Long Revolts Poems
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The original version of this piece is too long for me
to post in its entirety, so it had to be sectioned off. Of
all that I've written, I am most proud of this work due
to its historical accuracy. I hope you enjoy it as well. It
was an honor to write this.
Lying in this shallow ditch I hear as they arrive, the
miracle of God is all that's keeping me alive,
and it is that belief in God to which each day I strive,
surprised at this much faith? Just simply gaze into
my life.
Was born in 1800, month October 2nd day, and knee
high to a hopper when my daddy ran away,
before you climb your soapbox and begin to think
that way, remember these are times when all the
black folk here are slaves.
Imagine being sold like stock, to work when cold or
hot, the overseers beatin people if they're old or not,
do not defy the owner, best believe you will be sick,
of getting 10 to 20 lashes from the master's whip.
My last name wasn't given at my birth and that's a
fact, my given name's Nathaniel but they choose to
call me Nat,
the surname of my owner Samuel is what I claim,
you put it all together yes, Nat Turner is my name.
I think about Old Bridget, that's my grandmother you
know, they snatched her out of Ghana, brought her
here to freezing cold,
she ran the Coromantee who were known for slave
revolts, she watched the seeds get planted in me
grow and take a hold.
I thought myself the lucky one for I could read and
write, it brought me to The Bible and I learned to
read it right,
then spent my childhood years admidst the Spirit up
above, it fit my needy soul just like a mitten or a glove.
I ran away at first when I was only 22, I should've
stayed away because I really wanted to,
but 1 month later, picture this it's me a black man
free, a vision told me that I should go back and that
was key.
The visions I receive I know are messages from
God, Old Bridget had religion shining deep within my
heart,
I will inform the brethren and won't stop until they're
saved, The Prophet is the name that I was called by
fellow slaves.
As 6 years pass of this I know it never is too late, the
hands of the Almighty have me primed for
something great,
I carry heavy shoulders for a man of 28, until I
worked the master's field one faithful day in May........
To Be Continued
She writes like Maya
She sings like Aretha
She dreams like Coretta
She reads like Oprah
She speaks like Barbara
She plays like Serena
She rocks like Tina
She rolls like Donna
She entertains like Diana
She cures like Maria
She paints like Edmonia
She kicks like Mia
She runs like Wilma
She throws like Lisa
She boxes like Laila
She dances like Anna
She skates like Surya
She invents like Patricia
She revolts like Angela
She influences like Condoleezza
She paints like Edmonia
She smiles like Mona Lisa
She loves like a mother
She protects like a tiger
She prays like Mother Theresa
And she cooks like momma.
Dear readers, you can add more
A natural woman is never poor
Please, beloved friends, be kind
To come up with more in your mind
She tumbles like Simone
She philosophizes like Simone
She quilts like Betsy
She laughs like Whoopi
She jokes like Leslie
She sings like Marie
She speed skates like Maame
She flies like Mae
She exercises like Gabby
She educates like Mary
She fights like Dorothy
She explores like Stephanie
She sounds like Winnie
She creates like Margaret
She dares like Harriet
She runs like Marion
She entertains like Josephine
She legislates like Maxine
She sows like Catherine
She teaches like Gwendolyn
She lifts like Ernestine
She acts like Diahann
She reports like Diane
She speaks like Michelle
She is serious like Michelle
She is strong like Althea
She is talented like Augusta
She is defiant like Cicely
She is brave like Shirley
She is normal like Marilyn
She is fearless like Maxine
She is relaxed like Rosa
She is inquisitive like Barbara
She challenges like Phyllis
She swings like Chris
She plays like Alice
She is talented like Venus
She is pretty like a flower
And she is like our mother.
A natural woman is not perfect
She deserves honor and respect
She needs love everyday
From trouble, she never runs away
Please add more to this poem
And do not curse or blaspheme
She writes like Maya
She sings like Aretha
She dreams like Coretta
She reads like Oprah
She speaks like Barbara
She plays like Serena
She prays like Mother Theresa
And she cooks like our mama.
Copyright © August 2018, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
(in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.
A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
in random splayed and sprawled runs.
A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
is on his way to find ’em.
The pack rejoins with weary loins -
perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
for, yes, he’s still the rover.
When snow enshrines the timberlines
and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
float, hanging in the air.
Their path is black (they can’t look back
for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
display the night’s devotion.
The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.
...... Continued in part 2 ......
I
(A lone voice whispers)
Do you still miss me before we were slowly destroyed and betrayed
Would you tell anyone the truth of how we were played
By the demon associated with jealousy called Leviathan.
