Long Republics Poems
Long Republics Poems. Below are the most popular long Republics by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Republics poems by poem length and keyword.
With all the impeachment talk,
worried about ecopolitical Trumpian aristocracy,
five more years of narcissistic nonsense,
of white privileged entitlement
of second and third deadened generations
of rich by kleptocratic theft,
Republican APart-heid Oligarchy
I keep wondering
and stressfully worrying
about lack of attention
to everyday Business As Usual
Republic for Religious WhiteRight
Oligarchy,
An overpowering sacred and secular government
in which all divine Power
is invested in a few WhiteFragile patriarchs,
a missionary dominant LeftBrain class,
evangelically predative,
corporately patriotic,
a self-anointed segregated sanctuary for PeronsalDivineTruth
and xenophobic distrust of OtherTruths,
I smell a cancerously monocultural government
by the supremely self-selected few
made in God the WhiteFather's true capitalist greedy corporate image,
jealous
self-righteous
competitive against Earth-worshiping beauty,
NeoFascists
of My One Way,
My Republic
for which Capitalist Business Stands In For Truth,
My smugly Elitist Life,
Heedless of Earth's incumbent
all-inclusive
radically democratic recombinant
multicultural Death, decisive
Without any future hope
of further Oligarchical Republics
for RightWing Rapture.
Liberty, equality, fraternity,
beautiful chimeras carved into the republican marble,
yet behind the motto, the Black Code,
the papal bull,
and the slave-trading betrayal as backbone.
Slavery, colonization,
xenophobia, negrophobia,
these are the legacies they disguise as civilizations.
Human zoos, colonial trading posts, the colonial pact,
the savage plunder wrapped in a tricolor flag.
In banana republics, tyranny is always under contract,
Françafrique and its neo-colonial military bases
feed African dictators at the service of the West.
Africa, the third world, whose misery has been planned for millennia,
this is how they name the cradle of humanity.
Under their blades, raw materials
become a procession of genocides,
and neo-colonial poaching devours heritages.
Assimilation, integration, alienation,
these three chains forged by the schools of the empire of Enlightenment.
But human dignity refuses to be sold,
the integrity and identity of courageous souls will never prostitute themselves.
Humanity and Africanity,
these two flames proclaim aloud
that the womb of oppressed peoples
shall never be reduced to the dust of servitude and submission.
I chose to write,
For all those torn-off branches,
For all those scarred backs,
For all those dehumanized bodies,
For all those centuries of persecution.
I chose to read,
To deconstruct racialist concepts,
To destroy the carnivorous chains of slavery,
To desacralize the supremacist missions of colonization,
To uproot the alienation installed in my consciousness, brutalized by imperialist Westernization.
I chose to educate myself,
To denounce the negrophobia of the Republic of Enlightenment turned slave trader,
To challenge the heirs of the enslaving empire of racist philosophers,
To never forget the bestiality of the Code Noir,
The savagery of the slave trades,
The barbarity of human zoos,
To never erase from my scorched memory the drownings of black bodies.
I chose to turn off my television,
To no longer listen to parrots singing the praises of xenophobia,
To no longer be imprisoned by the conspiratorial diatribes of the fascist fanatics of the far right,
To no longer watch the privileged squabble while fattening themselves on the taxes of the proletariat,
To no longer pollute my mind, tormented by the misery of the cradle of humanity.
I chose to fully embrace my Africanness,
To never say that my ancestors were Gauls,
Like those domestic blacks who champion the celebration of republican hypocrisy,
To never curse Africa in my heart,
Like those traitors who participated in the slave trades, slavery, colonization, and neocolonization,
To never sanctify the banana republics of the sphere of influence of the so-called homeland of human rights,
Which drives thousands of Sub-Saharans onto the deadly paths of clandestine migration,
To never place myself on the same level as those racist, racialist, supremacist, and eugenicist complexes,
Who sustain vile theories about the utopia of racial superiority.
The colored pains are carved onto the back of my ancestors’ history.
My oppressors see my Africanness as a curse,
the rotten fruit of savagery, slavery, and the barbarity of colonization.
The blackness of my skin has made me a suspect since the cotton fields.
I am from the cradle of humanity.
I grew up in a colonial trading post.
My homeland never had factories that manufactured weapons of war,
yet I know how to handle a Kalashnikov like those child soldiers.
My first shock: an infant, cut to pieces and stuffed in a sack hanging from a palm tree.
