Long Rich Poems
Long Rich Poems. Below are the most popular long Rich by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rich poems by poem length and keyword.
Grumpy, griping all the time,
Out of work without a dime.
Seen around the town a lot.
They call him Sir Frowns A Lot.
Used to work for the city,
Paid off, laid off, what a pity.
Caused his wife to have a stroke,
Lost his house when he went broke.
Stands in line for unemployment,
Living life without enjoyment.
Sleeping in a cardboard box,
Worn out shoes and dirty sox.
Food banks help to feed his hunger,
Dreams of days when he was younger.
But now he never ever smiles,
Just walks the streets for miles and miles.
Cursing life and shouting loud,
Mumbles, rumbles at the crowd.
They won't look him in the eye,
They just laugh and pass him by.
Until the day he found a gun,
He had enough and just for fun;
Devised a plan to help the needy,
By taking all from those so greedy.
Now robs the rich to feed the poor,
He'll soon be knocking at their door.
Just like the Knights of Camelot,
No longer called Sir Frowns A Lot.
Their love simmered upon a gentle range
Fanned until it burst into fiery flame
Fueled with lively passion it sparked exchange
Year upon year it couldn't be quenched or tamed
Renewed each spring like the gardenia's bloom
Sending forth blossoms, sweet scented, pure white
A love so rich the roses blushed, assumed
within their hearts, love was all lily-white
The last blossom of their gardenia fell
'pon an unplowed garden; it swiftly died
Can flames be ignited from a dry cell
once again; as 'twas in youth's blushing bride
Love hotter than habanero pepper
dried; lively scent of gardenia and myrrh
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
Contest: English Sonnet
I don't do meter very well..
My husband planted some of these in our garden last year..The hottest pepper I have ever seen..I pulled one while it was green and looked at it and thought there must be something wrong with the soil here for this to look all wrinkled up and I tasted just the very tip and it wasn't too bad but I could tell that the next bite would be a killer..I told my husband that they were not hot..He pulled a red one..Well~~you know the rest of the story..
September 17, 2016, Saturday, Contest Entry Date..
Poem written earlier..August 08, 2016
I have waded through the rivers of eternity
I have sailed ships on the seas of time
For the exquisite pleasure of pressing my lips to your ear
So that you could finally hear…
The ROARING of my soul
I have hitched rides on meteor showers
Stolen milliseconds during dreary hours
Laid bare bottomed on blackened words
Just for that one passing moment when you joyfully heard…
My HEART
Yell, tell, expel, ProPEL
My every breath belongs to you
Your eyes…only your eyes, that have no color or hue
They are open scepters of fine wine
Flowing freely from all that is you
I drink every last drop, even the splash upon my lip
Anticipating the next happenstance glance
Where I can lazily tip and joyfully sip
The savory substance of your longing for me
Run with me, my love
Let us leave behind wind and all constraints of time
Flow with me and flick off the frames
That prevent you from being mine
Feel the rich, bold, paint running ahead
Showing us what living and loving has said
Experience the gush of your soul
Rushing to express what it’s come to know
Be still, my beloved, let me know you
Let me view you in the purity of light
I haven’t eyes to judge
Only the perspective of faith in the darkest night
What is this? Fear and Shame…
That gathers the curtain around your soul
Who has left you unopened and unexplored?
Who dares to tempt your longing
Bind your revealing
To know you …no…more….
Despised, Reviled, Rejected.
Object of cruel mockery.
Before I was conceived, I heard of you,
Dumps for homeless migrants,
Debased and inferior.
Was beauty ever part of you?
This throng, that daily treads your well worn streets,
Whither? your brackish waters,
Home to unseen enemies, children splash uncaring,
Your market is a meeting place, young and old,
Rich and poor, your wares to behold
Ajegunle, the harsh teacher, Survival skills your forte,
Sharpening and shaping lives by your creeds
Ajegunle,
The enemy of state love, a point to prove,
Creativity crams herself into your nooks and crannies,
The envy of rich Ikoyi.
Ajegunle,
You must visit with vigilance, day or night,
Hunters abound, roving eyes,
Seeking purse to prey upon.
Their kills dissected in the crevices of Ajegunle
Where the oppressed oppress another
Atavism is a regular guest at Ajegunle
Where order is almost a crime,
Disorder the norm,
Ajegunle,
Kingdom of numerous kings, a reflection of ourselves
Poverty amidst riches, want amidst plenty,
Ajegunle,
Despised
Reviled
Rejected
Ajegunle is a Popular slum in Lagos Nigeria.
“In the end, money always collects.”
Money will hold you, then skin you alive,
Kiss you sweet, then gut your drive.
Feed you today, starve you tomorrow,
Bury your joy in a pit of sorrow.
Buys the love that’s sold in the dark,
Perfume to mask the cold of the heart.
Buys the heat when your bones start to bite,
Flicks the switch in the dead of night.
Buys the powder, buys the blade,
Seals the deal in the backroom trade.
Buys the blood, the hit, the debt,
Every mistake you won’t forget.
Buys a smile that don’t reach the eyes,
Buys your truth, then sells you lies.
Buys the chains you’ll wear for free,
The dream you choke on, down on your knees.
Buys the roof when the rain starts to fall,
Sells the walls, leaves you with nothing at all.
Buys the crown, it buys the throne,
But nothing it touches is ever its own.
Money don’t care if you’re young or old,
Don’t know hunger, don’t feel cold.
Keeps on moving, keeps on fed,
Won’t stop chewing till you’re good and dead.
Buys your breath and it buys your skin,
Waits for the moment you let it in.
Grinds you down till there’s nothing to save,
Spits in the dirt on your unmarked grave.
Slow- fire gleams across the horizon
as I gather words from twig-like strips
adding creamy broth to stir the brew
under a moonlight of summer’s heat …
The mellow breeze warms my thoughts
where hands pour lemon mint, in a campfire
kindling essence of lines for Poetry Soup:
then to grasp fireflies brightly adorned
until cheeks flush with tales spun nightlong.
The purée explodes to drink the light
of my muse, her delicacy soaked in potion
with a dash of tangy sage to flame verse
or rhyme Oh the meal is simple
but rich, delicious, releasing a flavour
uncommon even to me… a concoction
different each time , when a tribe's mix
of language , time zone, and blogs heal,
excite, and char each sip of soup
blended from the heart’s campfire.
POTD and 1st prize premier glory
There are four horsemen riding from a million miles away
On some distant star's horizon and they're closing day by day.
On the white horse rides pestilence, infection, fever, pain
You had resources to end all this but you looked on with disdain
You'd rather clothe yourselves in gold than feed the man in need
The inhuman face of the human race in its sheer relentless greed.
There are four horsemen riding from a thousand miles away
On some fast fading horizon and they're closing day by day.
On the red horse rides almighty war, destruction, hatred, waste
You had resources to end all this but it seemed to suit your taste
You'd rather blame, shatter and maim those perceived lesser than you
You dismiss then deride with dauntless pride the righteous thing to do.
There are four horsemen riding from a hundred miles away
On the visible horizon, and they're closing day by day.
On the black horse rides the famine of hunger, thirst and drought
You had resources to end all this but you'd never share them out
Life to you is fair taking someone's share if it keeps you walking tall
Let nations starve as you cut and carve the prize, then take it all.
There are four horseman riding the pathway to your door
You were warned from ancient scriptures what the four horsemen stood for
On the pale horse rides eternal death, the fate that binds us all
From the obscene rich to the tramp-filled ditch everyone of us must fall
Those craving power face death's dark hour, naked as a winter tree
All those heartless ways and the artless days laid bare for all to see.
Now there are no horses riding, no light, those days are gone
Just the endless night and the coal black flight of the earth's oblivion
Shudder not, for it’s the language of Death.
Who’s next? —it asks
Going from house to house,
Both of marble and mud
It cares not
Nor fears man, rich or poor,
Warrior or coward,
Whose nest it visits,
His cold arms ready for embrace,
Ready to snatch
Life is just but one lugubrious journey
On sea or on land or on air,
Which must end with the sound of
A school bell signalling the end of a recess.
So rejoice not when one, friend or foe, drops from the line,
For you could be next
And your kinsman next after you.
One after the other,
We drop
Like one old, battered leaf after another, in the
Spell of autumn.
The world is one big Pallette
full of mixed colours
mixed races,mixed cultures.
The world is full of different ideas
full of The Humble and The Intelligent,
How Beautiful in its own diversity is the world.
White is too pale
Black is too dark
mixed together,they re so sottile.
Rich is too selfish
Poor is too weak,
lets make this Planet
a Wise Men"s street,
where rich and poor together
make ends meet.
BUDDHISTS are so SPIRITUAL
MUSLIMS so RIGHT ,so JUST.
PROTESTANTS,CATHOLICS so LOVING,
together they shape the Best Rainbow,
the best of our motherland outcoming
How wonderful is our Planet!
we are in it but sometimes we don"t know IT.
Protestants,Catholics,Buddhists,Muslims
Black,White people ,mixed races,
all Human Beings Embraces
she"s Catholic ,he"s Muslim
they love one another
their child was born
so JUST !like the father
so LOVING! like the mother.
He"s rich,she"s poor
together they married
and they have it all
a child wise,intelligent as the father
kind ,humble as the mother
whatever your colour,your status,believes
you are most needed to continue are Family Trees.
The world is ONE BIG PALLETTE,full of colours
all important and unique
WHAT A LOVELY COLOURFUL WORLD-charma
Upon my palette I find one shade,
so deeply rich it’ll never fade,
pure purple, my favourite hue,
that mystical shade where red meets blue,
I take up my brush and begin to paint
bold strokes that show no artistic restraint.
I picture myself a Queen in a Royal gown
a giant Amethyst atop my crown,
I confer protection to all in my sight,
my violet aura shining bright.
At my feet the thistle flowers
a symbol of my nobility and royal prowess.
The colour of energy fuelled by passion
dubbed the “new black”, just ask fashion,
the shade of kings with courtly power
my canvas a wash of Pasque flower
it’s peaceful coolness brings me calm
purple’s my magical healing balm.