Even if God forced you to confess under duress
Although I know I've caused you so much distress
And your inner circle still revolts and screams like Mary Harris Jones
The grandmother of all agitators
Casting wild spells
Whenever they hear my name
When you visit family or friends who respond with wide alligator smiles
Before commenting and laughing about my tragic previous lifestyle
Like one of its many unwarranted administrators
I may now dance amongst the silvery stars
Now just a faded memory
No longer a member of your life's smiling parade
No more to sing
Smile or kiss
No more to hold hands with someone they really miss and watch the sunset
Lost in each other's eyes in total bliss
But if only I could see you one last time
I would move heaven and earth like Che Guevara
For you are still my silver glittering candelabra in the darkness
My second heartbeat
My magical Abracadabra
Which always wakes me like my own version of Desiderata
At 4 am
In the middle of each lonely heartbroken night
In here
Amongst the ever-moving shadows of The Great In-Between
The dark rift the broken enter
In dreams
When their life totally falls apart at the seams
I miss you
Alanna
I just hope and pray you're happy
Still living pill free
In a new era
So just remember me
Your forever one and only
Daraya
The silent watcher, whose now a citizen on the other side
Lost
But happy tonight
Just listening to Prince Rogers Nelson perform a show and sing
Sometimes it snows in April
In The Hotel California
As the Pharisee's Golden Bells
Hidden all around us
Rings
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
The Faithful Student by: Majed Dodeen
Life is but a trail of shattered dreams....
Woven from memories...
Its silence speaks,
Its threads are thoughts...
Paintings sketched in memory as flashes,
The anthem fades into mirage halos,
Words scatter as fragments along the roads...
And when memory’s sketch revolts, I retreat inwards,
Contemplating the journey of years
A man, weary from exhaustion, asks his soul:
Who are you?
The heart of love holds its verses,
I mistook you for poison and ailment, yet you are balm and cure...
I drew near to hug light, but fire embraced me.
They claimed you are illusion—I refused to believe such deception.
I stripped my crown and crowned you,
Enrolled my name as a loyal student in your school
I love your enchanting eyes,
Kiss your brow—my homeland is your angelic face.
They condemned me for loving you chastely and innocently
I’ll love you as honor demands,
And sing to the world and to you:
O oxygen of my life,
O fountains of the soul sailing within me
The voyage stretches as it is endless,
Crossing every sea and every station,
Spreading joy with resolve.
It searches...
Scatters my chambers,
Digs through my memories’ files
In the eyes, a turmoil and confusion
Embodying resolve, yet unresolved...
Brief moments
The veil of secrets falls,
Waves awaken from slumber.
Your eyes... twin stars and twin waves,
Cast glances in succession,
Wringing memories
Drop by drop
As tears flow freely...
And anew,
Roots are born
Green virgin meadows,
Tears burst into radiance and candles...
In the cells,
In the grieving heart,
Love’s gifts endure
Budding blooms
Blossoms to mend wounds of years...
Love is overrated
Misunderstood, miscalculated.
It is the morning mist,
A dew rested on the grass.
In the warmth, it ceases to exist.
with the heat of the sun, it's gone.
Love demands caring,
Demands nourishment,
The constant attention of 5minus4 senses.
Love always dies slow,
Suffocating agony, a hard ignore.
Love is the cancer of the balls.
It's a haunting acoustic of an empty hall.
Echo bouncing off of the wall.
Love is at first,
Stardust, a diamond that shimmers.
Gold that's glistened with worth.
It's the first rain.
The first poetry a poet pens.
It's the first word uttered.
It's all metaphorical yet all literal.
It revolts, it's a rebel and a revolution.
At its pinnacle, it's greater than God.
For Fu*ks!!!
A pomeranian with a pitbull's gut.
In between love is
Understanding, compromising.
a doormat, a doorknob.
It's a lock and it's a key.
It is two different things.
It multiples to cease.
It's the missing
piece, It's all, it is.
A boneless dick.
Puking sick.
It's a nefarious deed of a priest.
Love at last is
An unclean tongue.
A desire of a dying whore to become a nun.
It's constipation,
And stomach cramps.
It's the first kiss and the biting of the lips.
It's a fart that refuses to leave.
It's piss after a drink,
It stinks.
It's a bottled up perfume,
A wild bloom.
It's a ruthless warrior.
A headless chicken.
the vigorous flapping of wings without flight.
It's a dead eye.
And a lie.
It's the heaven of the scriptures,
And a hell of the mind.
It's the sinister divine.
An indecisive crime,
A bell that doesn't chime.
It's screaming on the prayer.
A word unsaid, deed unpraised.
Love is but a suppression of hate.
A mistake,
Poison of a sweet taste.
©su_tshant
Under the velvet sky of night, where stars weave their magical web,
my thoughts flow like a silent river through the dark forest of the mind,
carrying with them the shadows and lights of lost and rediscovered dreams.
I wonder, in the silence that envelops everything, if freedom is just an echo
of voices frozen in time, lost in the boundless abysses of consciousness.
In a world where opinions are fragile flowers in the constrained garden of reason,
and debate is a dancer chained by its own movements,
we move like puppets on the stages of an invisible theater,
believing we are free, yet bound by the invisible strings of a sublime control.
Criticism becomes a siren's song, drawing us into the whirlpool of illusion,
and dissent, a glass illusion, shining in the false light of a feigned freedom.
I imagine how our thoughts tumble like stones down a steep slope,
hitting the narrow edges of the acceptable, ever narrower, ever colder.