After the colonial massacres, dead cities to soften the cruelty of a bloodthirsty dictatorship.
I share the same convictions as those independence fighters
that the general’s colonial army labeled as “rebels.”
I am neither a suburban kid nor a ghetto dweller.
I took my first steps in a shantytown of Equatorial Africa.
Some cross the Mediterranean toward the Western tyranny of misery,
while others choose the illicit path to shine in the gloomy cells of capitalism,
lit by the flashing lights of the “Republic of Enlightenment” slavers.
These Western impostors treat Africa like an open-air dump,
while their neo-colonial military bases protect the safety of multinational corporations
that have been savagely plundering Africa’s wealth for centuries.
They finance Islamic terrorist groups so that African dictators
can sing the globalist symphonies of Western democracy.
I am a Sub-Saharan animist like the first pharaohs.
I remember the massacre of the Amerindians
when I see African Americans filling the prisons of a nation born from genocide.
My holy land is Africa.
I will never submit to the negrophobic laws
of supremacists indoctrinated with the vile delusions of the Third Reich.
I remember Pope Nicholas V’s papal bull
when I see the Catholic Church meddling in the political affairs
of Africa’s banana republics.
Slave blood in my veins,
in my heart too much pain, only love, no hate.
My conscience has never been chained.
My criminal record remains spotless,
like the orifices of the Christ’s own mother.
America, fought by our brave fallen few,
Our men and women who honored our flag,
Our nation freedoms grow strong,
Our government is thought to be a democracy, gangocracy or mobocracy,
Our impetus, the Napoleonic Wars when Latin America became republics,
Our consequence is a country that has a fair representation of its people,
Our forefathers who created, the US Constitution and defined quite clear,
Our nation is a Republic, one under God,
Our laws make us great as if written by pencil where we can erase,
Our wrongs can be amended,
Our rights will protect us,
America is truly blessed.
2020 January 02 *2nd Place*
Whitman-Inspired Uplifting Poetry, old or new Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Carolyn Devonshire
It took us too long,
but eventually
we noticed Republican women
and Democrats both women and men
often preferred to spend about twice as much on domestic education
and defensively proactive mutual health care assurance
as compared to international defensive co-investment,
too often reduced to the militaristic over-industrialized budget.
And, of that international relations budget,
about two-thirds for growing cultures of healthy peace warriors
and maybe up to one-third on policing criminal offense
with cooperative co-investment intent.
So,
the domestic and educational security matriarchs
formed cooperative ecopolitical networks
for governing inside these fifty States,
while the more WinWin patriarchs
tried to mutually dominate
a more Left-Right Brain and Mind and Incarnate Body
of harmonic global co-investment networks.
Both internal and external cooperatives
rooted in Lovelock and Margulis double-binding
chemistry as also synergetic microbiology
producing Gaia Hypotheses of CoRevolution,
flowering in Golden Rules Revised:
Do not not ecopolitically flex and do
as you would have your great grandchildren remember like you,
with kindness,
contentment,
grace of awesome love,
continued abundant co-investment
in regenerational strings of polypathic mutual promise,
positively imagined in our retrospective matriarchal-patriarchal future,
multicultures of health-balancing wealth.
I crossed the Mediterranean like those millions.
I am still held captive in their nightmares.
Some say I originate from a continent
that resembles an open-air dump.
I build myself within the concentration camps
that the West has exploited since the slave trade.
They hate my Africanity
but they are addicted to the riches of my ancestors' soil.
I fed on the trash cans of misery
so as not to prostitute myself on Western sidewalks.
These heirs of slave traders bombard Africa
in the name of democracy, human rights,
and Abrahamic obediences.
I am persecuted on every continent,
always a suspect to these insatiable cannibals.
I did not come to assimilate or integrate:
I have already been colonized, Frenchified, and Christianized.
If you do not love me, do not be a hypocrite to my face.
I will make you taste the horrors of Négritude
that I have carried for millennia.
I no longer prostrate myself before their God,
their saints, or their prophets.
I do not believe in their humanism
nor in their universalism.
I fight the negrophobia of imperialism every day.
They call me a parasite,
as if the centuries-old savage looting of Africa
were a mere utopia.
My people were trapped in the dungeons
of their Code Noir.
Before criticizing these scavengers,
I attended the school of the Republic
of the slave-trading Enlightenment.
I gleaned the diplomas of their alienation.
I will never be ashamed of being a pagan Sub-Saharan
who has read the Bible, the Quran, and the Torah.
