Long Ruled Poems
Long Ruled Poems. Below are the most popular long Ruled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ruled poems by poem length and keyword.
Dope boundary rope tropes…fans hopes..Ollie copes..thick skin…will find the strength within…ignores the din…as Pope unleashes that boyish grin..
Can hear Freddie and David…ddddd..Under Pressure…well..hard to measure the pleasure of the Pope’s treasure…papacy legacy pride..stops the slide..trumps the prodigy..got a ton to shun outgun..dumps the Bethell puns..rested and bested..still in at stumps.. after Stokes plumps for tried and tested..
Nasty ploys from the seedier media boys…that gambit or slight..of weedier..needier skittish rabbit in the floodlight habit..but such poise..delights despite the noise.. fights the red hot slingshot Jasprit highlights...that iconic.. chronic.. metronomic…never laconic..halcyon harbinger..joy bringer..humdinger swinger gunslinger....
Who’s got a clue what to do…where it will land…understand what the Bumrah brand’s got planned…should be banned…can’t watch it from the hand..love watching it from the stand..tames games…fanned flames…big names castles manned..but the sparkle of another debacle shames and blames…panned and canned..
Doff your hat…scoff..from the off…Test cricket doesn’t get harder than that…time we beckoned..back when Goochie opined…Essex accent whined..reckoned like facing the World’s test best one end.. and tother Ilford second eleven..
It was a story of small standing tall demanding another dance at the Bumrah ball as the diddy men zen of Ollie and Ben gave us a chance and dodged.. not bodged by the Jasprit lance
Even the boom boom cherry riff couldn’t biff the Pontiff of who we are so fond…no what if..made merry with his tintin strawberry blonde quiff in this tiff did respond..
Golly gosh the another level devil..tabloid tosh of him getting Bethell bish bash boshed…losing the race.. will never forget Ollie’s jolly face…gleaming…day dreaming yet screaming to those scheming and memeing…fury at the jury…beaming…the adored Pope ruled..his grace.. Dueled with the ultimate pace ace…an up yours…century scores…our faith restores ..Ollie.. rightly put out…brightly glowed..showed us what he’s all about..loud..proud shout to the crowd who know nowt…want him out…made it clear..peers cheers he holds dear..my best at your behest ..so sincere.. I deserve my Test place and rest my case..! Hear Hear..
Lord, see how is contended the high places
And rightly so for it attracts the shrewd galant aces
But pretty much a duel between good and evil
Each rising to the challenge of the rival
Not to bolster statesmanship or healthy sportsmanship
But the onslaughts and assaults of values and worship
And the day is ruled by the side in occupance
Tipping the land's blessings by their stance
But the nations of the world are now of our Lord
And things will veer from the imposing man's accord
And a very subtle hand of the Divine
That begins by signaling a sign
Before it slowly closes in in a creep
And clenches into a locking grip
One that halts, propels and baffles history
All to a Holy God in His Glory
I am where King David was born. My name means, “House of bread”.
I am located six miles south of Jerusalem; 262 miles northeast of Cairo, Egypt;
and 140 miles southwest of Damascus, Syria. When the Caesars ruled, all roads did not lead to me, but to Rome. But still, I’m easy to find.
I’m not the first in mind when one thinks of the Middle East. But the prophets spoke of me as the place where a Jewish Messiah would be born.
Centuries later, the Jewish leaders gave King Herod vital information about me that caused him more than a little concern.
It’s not always what or who you are, or whether you will ever become a star.
God has always known about me, and religious leaders were well aware.
No, I never became a star of any kind; but wise men came from afar and were led straight to me by a star.
Nay, my friend, it’s not the size that ushers one to a place of renown. But it’s who or what comes out of you that makes one more that just a little town.
O yes indeed. I am that Little Town of Bethlehem that made room for The Bright and Morning Star. Out of me came The Christ Child, Jesus Christ.