There, in that tight perimeter, revolts and hopes are born,
but they are merely pale flames, extinguishing the moment they touch the imposed threshold.
Deep within me, an unbounded longing weeps for unpolished truths,
for free thoughts to soar like birds in the endless sky,
but I always wake up within the same invisible boundaries, a circle of fire and ice,
where each step is a compromise, a renunciation, a silent resignation.
And yet, in this melancholic night, under the velvet sky,
the dream of freedom finds its way, like a ray of light through heavy clouds,
and I wonder if perhaps, even within these limits, there is hope,
a hope that one day, we will break the invisible chains and fly,
in a fearless dance of free, unrestrained, infinite thoughts.
We started going house to house and freeing all the
slaves, then killing all the white folks left with
hatchets, knives and chains,
we only used blunt objects to conceal our wave of
smoke, I'll surely be the father to the mom of all
revolts.
I speak of 'we' because by now we numbered 7-0,
and had the whiteness falling to the ground like
heaven's snow,
we went through 55 caucasians and their pretty
wives, we also killed the kids but there were some
who didn't die.
The poor white families were spared, we left them
all intact, they didn't think no better of themselves
than they did blacks,
the point of this to whites was our reality in chains,
reality depicting the brutality of slaves.
We only got 2 days before revolting was
suppressed, by white mobs and militias causing 56
black deaths,
along with others killed and beaten numbered many
more, I think it was 200 but I really can't be sure.
I ran eluding capture for another couple months, the
white folks swore that I would pay for all these
sick'ning stunts,
until the day October twenty 1831, they found me in
this ditch I'm hiding in, I guess I'm done.
They tried me and they found me guilty, sentenced
me to death, this happened on November 5th, there
wasn't much time left,
was hung on the 11th and for days that's how I
stayed, until they cut my head off and my body
chopped and flayed.
I look around at blacks folks in this modern day and
age, and there may be some freedom but y'all still
are truly slaves,
for me though death is nothing seeing those get
killed for drugs, remember me Nat Turner for the
man I really was.
in the rusty tide animating bones
of deluded gods reaching for the lie
etched on eroded steles in dead lisps
licking flames of seers tossing guts
filled with blue and red fascists
infecting the hands of the curious
willing to taste microscopic spiders
gulping their blood pumping poisonous
chants of starlit fevers soaking doubts
in baptismal orgasms growing fingers
measuring spirits down to the remnants
of angels sleeping in cellars drinking
emotions of residents disheveling linen
drenched fear perspiring throughout eye
movements of broken nightmares straining
to be painted in fixed oil imbued with lead
thoughts cracking in corridors hallucinating
dripping madmen sharpening revolts smearing
screeching phrases fed intravenously milking
the life of beasts for ravenous wisdom awaits
cold to the heart thuds of silence defy adages
preaching surrender to the surgeon’s pride
flashing silver pain pooling mercury bulges
of phallic power parading atrocity elements
churning in the metabolic circumference of Gaia
digesting busts of Caesars forgetting Romana
as peace basks in the annihilation of metabolism
directing the jet-streams crossing sunrise
and sunset like catholic rites glossy and gilt
flat personages etched by bright children
bending down to surrender to the priests
speechless in empty piety moaning high-
ways returning in internal engines conbusting
beside Masonic erections adorned with devils
sliding between walls where innocence lived
yellowed pages of periodicals recall fabrications
stitched into the screens of televisions changing
until the entire hymn of Satan rests in every palm
Alas I fear, we part again.
Time won’t still, for you my friend.
Tender thoughts, refuse to help.
Scars we bare, in dreams are felt.
Time does pass, how long or when?
To meet, to see, to hold you then.
Distance is a hateful fact.
Cruel enough, to force this act.
But do not weep, for when I leave,
Our next encounter bittersweet.
Lonely feelings hold no use,
Cast aside its awful truths.
To miss, to grieve, your company pass.
Clog’s the soul, a dirty task.
Happy hope our best disguise,
Relinquish when I next arrive.
I’ll seek you out, unconscious mind.
Hold you there, a treasured find.
My biggest demon, shows no care,
Your absence long, I have to bear.
Hunger deepens, Starts to gnaw.
Forbidden touch, wanting more…
The holes you leave, your presence gone,
Kills emotions one by one.
Come to me, remove this loss,
Misguided will, to big a cost.
It dissipates in single touch,
Kiss me now, it hurts too much.
The darkness thick, it’s moving in…
It seeps down deep, on frosty skin.
Time is lost, no measure left.
Come to me in my bereft.
Sleepy movements, tough to see,
Next one leaves, an arm on me.
Mewling noises, I am robbed,
Rouse me into wakeful sob’s.
Strong arms grip, their hold is tight.
Sheltered from my sudden plight.
Lover’s whispers, soothing touch.
Understanding starts to rush…
Never had, you left my side,
But in slumber, soul still cries.
My love for you, is so intense,
My mind revolts and looses sense.
I fear it will, forever more.
Imbedded deep, my centre core.
Cope I can, in times like these,
If when I wake, it’s you it sees.
Form: