Long Relegating Poems
Long Relegating Poems. Below are the most popular long Relegating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Relegating poems by poem length and keyword.
No matter yours truly
(potential rising star -
analogous to ascending yeast)
bred for easy street
life of po' witless
mendicant nimbly,
pointlessly, and rhythmically
shuffles (think tramp)
along his poetic little feet
garden variety beastie boy
aimlessly, fortuitously, halfheartedly,
and mindlessly follows
one after another backstreet
revisiting, reminiscing, and relegating
lofty mollycoddled station bittersweet
birthright fame and fortune
teasingly did greet
finding twenty first century hobo
shack hulled with poverty
(think dirt poor),
I shoe cannot defeat,
which accursed fate socked yours truly,
where one after another failure did beat
once unassailable esprit de corps
near ready and willing to meet
exalted, fabled, gilded... seat
but woeful naiveté tricked with deceit
mine childlike innocence dripping effete
characteristics easily swindled for Pete
sakes since... young manhood, now wizened
old looking schnorrer marveling,
imagining, envisioning aggregating riches
coaxing, forming, hatching...
liaisons particularly romantically discrete
lavishing untold money during heat
of passion oblivious,
how ingénues with sweet
enticingly, ineluctably, luridly, beckoned
eventually no exit and other ploys
playfully blindsiding me with
one after another promiscuous tweet
barricades no exit wrought
with razor wire and concrete.
We give each other license
To justify the violence
We relate to satisfaction
Relegating our inaction
To a higher power
The fashion of the hour
Changing with the time
The constant's our reflection
That the state of our perfection
Disdaining all inspection
In the state of our connection
To the mantle of the Don
But will it ever dawn
That ground shifts all the time
Like the mantle underneath us
Some things should be beneath us
Croesus wouldn't be the one
That would or could impress Solon
Just as a fool and all his money
Are destined to part company
All that matters is the time
So just as a marriage license
Recognizes loves' intransigence
Romancing love as love of power
Is but convenience of the hour
And the short term satisfaction
Will result in but the fraction
As it's turning on a dime
“In the eyes of God, everyone is equal. The real dignity of a man lies in treating all with respect, never relegating anyone as inferior.” ~ By Poet
Applying a coat of thick rouge
Over the stubble on her shaven chin,
She looked into the mirror
Through its cracks, saw a million bits of her/him
Those images sneering at each other
She felt trapped in a wrong body,
With its contours n' longings, mismatched
"Where do I belong"?
"Where do I fit"?
These questions plague her incessant
A rough stone with sharp edges
Too hard to be chipped down
Cast aside by the mason
That can never go into the making of a Cathedral
She walks around in haze
Life seems a twisted maze
Each time she tries to claw her way
She sees only walls that hems her in
Before her, lingers the stygian mist
Phantoms of darkness surround her
The winds of change swiftly blow
Seasons come and go
But she is tied down in her chains
An anomaly of creation
A curse and a taboo
Swallowing stigma and abuse
Each day waking up with a start
Knowing that she is neither a woman nor a man
But a non binary... an accursed TRANSGENDER
Inviting snide looks
And sneers from onlookers
People call her a eunuch
One divided between the selves
A hapless denizen of an inhospitable world
Disowned even by parents
Though flawed and far from perfect
She is human, one of a kind
And needs to be seen through the eyes of God!
We give each other license
To justify the violence
We relate to satisfaction
Relegating our inaction
To a higher power
The fashion of the hour
Changing with the time
The constant's our reflection
That the state of our perfection
Disdaining all inspection
In the state of our connection
To the mantle of the Don
But will it ever dawn
That ground shifts all the time
Like the mantle underneath us
Somethings should be beneath us
Croesus wouldn't be the one
That would or could impress Solon
Just as fool and all his money
Are destined to part company
All that matters is the time
So just as a marriage license
Recognizes loves' instransigence
Romancing love as love of power
Is but convenience of the hour
And the short term satisfaction
Will result in but the fraction
As it's turning on a dime
I didn’t know what I would feel about Doug Gay,
But I looked for a motorbike outside the church,
To reinforce his black biker jacket and sociology,
Which superseded church goers and that bunch.
