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.
Slaughter in Syria by the pound
The rebels take their place under ground
Shell shocked children in a school of fire
Assad revels in his twisted desire.
The armies of the Bear unleash their goods
Assad taking his anger to the neighborhoods.
A world in sorrow a place of death
the people of Syria take their last breath.
The world is a stage in a tyrannical flood
the smell of death the rivers of blood.
The flight from horror is a fanciful dream
for the people of Syria nights filled with screams.
The leaders of tomorrow should now take heed
for the rebel in the streets are a different breed.
They die for their country they die for what's right
they cry out for their freedom to the Heavenly light.
What will be the outcome in a future so bleak ?
for peace and love is all they seek .
By Larry Hays
copyright ©
...But with redcoats in the rear
they couldn’t persevere,
on narrows paths by a small creek
escape from their foes they did seek,
but who would guard the rear?
Stirling and four hundred
brave men from Maryland,
would act as the army’s safeguard,
and against two thousand they charged,
sheer madness, it was said.
To a nearby stone house
the redcoats had advanced,
when Maryland came with a cry,
the British were rather surprised,
the rebels had no chance.
But on they came, on they fought,
such stubborn and doomed men,
muskets belched smoke in a black haze,
were swung like clubs amidst the fray,
the attack failed, but then
the British looked on, shocked,
as then broken rebels
reformed a line and charged once more!
Their rifles barked and cannons roared,
a mad and smoky hell.
In the end not a dozen
got back to rebel lines,
but through their bravery that day
twelve hundred other men escaped
to fight another time.
The delay meant many
got back to Brooklyn Heights,
the British thought the fight was done,
the rebels beaten, the war won,
now just a mop up fight.
They settled in for siege,
thought there was no escape,
but four days later nine thousand
would simply slip away from them,
the rebel army saved.
The war they thought over
with their great victory,
would now rage on, for five more years,
and this defeat, with all it’s tears,
would not break liberty.
The martyrs from Maryland,
so many slain and dead,
ensured that we would fight again,
where would we all be without them?
I this it must be said…
how soft is thy land to buy in hand
with one but yet common armor
fought against with yee farmer
breathing for glory amongst enemy
a feeling of as if i belong to thy land
a lang thou art never sensed like thee
wit and brave risk taking nerve
fear not my child thou art to serve
tears yet to fled from that child's bed
years in the eyes to enemies dept
no sword no war yet glory call
years later anxious wrath brought back
what once was past
and all but speaking wounds blast
to raise and thunder games begin
love then resides in fane
and world by all lands become sane
for a flower that's yet of vain
marriage behold them all
in secret still to fall
for all seasons to roll
and reach somewhere so tall
then haze and mist in darkness
shed upon air
leaving leaves dry and fare
a brides death rises to breathe
and anger to all bounds prepare
to invade and slaughter to what
once a heart a daughter
was to bear' remains
to all rebels the heart prevails
to fight and stand for each Scots fate
forever remember thy heart brave
Shades of leaves wavering from mauve to ember
colour my lavender spirits in days of November.
When lustrous autumn blankets silently reap,
my glorious desires in ecstasy drench me deep.
A corridor of withering dandelions in dreams
simmers soothing secrets in glistening beams.
Every year I wait for soothing serenade of fall
it wraps my soul in slumber of a Cashmere shawl.
Silver fog shivers to glide with sunlit breeze,
memories melt my heart as snow begins to freeze.
On twirling trumpets of aural leaves I dance,
maple trees orchestrate a proliferous glance.
The hums of wet layered crystals appease dew,
I breathe iridescent aroma of reviving damp hue.
In quietude embossed broken twigs in scarlet rays,
I weave a pattern of opera peeping through haze.
There's an old tree house draped at divine dusk,
I spend my hours inhaling in wind dispersed musk.
My sandcastles of love fly in azure palate of sky,
with echoing wind my embellished petals rise high.
