Long Regressive Poems
Long Regressive Poems. Below are the most popular long Regressive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Regressive poems by poem length and keyword.
His hand reached out to mine, open,
Holding it, I smiled, our eyes danced with understanding,
Form and blush outlined his expectations,
But I could see that there may be fear inside.
Mary restated their predicament,
That the child was born out with the marriage bond,
And that people were swaying to the opposite side,
And course dialogue, laughter and spitting were norm.
So I asked the two for their thoughts and predictions,
About the child, if he perhaps could be like, special?
And they specified that he would cure, heal and exorcise,
And also promised that they’d talk to him about the poor.
Could this baby be the messiah?
I pondered and hoped in their certainty;
Was this the predicted son of god?
He would be free from aggressive victimisation,
If we could just name him as god's son.
So I suggested to his parents,
That if the wise men came with a quest,
To accept the name Jesus Christ,
And certify the census, no less.
Freedom for some is in lying,
When there’s no possible alternatives,
But I believe Joseph never lied,
In the population census of Bethlehem,
That just so happened to pass by.
The child would have been suppressed by all,
Assumed to be dirty and unclean,
Not for chat or dialogue,
And certainly not for work in a trade of his call,
Or for work in any trade for that matter.
Nothing would ever have been done,
The poor would never have been healed,
Or not so quickly for sure in history;
The government would not have been rifled,
And Christ would not have come.
Treating the poor for health problems,
Would have come through government legislation,
A long time after Christ,
In an austere, aloof manner.
People to people relationships,
Would not have been respected,
If care had been awarded top-down,
By bureaucrats and officials:
As supervisors of the protected.
Society at that time was narrow minded,
Stuck in traditional religion;
There were outcasts, sinners, infectious people,
And assumptions were remedial and red:
There were no special people,
No exceptions to the rule,
Only one place for the messiah confided.
One baby matters to me,
A life should be saved at any cost and risk,
Because the abilities you show when young,
Shouldn’t be muffled or labeled regressive,
But nurtured in acceptance and love.
They're truly dumbfounded as to why hordes of parents are pissed.
That their children are being labelled inherently racist.
or perpetually oppressed...
When all children want to do is share a square of sand
(no regard to the color of skin).
They're truly clueless as to why hordes of parents are pissed.
That their children are being drilled on complicated topics of sex.
When they don't even know how to spell or do simple math.
They're truly dumbfounded as to why hordes of parents are fighting back.
Against "teachers" and administrators who want to shove innocence down their dark rabbit hole of hormonal tinkering, genital mutilation, and moral oblivion.
Let them grasp what a noun is before tossing funhouse pronouns at them.
Let them walk a rainbow instead of constantly being slapped in the soul with a barbed version of it.
In short, let them be children...
Fill their heads with the blossoms of literacy, kindness, and respect.
Don't fill their hearts with the ball bearings of every societal tremor.
I'm dumbfounded as to why they fancy labeling attentive parenting an act of terrorism.
Incomplete metamorphosis of this stilled adolescent...
petrified, sheltered, and mortally wounded prepubescent
I consider myself
analogously buttressed, cocooned,
garrisoned, hardened, insulated,
where cell baited jumping frog
o' Montgomery County ne'er
went leaving larvae stage,
now no divine providential
power can assuage,
yours truly metaphorically locked
within invisible iron bound cage
every occasion to shower
validates steep wage
permanently doled out,
yet tis futile to rage
against this human machine
i.e. body dielectric rampage
clocking three scored
orbitz chronological gauge
forever fixed feigned fodder,
when unlived uber story
of mein kampf writ faint
chicken scratch final page
gin hated anorexic
regressive toddling cribbage
deadly game of mine Life pampered
post infancy attended
Aladdin (a lad in) his hermitage
late childhood marriage
with grim reaper as
coefficient co-inhabitant
feasting emaciated lovely bones
verily scrawny, puny, and
nerdy, yea easy to lyft
courtesy lost livingsocial scrimmage
trademark spindleshanks -
stagnant embarrassingly useless
two legged equipage
at childhood's end...,
me skinny package then
weighing, eh no
more'n half dozen stone,
these days when
undressing to wash
forced to espy physical
*****sapiens wreckage
constant visual reminder
this spare rankled, stunted,
tendered ship of state,
yours truly nah oh sage
enlightenment gleaned i.e.
20/20 hindsight kickstarted
quickened, leveraged, mortgaged...,
principly unbalanced worthiness
anatomical disparity
impossible mission to salvage
accounting rent permanently askew
fixed APR rendered
amortization sabotage
irreversible penalty suffrage
escaping serfdom volunteering
self as webbed vassalage
til death do me part.
