who flee
Remember they’re the ones who set you free.
John G. Lawless
©7/7/2023
Silence may turn into storms, must I worry?
A lioness soul bends an untamed temperance,
a fierce rage I bury, populist of pure purpose permanence
so do go gentle on me ‘O judgest condemner
I stand with tenets of truth, humanity’s sustainer
not a raging tempest, nor dying light
but an empowering responsive receptor
these spearmint arrows bolt through blight
I don a polished persona of armor
not the helmet of a hypocrite of bone or ivory
but leather boots built to march into Gehenna
the Fiery, for harrowing heavenly causes
Perfidious, I let you keep the repute given me
the rebel rouser fits me well
The prophet himself, p e r s e c u t e d,
whilst he ruffled feathers and raised hell
There’s an ineffable effigy
to whom I bow, sovereign Lady Liberty
her crown, radiant rays jut like the sun
an aureole flickers of freedom
windows of gems like sacral chakras
I, this blatant believer reverts to rebellion
crusading for campaigns and fair elections
with this, I’ve conquered the storm within
11:59 The doomsday clock tics an AI timer,
a hoax yells the denier's lying tongue
I mustn’t keep silent, moksha can we revisit this later?
give me a bit more time to repent
Amongst autumn’s signature rustling leaves
I walk error-free, veins vigor, I roll up my sleeves
alongside rebels alike we fight king of terrors
Swamiye your sacred motive fills my soul,
with me unseeker are your fragrant prayers
the holy hills call, c o m e, yet I stay
at summit’s foothills with seeker sayers,
raised voices not in praise for the divine, not with joy do we sing,
but with sinful pride we chant harmoniously, no kings!
In the valley of the academics, in the night that falls like a spider's web over the world,
I see them moving, like pale shadows, struggling in their golden cages,
They, who fancy themselves independent thinkers, who think they are eagles soaring in blue heights,
But they are just domesticated doves, with clipped wings and gazes lost in the distance.
I see them wearing their masks of rebels, pouring their words like enchanted potions,
But deep inside, they are legions of kneeling souls, submissive and docile,
They are the most socialized of all, the most conformist, the tamest of the wild dreamers,
And, in this play of shadows and lights, they find the illusory comfort of a quenched revolt.
In their minds, wheels of thoughts spin, like an old clock, but its hands never show the hour of truth,
For they are prisoners of a system that has stolen their will, sucked the sap of their courage,
And, in this abyss of dependency, they are the most pampered, the most spoiled,
Like children who have never known the harshness of life, only the sweetness of lies.
I hear them murmuring in the secrecy of the night, singing their melodies of revolt,
But their voices are just lost echoes, among the thick walls of the system,
For their lack of independent thought is a disease that cannot be cured,
And thus, they are always deceived by the tricks of a system that enslaves them without chains.
They are bitter and powerless, yet they believe themselves rebels, they believe themselves heroes in a world of dreams,
And, in this sweet-bitter illusion, they find solace, without knowing,
That they are just puppets in the hands of an unseen puppeteer, who pulls their strings,
And thus, they dance, without realizing it, in a tragic and melancholic ballet,
In which they will never be free, will never be truly alive.
You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink
You can present a man with evidence, but you can't make him think.
You can push a rock up a too steep slope
You keep sliding back, and you're at the end of your rope
It's not that they're stupid, they might have a degree.
Is just that they get wrong what can and can't be.
One sticking point, where the water can't flow
and truth drowns desperate in the undertow.
We have our fixed points, and thoughts anchor there
Some points are solid, some are on shaky air
But the current of thoughts resonate in the bands
Hard to jump across valleys, run in the sands.
I had a dream of horses that I had to corral
I started optimistic but lost my morale.
I whistled and waved, tried reason, tried rope—
But they scattered like rebels, success beyond hope.
There's a crowbar of reality; it can pry open the door
But how much suffering must occur, how much failure before?
Being wrong is inevitable, it isn't a crime
But the hourglass is empty, its long past time.
We're surrounded by noise; we're surrounded by lies
And when truth appears, it's often in disguise
We all pick our sources, analogies, our filtering rules
If we pick the wrong ones, we do damage as fools.
When we start to think about high school
We think about way way back then
Where all of us knew each other
But only a handful of us were friends
I remember your faces way back then when we use to pass in the hall
Who’d ever thought the time would come again where I would see you all
Now that the jerri curl has been replaced by the balding and the grey
We cant help but remenisis about the fun we had back in the day
The funny way we looked and the funny way we dressed
And all the great things we did together back at old C.H.S.
The old teachers that we hated ,the old friends that we dated
The lunch that was so bad those exams that mad us so mad
That old school tiger pride which was lead by mike and clyde
And even all the mess that we stirred up at recess……
Now those are the days that I remember best
As I look out today at all of you where all my joys has been entrusted
And still I cant help but to remember the one that are no longer with us
Just to think how we were we had such a communion
And a lot of us would not have seen one another again if not for this reunion
We were the elite we were supreme we were rebels without a pause
We were the young and the extreme that use to run these halls
but look like time crept in and took a toll of us all
It’s been thirty years believe it only heaven knows if we’d see thirty more
So as we reunite today to once again I raise my glass to the class of 84