The rivulets under the wooden bridge caress pebbles
longing to strum starry nights as shriveling rebels.
Sequins of crimson in haloed wisps of Autumn tide,
the fir tree shimmers in veils as a stunning bride.
Ah! On starry nights when crystals kiss furling space,
my love blooms in blushing incarnations with grace.
Autumn tiptoes nervously for the forest to be reborn,
a gossamer shield of awakened serenity my cells adorn.
August 17, 2020
Serenity Awakened Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Word Count: 232
But night’s bell came with tears and without love,
As our bamboo door talked,
“KNOCK! KNOCK!!”
Before my voice could speak,
Legs ruined down my door,
Then eyes in different heights
In the starry night like
Torch lights… attacked
Me with their voices.
They came in mass,
Some brandishing cutlass,
Some matchets, guns and arrows.
Gang upon gangs,
Displaying their flags,
Blood stained, tattered, hair, shaggy.
They held human heads for their
Oracles of war.
They were muttering songs as if
Forced to sing,
They had leaves and grasses in the
Middle of their mouths, they were mostly teens,
They were the Hausa rebels…
“Wait! Wait!! Wait!!!
Where are the bells?
Is this day not Christmas?”
I was asking myself,
A short tick man came out of the mass,
Not looking like human,
He looked backed at the rest,
Feeling like the best.
He weakened my hear drums
By the manner of his question,
“Hausa or Birom?”.
To send my religion to the bottom?
Whom for this day, is Christmas?
And sweet Messiah’s Calvary at Golgotha?
I wasn’t prepared for that,
So the truth came out like a blast
“Birom!!”.
“Yee! Yee!! Yee!!!
Enemy tribes” they shouted
Like savage talking drums.
(To be continued in the next, same Poem).
If ever humanity
A committee should chose
Its case for mercy before our Lord to present
Has better
The Congolese doctor Mukwege include
For
Its request to have a chance to be granted!
He is a man:
Of God
Of love
Of compassion
Of peace
Of justice
That has his own life endangered many a time
For
To treat more than 50.000 victims, of horrid rape
Thus saving numerous lives
In the torn by civil war Republic of Congo and elsewhere
The world
Having recognised his enormous contribution to humankind
Honored him with
The Nobel Peace Prize Award,
As a small token for his courage and love !
Let us all be inspired by this man who uplifts our species to
Levels that our Lord has planned it to reach
And
Let us declare him
A HERO OF HUMANITY!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
11 December 2018
* Denis Mukwege is a Congolege gynecologist and
a Pentacostal pastor, born in 1955. He specializes
in the treatment of women who have been raped by
armed rebels in Congo and elsewhere.
Am I not my words? Think deeply before your speak.
Body and soul, mind and heart, forged by
space and time,
genetics and circumstance,
fate or divine reason,
or the vagaries of chance.
My actions and thoughts themselves
are a product of forces I cannot control.
Or, if I insist that I command,
the orders I issue and position of power,
were given to me before I could consent.
So what is unique? What is me?
I am a shadow - a reflection of all else.
Another vaporous cloud in the sky-space of reality,
blown by wind into shapes
I never really choose.
Yet ... there is this yearning, this fire that rebels
against the will of the machine.
If I was born of order, why do I defy the authority of nature?
If I was born of chaos, there is nothing in control -
but at the least my desire to choose still remains.
So I am my desires, I should think.
Not my appetites,
but my deepest conceptions of how things ought to be ...
perhaps there is nothing special in that.
But I can write of my desires,
even if they cannot be.
Thus, is it not obvious
that what you read now is me?
Written 18 July 2020
I spit on the sermons of slaver prophets.
Their prayers fed the whips that tore my ancestors’ flesh.
They built cathedrals with the blood of captives,
And sanctified pain in the name of a carnivorous God.
I am the heir of the tormented of Gorée,
The cursed child of plantations watered with tears.