At school I excelled at maths,
And English I found very hard;
Essays and interpretations floored me,
Although at poetry I was a bard.
But I managed a B in my O Grade,
Under the old teacher who was past it,
But was relieved when she fled and left,
Overjoyed when a young graduate started.
Throughout the school holidays with vocality,
I swore I’d been fine with the new teacher,
But my parents insisted that I have a tutor,
For Higher English, for university to enter.
I was very angry ‘cos I knew I’d get in,
With my other grades, two A’s and maybe a B,
So if I even got a C for 5th year English,
That wasn’t gonna upset or bother me.
But they just didn’t understand socialism,
That state schools were just as good,
And continued to deride my special school,
Which had school care very much under the hood.
So John from Edinburgh Academy came along,
Every Thursday to tutor me at Higher English,
But my biggest issue was that he attended,
My parents church and possessed an evangelical blush.
I really wanted to discuss the romantic poets,
The course novel and my essay interests and topics,
With a normal person who was not north on society,
Who would nurture me without any Christianity antics.
He had an axe to my neck about John Keats,
About Keats’ Ruth and how the man believed in god,
But I said No, no, no, he’s an atheist, a romantic,
About nature which was then far too divinely awed.
I didn’t even ever write the essays I wanted,
In fear that John would make my life harder,
And I always thought before I spoke to him,
Which is not the best for an English tutor.
But he is a very interesting, loving man,
And I did ask if I could use his last name,
To refer to him, to suggest a distance,
Between his views and mine, not the same.
He wouldn’t let me, but I got a B in the end,
And enjoyed anyway his lessons on literature,
How to express yourself and answer the question,
And knew to buffet his regressive caricature.
Alone I sat on the wet sands,
Of the Sernabatim beach lands.
The sun reflected blue sky,
On the greenish grey waters it looked so dry.
My inner face I saw on the bed in the sweltering sunny afternoon,
With the heat and shock I began to swoon.
Alone, I moved myself towards my inner face lying on the warm sandy bed, the into the waters warm,
The breaking waves look to me like many a headless limp form.
Warm waters I sense splash unto my waist,
Cool salty breeze sting my moist lips and chest, sweat erased.
The frothy waters seem so white,
Feral imagination within me is beginning to run regressive and makes me feel all right.
Alone I am rooted on the sandy shore,
Now,I have within me, coming to the fore,
Feelings… deep feelings inside ignite,
Need to hold on to them tight,
The feelings incite,
A poem in my mind’s eye I feel and now see, that I would have to write,
Without any spite.
Alone, I am in the waters warm,
The breaking waters pass over my inner face and lash against me and quickly change form,
To myself feelings that turn to spirity words I begin to recite,
As I cast my eyes on my inner face lying on the warm bed and from within springs delight,
And in its own right,
The poem begins to rewrite.
Alone, I am in the waters warm,
My feelings have begun to rewrite,
In my mind without any spite,
I am now filling myself with delight,
As expression is flowing freely in its own right,
And will transcend on to paper in black and white.
Alone, I now sit, drenched,
To the sands entrenched.
Melts the noon,
And evening falls attune,
The sun reflected blue sky,
Has now swooned away as to my inner face I turn a blind eye.
Alone, I now sit, drenched,
Content in me and with no feelings wrenched.
Gratified….soothened…satisfied…pleased,
Relaxed…happy….at ease and contented……eased.
What seemed to all a ghastly inner face,
Now to me is full of grace.
Letter to the rest of the world:
Don't feel sorry for the United States of America.
The vast majority of we the people get along just fine...
It's the five percent (dead enders) fueled by the press
that think Lady Liberty owes them something.
That democracy has somehow failed them.
Truth be told, they have failed democracy.
They've turned their shortcomings into flaming arrows
firing them at successful members of society.
In their regressive malice in wonderland world-
good becomes bad-bad becomes good
rioters and thugs are turned into martyrs
For the most part, we the people are doing fine.
Plow horses plodding along, doing our best in this short life.
Learning from the past-not dwelling on patina sins.
The disgruntled losers amongst our society
spray-paint America as a horrible place to live...
Funny thing is that I don't see any of them fleeing.
They'd rather continue taking and complaining.
With no intention of ever giving something back.
The haters in this country find grand wizards in every breeze.
Behind every thin blue line, with every stir of a leaf.
Some even put Jesus into exile.
For crimes of purity and compassion?
The grand wizard illusion is that America is systematically racist.
This is the latest flavor of their out-of-touch madness.
If that were true, a black man would have never been elected
to be the leader of the FREE WORLD.
Are you awake yet?
My opponent will destroy democracy
But my opponent will normalize hypocrisy
My opponent pays hush money to whores
Well, my opponent snoozes in meetings and snores
My opponent’s in cahoots with radical progressives
But my opponent’s tax cuts are regressive
My opponent is in bed with Putin
Well, my opponent for Iran is rootin’
My opponent’s spending will stoke inflation
But my opponent’s plans will increase starvation
Enough! Stop! Cut! Halt!
It’s not all the other guy’s fault
All this negativity makes one thing clear
I’m voting for the first candidate I can cheer
~the Fear of Never~ A DRINK TO REMEMBER!
And the fire catches every time, my heart needs a sip
I bear no shame pouring, poisoned pabulum whisky down
Lost in a place with hungry whores, ink paying gigolos
This night a respected gentleman put's on his evening gown
He sits in front of a mic playing the same old sad song
Fitted out in drag, his wife has no clue
Holy breeders trying to change my shoes
Lingering from the Cute Chinaman, running his tab sky high
Bluebirds of jealousy, set round the vintage Barstool like fools
Minds overpowered and threaten to the very nub
I am drunk-- in his eye,
He receives a macabre confession of possessiveness
I am drunk-- in her eye,
She has a sick confession of subconsciousness
Broken loose from a negative, regressive state of mind
Sit and enjoy this broken bottle of champagne
Unspoken rage in every empty can left behind
A shot glass drops from my unstable hands longing to hold a pen
I look into a mirror and embrace every meaning of stability
Blotting out the madness behind a metal cage of reality
At times, I feel the need to bring down this masquerade
A drink so hostile, I can't even remember my image and name
Too many scars, from the foster of paper and pen
My dependents are drunken demons from a traumatized childhood
Tonight I will legislate a special thanks
Holding up my cup, until death finds my note
I will smile, at every Judge and Jury, during karaoke night
Shutting down my eyes, fantasizing everything's gonna be alright
I will not jilt knowing, writers block haunted my days away
Insecure hoarding monsters enjoying spoil forgotten words
Tonight I thirst like never before, my tongue inscribes around a tin cup
I am not eating up by it, no matter how long I've drowned in it
This is my kind of whisky, my thoughts, my days of ammo
To tell you the truth, I possess no desire to drink
It's all about the love of poetry and how sober, I become (WITHOUT)
The monsters that reside inside, have one thing to say
"Give me Poetry, or give me Death!"
by: PD
The USA is not perfect
never has been
never will be
Unlike Russia, which has
‘no alcohol problem’
‘no civil disobedience’
‘no LGBTQ populace’
Not to mention no truth in the
information it disseminates to
suckers around the world...
Yes, indeed, the USA is not perfect
not with George Washington
the 1700’s slaveholder (gasp!)
on our currency, not to mention
Susan B. Anthony, who was proudly
anti-abortion, pro-life – for shame, for shame!
~ Our ignominious past consigns us to eternal penance ~
Unlike Libya, where an ancient slave trade flourishes
to this very day: Muslims enslaving black Christians
which does not fit the media’s narrative
so most people aren't aware of it
and the rest don’t care about it
Unlike Afghanistan, where the repression of the 'Old Taliban'
is now fully in place under the ‘Newer, More Gentle Taliban’
or Syria, whose butcher of a ruler has made refugees of half his
citizenry, gassing thousands of others with chemical weapons…
But yes, indeed, the USA is not perfect
Never has been
Never will be
Let us forever grovel in abasement to all the tin-horn dictators of the world
not to mention our home-grown squadrons of regressive radical progressives
Down with Jefferson, Lincoln, Grant, Teddy Roosevelt, Truman and Reagan!
Up with Omer, Tlieb, Pressley, Sanders, AOC, Corey Bush, Schiff, Nadler...
Long live Maduro, Castro, the Mullahs, Xi, bin Salman, Abbas, Gaddafi et al!
Lies are Truths Might Makes Right Facts are Opinions
1 9 8 4
The trouble with love is that it ends
the thing about love how does it begin
one sided or shared, shy or no fear
love can be trouble, love can be trouble
Why must we fall into it
or lose it before we knew it
that love was always there
waiting to long it disappeared
The trouble with love is it obsessive
makes you possessive
childishly regressive
only to see it dismissive
Love takes all your time
wanting it solely thine
becomes a must need
showing your selfish greed
All you do to get it
anything you never regret it
than the ecstasy becomes a bore
lacking your desires explore
Never satisfy, love is lacking
that something you keep attracting
and before love really even begins
the trouble with love is that it ends.