12162016cjPS; (An impersonation)
There was a Red Indian Chief
his name was Raging Waters
he lived a pleasant life
surrounded by his four wives
They took care of all his needs
gave him strong sons and daughters
he ruled mainly in peace not war
apart from raids on the Black Hawks
It was one of his joys to sneak up
and steal their very fine horses
and to capture some of their squaws
these he could trade for guns and whiskey
As time went on he grew very troubled
he consulted with the medicine man
who sent him to the hot bath teepee
there smoking his pipe he relaxed
Soon the visions started to appear
war was on the horizon he could see
also a squaw so comely he lost his heart
he left the teepee and sent out scouts
They scoured the lands searching for her
at last one came back with the news
she belonged to the Crows and was promised
gathering up a raiding party, he set off
At dead of night they sneaked into position
then rushed the camp catching the Crows off guard
they killed the warriors and took the squaws,
children and horses too and well tanned hides
Now there had to be a comeback from this deed
Mighty Hawk gathered his tribes of Crows
and set off for Raging Waters camp for revenge
barely escaping he fled for the mountains
There with just a handful of warriors and squaws
he set out to build up the tribe once more
when at last they had enough warriors
he set out to recapture that beautiful squaw
Never had he forgotten her soft lips on his
driven wild by his desire, he lost all caution
warned by his medicine man it would end badly
he paid no heed and set out to make war
The Crows soon heard he was on his way
and set a terrible trap in between the hills
Raging Waters and his warriors were cut down
the unlucky ones were scalped then given to the squaws
Who beat them and treated them harshly as slaves
thus a lesson was learned do not take promised squaws
Raging Waters name was in time lost in the annuals
his tribe no more, just forgotten ghosts in time
inspired by soup mail chat with Sandra
If your legal counsel on civil rights
is Jeff Sessions,
then you most certainly learned legal precedent
for validity of crossing your fingers
or your toes
or even just imagine doing so
while denouncing economic and political racism
as evil
and likewise evil,
perpetuating enslavement to fear
and anger
and hate-mongering
among Just Us Good Ol' Boys,
Locker Room Talkers and Marchers
favoring White elitism,
Well then Jesus,
and Trinitarian SuperDivine MightMakesCapitalismRight Patriarchy Incorporated,
will legally and morally absolve you through immaculate partnership,
naturally and spiritually forgive you,
And you shall remain among the select redeemed
despite your Only White Lives Have Ruled The NestBest
alternative rhetorical fact marketing
required, for now,
with fingers crossed
behind your Counselor's two-faced lie.
You can no more stand pre-millennial idly by
while a Civil Rights Movement
was, and still is, marching through your capital-investments,
without making a part of the post-millennial problem statement,
any more than you can stand innocently by
while White supremacists
are marching through your massive media exposure
without already having mentored
a source of the racist self-denial of anti-patriotic supremacy,
our extant great trans-millennial ecopolitical problem.
A period of peace
When peace reigned In the year 1334 or so the residents in Alhambra thought Catholics chimed too early on Sundays at the time, Granada was ruled by, The Muslims, who went along fine with the Christians, who were good farmers and makers of wine not to forget, the Jewish population ( people of the book) kept, the pecuniary, in shape it was agreed that the bells should not ring before seven, but the beautiful gardens behind tall walls
must be watered at five in the morning.
It was a peaceful time, but nothing in human history lasts forever; the Church of Rome had ambition, Muslims fled, and the Jews went into exile in Portugal and were shattered around the towns and villages and became a part of the general population
How can I mingle with the poor, I’m a millionaire,
My intellect superior,
And the masses inferior.
I am a street sweeper, my name is Jane,
Passers by think I’m insane,
I am the sole earner in a family of five.
I have been voted in as a president,
Those idiots out there, who stand for hours,
Just to wave to me in heat, snow or showers.
I am an un-qualified plumber, I fix toilets and drains,
The hoi polloi insinuate I have no brains,
But it pays a doctor, and feeds us our daily bread.
I sing at concerts, I fill halls and sport stadiums,
Fans love me and know I’m a treat,
Four thousand dollars for a front seat.
I am a train driver and get home very late,
Dinner always on the table prepared by my mate,
My salary is meager but my heart full of faith.
I am a film producer and bring starlets to fame,
Nothing’s changed, they climb ladders as yesteryear,
Come here and do as I say, good girl, what a dear.
I live on this block and get paid for my tricks,
My mom died of drugs, and my dad from drink,
I was left holding the proverbial baby.
I am a porter and carry bags for the rich and famous
My work environment is a 5 Star hotel,
My digs in the back yard of a dump, with a bad smell.
MY INSPIRATION FOR THIS POEM
Did you watch the film ‘Don’t look up’
Where the rich ruled the roost,
And a comet hits and destroys planet earth,
Well, the film ends with the elite on a plane,
Anyone with wealth, power, or fame,
Flying to a destination unknown to the world,
Far from earth, a paradise they thought,
As they came down the plane stairs,
Filthy rich, all billionaires
Met by prehistoric dinosaurs
Who devour them, tearing all to pieces,
All life that descends from that plane, ceases.
Karma it seems does exist,
As depicted in this film script.
To Brexit or not to Brexit
by Bob Moore
One thousand years, it’s almost been
since William came to this island green
defeated Harold on Hastings Hill
to the English it was a bitter pill
He was the last the world would see
to invade this land successfully
and started Britain on its way
to being the country it is today
His descendants ruled throughout the land
the Barons made John sign the Charter Grand
and started Britain on a path you’d see
where all the people could be free
That freedom grew across the years
through war, and strife, through joy and tears
then politicians had their dreams
a Common Market, their future schemes
Many countries share their toil
to grow the food, and till the soil
to work together, as partners should
as equals, for the common good
But then it started to go wrong
it was not equal, and so the strong
began to wield the power now
unelected bureaucrats to tell us how
Our borders now are not our own
others decide who calls Britain home
those other people make the rules
and treat us like an Isle of Fools
The French, the Germans , the Spanish too
have tried to tell Britain what to do
but a Thousand Years we’ve kept them at bay
that is , we have, until today
From Agincourt, and Flanders Field
we’ve paid our dues not ones to yield
Trafalgar, Dunkirk, Normandy
Our Fathers fought so we’d be free
now we may vote it all away
and this is our last chance to say
to the faceless ones across the sea
we are still Britain, we are still free
My time is short before the shadows fall,
But love survives the prison of their lie.
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
The convicted father ruled behind his wall,
A criminal who thought my hope would die.
My time is short before the shadows fall.
His cruel, usurping sister ran the hall,
And stole my proper place with wicked eye.
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
They wrapped you in a dark deceitful pall,
And groomed your gentle spirit to deny.
My time is short before the shadows fall.
Yet truth is grander and outlasts them all,
Our deep, enduring bond they cannot buy.
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
Within I hold our light, Love, proud and tall,
Our triumph echoes to the open sky.
My time is short before the shadows fall,
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
In New York City- Nineteen thirty-six,
the crowds had gathered for a final show;
none playing the next day- no more to see
of organ grinders coming to their streets.
Throughout the city, all those places where
they came around to play- silent would be.
The citizens protested- with no win;
Mayor LaGuardia- ruled they must leave.
Renew their licenses, he would not do-
that radio and concerts were enough.
A nuisance, these musicians he declared;
he did not want them on the city streets.
As poor Italian immigrants, for them
their talent was the means to live and earn
a pittance from the coins left in their tins;
as songs, the sadness of their lives, unveiled.
On this last day, the organ grinders came
to greet their waiting fans and play for them.
When done, all waved goodbye with teary eyes
as the musicians gathered up their things.
With monkeys in their arms, they walked away
to leave their lifetime art of playing songs-
as each last organ grinder bid farewell;
to dwell as history from New York's past.