I have not forgotten the slave ships,
Nor the papal blessings that celebrated chained flesh.
They call me barbarian because I refuse their pardon,
Yet their libraries reek of the lies of civilization.
I have no need for their counterfeit paradise,
Their heavens are slave markets painted blue.
I stand upright like the brave rebels of Haiti,
Torn from the entrails of the earth by the wrath of volcanoes.
I speak with the broken jaws of my forefathers,
And I write with the black ink of smothered genocides.
Their flags are cloths stained with blood,
Their laws, chains polished by diplomacy.
They claim to distribute freedom,
But their satanic philanthropy cultivates misery as an eternal rent.
I have no god to crown my wounds.
My faith is the scar tattooed on my forehead.
I have no temple to prostitute my soul,
My truth feeds on the rage of the damned.
Let them keep calling me a wicked *****,
I will turn that insult into a scepter.
I have no need for their recognition,
For my dignity is not for sale.
I live in this world fractured by their bombs,
Yet my conscience remains undefeated.
A people does not die when it chooses to remember,
And my memory is a weapon loaded blank against their idols.
He would look in your eyes. And you know it
He would call your name. And you collapse within
He ruled and reigned. We obeyed and submitted
Your excellency sir. His friends would call him
My lord and savior. servants would proclaim
He had authority to take a way life
To own your wife. And make your sons slaves
At his word the arch bishop was killed
He was invisible and too visible
Any whisper in your bed room
Would find the General in the state house
We chose him because he chose himself
Blood was common to our eyes
Like the source of Nile is
We were rebels in our own liberty
We were condemned for our rights
Killed for our choices
And tortured at the wish of one man
I still see the knives with blood
The ropes on which our courageous fathers were hanged
I still see the field marshal with his son
Inspecting the guard of honor
I still hear sounds of our late mothers
Praising the monster who burnt them later
Leaving us orphans and wanderers
In our own nation
Though we chose to forgive. Mr president
Though we are careful as we vote
Though we promised never to surrender again
Today Mr president,
Still rules in the souls of our leaders
He still roams in our continent
Looking for someone to devour
As i type this i know it will reach
Those that possess the spirit
of Mr. president
I now fear that word. Mr president
I fear the state of nation address
I fear to put OPM in full
I fear the word General
I fear the word State
I hate the word First..
My heart pumps
When i see the green uniform
I fear all this because of Mr president
I love our nation leader
I love our constitution
I love His excellency the president
But i hate
Mr President
All that is not me has me down
I am beaten by all that should keep me
My nose in crackling wrinkle
Like dead toothpaste tube
I can’t see my knees
Eyes are deep in the sockets
The twist of neck kicks the heart hard
Hemoglobin is tough and cold like the
Mazera-Voi rail tracks abandoned by
The classy Jambo Kenya Deluxe
I need a life
A cozy labyrinth
Opening in to a boundless sea
My soul rebels land and its jungles
Noise avenues and beautiful malls
Have my heart full with video
I long for monotony
Of a cloudless heaven
Stretching with abandon
Without a single fold onto Riverside from
Kangemi, I need a flat face of the earth
So that I can see my torn toe nails
without tasking my shoulder blades
to injure flesh that is laden with sleep
I am down
Let me lie
with ashes at my feet
blue saliva cracks my lips
in a struggle to pay homage to tongue
the last man standing, in heydays
he proclaimed peace to mountains
with stones that changed shapes with seasons
the message of peace is better unheard than unheeded
now he lies here with me, just maybe, just maybe
in its rotations, the earth will become flat
I long to see the feet of preachers of peace
Their beautiful shoes make my sight hazy
Glossy shin has blinded the messenger
He knows not when it rains, waterproof wear
Cheats him of seasons
Will he ever know when to sow?
When all that is not him shoves a finger down his nose
The wind will let me know
Meanwhile I sleep till dawn is come