I will never trust these preachers of hate
who sing the praises of liberty,
equality, and fraternity
over oceans of innocent blood.
My people are dehumanized
because they are still disunited.
I see imposters
desecrating Pan-Africanism
the moment they are tied
to Western pauperization.
I will never respect the borders
born from the balkanization
of the cradle of humanity.
My allegiance goes to Africa and not to the colonial outposts
of the Eldest Daughter of the Church.
I think of Africa every day
since I left that continent.
I wish for the revolutionary energy of the Sahel
To spread across all of Africa.
I dream that all the banana republics
of Françafrique
Transform into sanctuaries
of Pan-Africanism.
I am the voice of time —
The whisper of centuries long silenced,
And today, I thunder:
The Earth has turned. The meek now reign.
In the year 2050,
China stands not as a country,
But as the heartbeat of a new era,
The firstborn of the Global South’s resurrection.
Not with swords, but silicon.
Not with chains, but circuits.
Africa —
No longer a continent of carved borders,
But a single soul,
One country, one currency, one command.
Its deserts bloom with data farms,
Its skies sing with satellites.
Nairobi, Lagos, Addis — the new jewels of the world.
The old gods —
IMF, World Bank, UN —
Have crumbled into myths for the museum.
BRICS++ has risen, forged in fire,
A furnace of South-South solidarity,
Wielding economic thunder and military lightning.
The New Alliance of the Rising Earth
— a pact forged in justice —
Holds a strength the world has never known.
A military force not born for conquest,
But to protect balance, defend harmony, and uproot hypocrisy.
Meanwhile...
Europe staggers —
Not united, but scattered in tribal echoes,
Its streets echoing with hunger,
Its parliaments burning with blame.
Third World, now not a label,
But a mirror to their future.
And America —
Once fifty stars in pride —
Now scattered into fractured republics,
Each fighting to remember a name.
They come now, ship after ship,
Seeking shelter, seeking work,
Filing into Global South embassies
With applications marked: Desperate.
And the white man, once crowned in ignorance,
Now knows the taste of his own medicine.
Discriminated, undocumented,
Told: Learn the language. Wait your turn. Prove your worth.
But this is not vengeance.
This is balance.
The earth, long patient, has reset the scale.
Oh reader —
This is not a dream.
This is the roar of a future that remembers.
A reckoning seeded in colonized soil,
Watered with blood,
Now grown into a harvest of reckoning.
The last shall be first,
And the first shall be last.
This is the New Superpower.
And its name is Justice.
Continuation of Brodsky’s History of the Twentieth Century
1918. A flu pandemic in Spain takes hold,
From Kansas over the seas in America bold,
Women’s suffrage win the vote,
Their opinion is not remote,
Russia switches from the Julian calendar,
To the Gregorian, the west’s larder,
Russia agrees the world war to leave,
To forsake the German swastika sleeve,
UK navy air flying squad merges with RAF,
To make one dynamic force, to the Nazi’s deaf,
The Finnish civil war ends which did distract,
Germany away from their vile, aggressive act,
Nazareth and Forest of Argonne battles won,
Allied forces break the Hindenburg line rung,
The First World War ends with freedom standing,
Democracies will liberate and love undemanding,
Austria, Czech, Hungary become Republics grand,
A peace conference is held in Paris’s free land.
The man of the year is William C “Billy” Durant,
The founding owner and President of General Motors,
He engineers automobiles with speed, at some current,
Like sliced bread off a line to be given coasters.
(Billy Durant)
After Billy bought Chevrolet motors,
Of Delaware, to take the market’s rotors,
He made its head into a new entity,
In General Motors company identity,
But this man, called Pierre S DuPont,
Stole his presidency with great foe,
So this chief man Billy bought bowling alleys,
But died unknown to his lucrative days:
But Durant asserted in money terms our friend,
Technology, after which the war did quickly end.
Reference: History of the Twentieth Century by Joseph Brodsky
“An imbalance between rich and poor is the oldest and most fatal ailment
of all republics.” ~Plutarch, Greek Philosopher and historian.
Poor people living on the fringes of society
Obscure existence, day to day struggle
Verily, abandoned by the mainstream
Eking out a meager and hapless livelihood
Reared in the roadside shanty hovels
Tortured by their fate, ignored by their gods,
Yes, poverty is the scourge of our times.
~03/27/23
~Contest: Writing Challenge 'P' words
~sponsor: Constance La France.