I made it one of the first things I did in Glasgow,
To spy on the sanity crutches of its gem leaders,
Of the contemporary church the ancient throw,
To understand my place in society, had readers’.
I actually managed to have a short conversation,
With him, where I did inquire about monasteries,
And he told me that there was an abby, fixation,
Which he attended often for all his quandaries.
I felt that Doug Gay thought that this discourse,
Was important for what direction I took for sense,
And I knew he wished to replace choice, of course,
For serendipity, onto which god could map, hence.
It was an ephemeral chat, but I kept the dalliance,
And I felt efflorescence from my litre against religion,
Because I’d confirmed that Doug’s bold defiance,
Of the traditional church was fuelled by abbey liaison.
He related the bucolic abbey to Christian theology,
Saying that the Glasgow Christian scene was demesne,
And was a harbinger to the students was cosmology,
By relegating the church’s Jesus to erstwhile, totally.
He said that his god or Jesus had petrichor sweet,
Unlike the nauseating odour of the church stated,
Giving him propinquity to redolent credence neat,
Because he was historical, within the abbey gated.
I appreciated the Late, Late Service somewhat, bits,
His modern worship service of dance, so rebellious,
And now the Rev Doug Gay diligently and surely sits,
As a Glasgow University lecturer in studies religious.
Fraught With IBS Irritable Bowel Syndrome...
Rear lee if ever suffices as an apt poetic title
amidst bookish canon - while
this writer (similar to other aspirants
in their respective creative pursuits)
aware arbitrary perusers may deem vile
core body of voluntary selective readers
mentally affix probationary trial
before unequivocally gravitating
toward my genre or signature style,
which unique modality
of expression eventually
accruing some degree of popularity
affecting unseen frown or smile
nonetheless, accepting, enjoying,
and tolerating how I playfully rile
aware that anonymous reader's
patience can wear thin relegating mine
worded persona on par with a reptile
unknowingly breaking fragile bond,
hence she/he might not reconcile
without awareness a valuable kinship,
dismiss me as puerile,
thus forsaking tenuous link, one
that may never bare tangible fruition,
yet all along self scrutiny occurs to refine
thy cerebral thought provoking profile
also intimating months gone by bias
arises toward my
figurative handily prehensile
expansive vocabulary, could
(and/or does) rank as a pile
of unpleasant gluteus maximus
sphincter muscle missile
imposing effort to tone down exuberant,
flamboyant, and gallant mercantile
flashing blindingly exasperatingly,
and inflamingly nauseating vocabulary,
not deliberately juvenile
but this luxe lavish embellishment
a labor of (lost) love with English
Language (inherent since...
in utero), thus...infantile
asper taking shape without conscious
deliberation, though imbecile
appellation possibly affixed
as lasting impression,
perhaps even engendering hostile,
whereat no effort to exhort
unconditional acceptance of me guile
will transpire, cuz this chap
recognizes how tenuously fragile,
the online choice to remain a steadfast
virtual friendship quintessentially fissile
oft times casting the notion how facile
mine arrangement springs from one
core textured intellectual domicile
that houses persona of one docile
amphibious descendent, whose forebear,
yes twas a crocodile!
Silence As Friend
by Odin Roark
We noisy ones
From bathinette ducky splash
To deep end cannonball flood
Passing from school yard horseplay
To boardroom P & L tantrums
The journey seems long
Knowing well
Noise receives attention
And encouragement
Just as hate remains impatient
Love
Like winter snowfall
Clings to trees and branch
Awaiting exhaustion before
Absorbance reaches its time
Such is the quietude of arrival
Where stormy expression
Finally worn of course
Renders our epiphany clear
Sometimes
We learn too late
The need to quiet the self
Discover that inner peace
Where noises of life
Skittle to ground
Mere timpani-tainted dust specks
Needing only to retire their chaos
Often
For others
The finding of such stillness
Is to know the healing quietness
Of inner tears coating our wounds
Flooding liquid light into heretofore darkness
Relegating shadows into the wings
The fortunate
Surround themselves
With arrival’s hush
While many of habitual clinging
Continue to fill the void with noise
Having yet to discover
Silence as friend
To Hell with Cultural Appropiation or Cultural Copy.
It is very very wrong and unconscionable unless we are copying uplifting values only.
Copying poor value systems like smoking drugs, ganja or cigarettes, over excessive rum/alcohol drinking or eating, gun running, crime, and even gloryfying submersive gansata rap lyrics are wrong for our children's sake. these are bad examples.
I promote instead bigging up our own local Culture to the fullest.
Cultural Apporiation merely teaches us to homour and repect foreign Culture
While relegating our very own.
Why covet a next man's culture when yours is much better??
I want us to love up our own culture with a passion so high and true
That it reaches out to the very sky.
To strive towards good positive culture should always be our true Covenant.
And so you see Cultopiation to me is more like Cultural Miasappropiation.
SEE also my song on youtube called Gultural Hypocrisy by Lord Cam
Freaks creep out from the cracks
Peeking from behind their masks
Tentatively removing the veils
To test the light of day.
Sun, the source of purification and growth,
Accommodates all without distinction,
It is after all the source of Life,
And so within its light the freaks shine.
Moon, on the other hand,
Transmitting and muting Sun’s harsh rays,
With her passive face in reflection,
Hides in cool shadows what lies within.
The freaks empowered by their shadows
Emboldened by Sun’s clear light
Take their place out in the open
As if it is their birth right.
All men created equal, after all.
But the light and shadow are not the same,
As life and death are not,
And yet in the freakish they are merged.
What is this nature that seeks to morph
Into some novel and new form,
Something creative and self made
For the simple pleasure of self expression?
Visions come and visions go
As any dreamer will tell you
But the ones that remain within the light of day
Are the ones that need release.
Rights of passage, rites of exorcism
What the world builds up, it brings down
Wave upon wave, carrying all detritus
Is the way the unwise learn.
Humanity has learned this dance long ago
Accommodating and healing all that arises
But relegating it to its proper time and place
A day of festival to let it out, and put it all away.
(11/6/25)
After taking a shot of claret wine
Thackray on a mission to find
And she was not going to be declined
With a blade in hand getting a goal
Thackray did not look old
Spirits very high
Headed to the new castle in the sky
Deciding to meet and give a good try
Seeing Antonio no longer bitter
“I remember you were my movie costume fitter”
Laughing Antonio had a goal
And an honest soul
“Thackray I made you look good
As you should”
Hearing the remark she flashed a smile
And that image is still in her professional file
“That is right we are West Ham United
Ready to handle modern day fighting”
Letting her go through
Hoping today’s royals are cool
She stood before them
Ready to defend
Her influence on men
“You are no longer seventeen
In those dreamy
Blue jeans”
Royals stated
Then waited
For the answer
From the dancer
“I still got the look
Credibility in the modeling book
Relegating zone is following me around
Trying to take me down
A source I was able to contact
Said I still have a contract
I as a West Ham can still get another goal
And would be favorable to the modern royal public poll"
Modern royals looked at each other
Wondering if they were Thackray’s Mother
“We royals truly listen
And concluded you do not need our permission”
Thackray thanked them for their two pences
Accepted this draw ‘as making senses’
Later in the day
Aston was challenged to stay
With a point would be made
Receiving a nice grade
Went to Anfield
To check on a deal
“We are still number one
Writing paperbacks for fun”
Hosts did comment
Hotel rented Aston got it
Drama did unfold
Aston was still very bold
Yet Reds put one in
Stayed back for the win
“Mommy” Aston did say
“I need to talk to you about the Villa today!”
While Aston began to leave
Reality started to breath
When another one went in
Securing the Liverpool win
It was a civil ending
Honesty pending
Modern royals still nice
Gave the West hammy some advice
“You never stalk alone
Just answer the text or phone
Paperback writers are still out there
Needing west ham united to give audiences a scare”