Long Rebuff Poems
Long Rebuff Poems. Below are the most popular long Rebuff by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rebuff poems by poem length and keyword.
Life as a manic-depressive's so, so drab
and wearisome at times; it's bad enough
to drag me down where I don't feel so tough.
When manic, I have the rare gift of gab;
and when I do, I take a taxi cab
to the club, get smashed, and act like a rough.
But when the bouncers begin to rebuff,
I calm down like a mouse trapped in a lab.
Life's so full of despair and pain, it seems?
If I could, I would chuck it right away;
but that'd be taking it to dire extremes
and drama. So I oscillate all day,
and drink to tales of less suicidal themes:
God help me! I'm such a bipolar cliché!
When friends suggested, “Try cocaine!”
Mike’s “No” would reckon choice.
His mom ignored his new campaign;
rebuff became Mike’s voice.
Having seen his mom at crack's expense,
Mike felt all alone and under duress,
stranger to the world of common sense;
he started drinking to excess.
Long gone, his dad had been a souse
and likely binges somewhere yet.
Young Mike had cursed this selfish louse
through years of mixed regret.
In time, mom met her bitter demise
asleep at the wheel from drug abuse.
Shaken, this event opened Mike's eyes
struggling, he echoed “No!” to booze.
Parental hindrance gone, Mike gained
perception, a faith formerly unknown.
He found pardon, patience, peace unfeigned,
Loss ridden-out, his resolve fully grown.
but..."the road to success is always under construction."
quote by Lily Tomlin.
You came to give me a slap, your arm bent back,
with the back of your hand poised to 'shut my trap.'
I stood to rebuff you with anger, and schoolboy indignation.
How dare you bring reproach when you were so mistaken,
accusing 'scruffy' new boy of a smelly body pong -
because of race? - because you thought his face did not belong?
From Scotland was your reason. I was right that you were wrong.
I hated you then and was removed to a lower set.
Your obituary surprised me. Your father - 'a blacksmith
- and you sniffed, now I remember, quite a bit
-your prominent nose gave the nickname of ‘Punch.'
'A firm disciplinarian', you would brook no pupil's lip.
But I saw you often quietly slip up the hill during lunch
to see your girlfriend in a lay-by, sat waiting for each trip.
"No talking! Line up the desks along this floorboard,” you would boom.
“Do it quietly!" was your shout. “Now tidy up this room!”
You taught maths well and were admired by many, when you retired
- through ill health. “I am the old broom and the place needs a new broom.
It's just that the old broom still knows where some of the dirt is hid."
But especially this: 'He was a big man with presence, smelling badly
of carbolic soap, in need of sartorial assistance,' or so it was said.
A Political Opinion
Miracle Man
7/27/2023
Our voices are not yet audible enough,
to tickle the ears of the ones in power.
Those who care choose not to rebuff,
and upon confrontation, they cower.
It seems much that’s worthy is unaddressed,
it’s moved to the back burner for later.
With lining their pockets most are obsessed,
fancying themselves as a great debater.
But our votes had part in their selection,
and we have power to correct any mistakes.
By going to the polls during next election,
we can rid our midst of political snowflakes.
A fact, Most Politicians Are Snowflakes,
in a position, not having what it takes.
On the bed, my ginger cat settles
onto a pile of clean laundry, dryer warm
Feline steady stare, resolute
a strategy of possession
she relaxes the way prayer soothes
"Off!" I command. My cat an unwelcome bedded guest.
she whines, "Surely, he's bluffing!"
solidified
empowered
swollen in the pride of "I'm not moving!"
meows spewed like an anthem of resistance
I lift her from the pile,
my underwear dangles from cat claws
like cheap tinsel on a tree
she exits, her short lived reign
sulks into howls of whining
till dinner softens her rebuff
till wherever curiosity and comfort take her,
anew
My hope of co-habitation:
to calm the little woes of daily chores
to reduce cat prestige from shedded hair
to shrink feline non-compliance to a
manageable scale
Our social contract - a trade off
to reaffirm my status
to maintain the charade of "boss"
an unsteady footing
in the crushed aspiration of rule
Poem composed February 7/2022
Fear seeps into my pores, and I sweat droplets of dread
Where I once saw you walk this path and I quietly read
The feelings that we shared, the blessings that prepared
My heart and yours, for this darkness that declared…
Cancer, the word no one wants to hear
The word so awful it brings the soul a tear
The feelings, bleeding through the night
Silence the wind, leave the world in fright
Cancer, the reason that I write these verses
In a prayer, praying healing that curses
All the darkness that has come with this disease
Cancer is a illness that causes you to fall to your knees
I wonder, though I believe, was I faithful enough?
Why has this darkness fallen – will it make me tough?
I feel so alone, so sad… God, wasn’t I tough ENOUGH? ENOUGH!!!
This pain, this valley, this struggle will surely rebuff
Cancer, leave my story – please just go away
God, please heal my husband, who I pray
Will live a long and happy life, a life I can say
Was blessed by love and healing that will not betray!
The image mirrored in your stare:
the face of God reflected there.
A child for whom He greatly cares,
He knows the pain you’ve had to bear.
And though those mem’ries haunt your eyes,
the lines on face, the tearful cries,
do not believe deceiver’s lies;
be not a place where promise dies.
Your life is precious; stand and fight,
and persevere through blackest night.
Push back the dark and seize the light,
and always, always, always write.
The liar hates to see you smile;
beware his wiles, avoid his guile.
Rebuff his gaze, o'ercome the trial.
Child, grin, let joy seep in a while.
----------
From Gabbatha, before the judgment seat,
a winding, tortured road: Golgatha's end.
His flesh in shreds, he staggers on His feet,
rough timbers grate excoriated skin.
The lines from Jesse's root are drawn by thorns,
the precious blood, in rivulets, runs dark.
To slaughter sent, the lamb of seven horns,
unblemished ere disfigured by their marks.
Exchanging doubt for will on Olivet,
and then to be betrayed by Judas' kiss;
just thirty pieces bought that blood and sweat.
Sweet Jesus, has it truly come to this?
'Fore Pontius Pilate, seat of Roman power,
civility, barbaric and uncouth,
the lord of a dominion cruel and dour
is juxtaposed 'gainst witness to the Truth.
The keepers of the Torah did not know,
or knowing, chose to look the other way.
Prophetic much disrupts the status quo;
Messiah sacrificed so they might stay.
A carpenter, he learned to dress the wood,
a trade ’twas handed down with father's love.
Ironic then to fashion heaven's door,
with arms outstretched, give access to above.
The lots and insults cast further disgraced
this giver of new wine and broken bread;
above his crown of thorns, a sign was placed
with words that bore the truth of what he said.
The first line read, "Jesus of Nazareth."
The second signified Judean king,
a title earning chief of priest's rebuff.
His own received him not, "He's no such thing."
And so on center stage, the bitter cup,
with cohorts stealing parts to left and right.
The serpent bronze is high and lifted up,
and ushers in humanity's dark night.
Amidst it all, a faith ’twas Roman-cast;
observing, the centurion was awed
in witnessing how Christ gave up his last,
"This Jesus truly was the Son of God!"
The earth was rent, the inner veil was torn
as though creation's pain sought some relief.
The crowd, returning home, beat breasts and mourned;
the women, at a distance, watched in grief.
An upright man who did not give consent,
a certain Joseph took his body down,
wrapped Him in strips before the day was spent,
and thus was Jesus buried in the ground.
(from the passion narratives of the gospels)
Fifth Place Winner
for the A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
sponsored by Brian Strand
written 04/11/2022
Enough
Do I need your validation?
God forbid! I’d rather die
Who decides if I am worthy?
I would think not you, but I
As you scornfully will eye me
And pretend that you don’t see
All the richness of my blessings
Just because you are not me
Compliments were never granted
Though I craved a few or more
And I know that I deserved them
But you kept me starved and poor
Still you lingered in my presence
Or was it the other way around?
All the while you would be gleaning
The things in which I would abound
Even though I felt your envy
I would fool myself instead
That your friendship did me favors
So I followed while you led
And I gave while you were taking
Not one time I would rebuff
Till one day I took the courage
And I sternly said ’Enough!’
Now you say my sudden actions
Made you feel much hurt and pain
Well I’m sorry but I had to
So I could get off your chain.
Wendy Nipas
Crumbling with grief I saw you.
Back turned, shoulders hunched
and sobbing for your lost love.
He had left you and he said he
never would, his departure sudden.
Through smiles and tears you told
me of the warmth you shared - me
a stranger, yet stranger no more
as the story of your love evolved.
You touched my soul, you touch me still.
You unburdened you heart to me.
Grief once locked away now liberated,
free to be expressed and tumbling out
willingly, so glad to escape its prison.
My hand, my heart reached out to you
beautiful lady wracked in pain.
You felt guilt and feared you'd neglected
him some way? Yet from your words it
was clear no rebuff, no sin had been
committed, the purity of love was all I saw,
and see now when I think of you and he.
You were his wife in all but name.
You saw him as he was and allowed him
to take off the mask of responsibility.
To enjoy simplicity, the reality of love.
The rest was shallow, immaterial
in comparison, a gilded mask of deception.
His truth was you, the rest a lie, a
carefully staged production performed on
an illusionary stage for cosmetic audience.
The real grief is yours as was the real love.
What a gift you gave him and he returned to you.
So lovely lady feel no guilt, feel only
joy at what you shared, for some can only
ever dream of caring as you cared.