Long Saboteurs Poems
Long Saboteurs Poems. Below are the most popular long Saboteurs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Saboteurs poems by poem length and keyword.
When fate clashes
With destiny or
Your illusions
Clamors with reality
If hope and dreams
Are saboteurs
Then what happens to
Your future;
If in this life, you
Cannot face the
Challenges that
Appear and
You live inside
Your head,
Huddled up in fear
In your own little
World of illusions
Where you get treated
Greatly.
You have become a
King inside
Your world and
Your status is quite
Stately.
As long as you stay
Tucked away-
Inside the castle in
Your mind.
You'll never have to
Meet the fool
That plays you in
Real life.
There is a fool out here
That looks a lot like you;
He even he sounds
Like you do too.!
Could this fool that we
Witness with our eyes
Somehow be in your skin:
Or is there a pretender
Out there:
Pretending as if he's you?
We, your friends want to ask,
Is he of some kin?
Because it seems there's a
Fool out there acting
As if he were you...
African Proverb says
“You have become a
King in the land of illusions
While in the land of
Reality you remain a fool”
It is hard to walk in the sand especially with boots and a heavy rifle.
Manuel and I would sit on a rock and watch the moon give birth to
a distant blue Africa.
Franco's Guardia Civil were not all thugs. A few were poets.
Manuel's father had worshiped the general and had blessed
the day Guernica 'that Marxist nest' had been flattened.
That was decades before he was born, yet Manuel still patrolled
the beach, weaving between sunbathing tourist seeking nonexistent saboteurs.
On his rounds the young conscript fell in love - often, but in winter
(when his sneering corporal was away), he would sit in the bar,
tongue curled like a snail shell, dedicating lurid hyperbole
to every female foreigner that had smiled at him, and to all
the Catalan girls that never did.
That night the moon seemed to translate for us.
He asked me earnestly:
if I thought Franco would ever lift the ban on bikini's?
"Never!" I replied, "The Pope and the Rightists are against it."
Manuel rose and shuffled sadly away, his rifle dragging on the sand.
That night the moon came close, to bask on Manuel’s beach,
and she without a stitch of cloud-cover over her matronly form.
My descent was gradual, sedge meadows with wondrous pink orchid variations visited by never identified damselflies, my head starting to swim; erasing time, giving way to a dark canopied wetland of black spruce, difficult to traverse, sloping deer trails the safest path to take, avoiding quick-mud holes. These trails are popular in the forest, as signs reveal, death struggle remains, the saddest.
This is the area I saw the hairless half ape/half wolf like creature block my trail, stopping to look at me deeply, then vanishing like a ghost, without even a ruffle of plants.
Sometimes a plant, flower or insect calls to me "come closer" so I approach with caution; my hand carved heavy oak staff probing for danger, strong enough to ward off bears and badgers, snakes & insect saboteurs, intent on my demise.
With compass and topo I chart my course, knowing each time I visit these wild places in the forest off Lake Superior, it could be my last, so I bring back natural, wondrous souvenirs that fill my day-dreams, content once more, cleansed of my sins by Her Majesty, the forests off Gitchi Gumee.
Authors note...never venture into these wild places alone, always be prepared with survival equipment in your pack.
I stood in awe as she alighted like a bird upon some branch,
Belisha beacon to the abyss bound clochard.
Bonfire for uncanny scion adrift,
ignited by her
incandescent eyes.
Chanteuse of Arcadia on song and sound.
Halo at the crossroads, spreading out her wings to scupper animus
and bile.
Mystic lodger earthen yet ethereal,
hoisting every limb aloft from Bern to Betelgeuse.
Limelight vernal
queen blessed by open columns, healer on the arc where tangents dwell.
Silver tiptop finger nails a castanet with magic samba grooves.
In ritual or routine this lifeline Flora,
bright zoetic statue,
magnetising symbol for the bod without a bean.
Silken hands that rock the infant cradle,
quelling fractious babies, saboteurs of sandman’s mythic dust.
Moonlight moths that
flit across the glossy pages sculpted in her cheeks.
Backstreet lantern white knight,
echo in a mirror of chatoyant eyes.
Cast iron shadow coat tail,
destiny’s de lux edition bound but never gagged.
Damsel on assignment,
ever present vigil, soothing troubled psyches as they wallow in the waters of Lethe.
Nightingale who weaves an ample flourish,
band aid profile minder of a
cobblestone waif,
otherworldly migrant,
window on polluted quarters
harbouring those abject fallen figures,
bane of ghostly ushers when they prowl.
Heroine’s ascension ,
angel flying over heaven’s ladder,
waiting for that moment when her heart has found a home.
BORN IN THE MIDDLE EAST
By Eddie Egbelo Ntebri
Alas thy has been born; from thy dark mother’s womb
To inhale the venomous air from thy bleeding ambiances
What a conclave; concealed by dusty decisions
Dejection and pity shelters thy unpolished skin;
Leaving thee with regrets of a propelling heart
Thy nostrils filled with the breathe of human plasma
Thy ears shielded by war songs
Oh! What a derisible human nature
Fractioned by poverty and hunger
Petitioned by freedom and peace
Oblige by blood and sickness
Appraised by saboteurs and oppressors
Dictated by tyrants and impostors
Delivered by a murky womb
What kind of life awaits thee?
A life of rumble and hurricanes; surpassing the humble spirit of sleep
A life that beseech the passage of horrid times
A fountain life of crisis in melodies
A life that grips fear as the solitary courage for survival
A life that expects a bullet in every sunrise
A life of dismay and objection
Hold back thy tears from its drip
Human history surely needs to change its course
In-plant within thee the spirit of believe
Hope lies beyond the valleys
Sing songs of triumphant victories
Because thy blood will surely be thy peaceful covenant
The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier - Canada
We all know you now
You have fallen at our feet
You have guarded them all with life and limb
Noble and brave
Only to fall at a cowards last call
You have stirred the souls of the unknown heroes
Their appall shall seek the just dues of our defamers and saboteurs
Young lads who now welcome you in the hereafter
Shall haunt our enemies from near or afar
The drum rolls sound, as the rifles salute
The Unknown Soldier
You are unknown no more
Notes: In memory of Nathan Cirillo and Patrice Vincent both killed in cold blood on the week of Oct 26, 2014 by cowards in the name of Islam. Nathin Cirillo was standing guard at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
Also in memory to the 1000’s of unknown soldiers, young men, who fought so that we may be free.
she knows naught of a life that is her own,
so giving all she has to mate and brood ...
and tho deep-down within, she burns alone,
for just one treasured passion that is hers,
her kids and husband, precious saboteurs ...
require her love, and selfless fortitude.
a dream of dancing feet is now the haunt
of little feet that danced into her heart,
and one knight, true, her charming confidant.
so maybe, one day, she will twirl her toes,
but she has no regrets, as goodness knows ...
a wife and mother ... play the grandest parts.
This poem is for whomever is messing with
my lines and cadence on some of my
rhyme poems and a few others on the
Poetry Soup site. I sincerely apologize to
whoever reads my work and likes it. Those
that have been reading me for awhile know
what's up. If I cared enough about the foolishness I'd make a complaint but I have
a feeling it won't go anywhere. I'll just say this instead. Do you not have anything better to
do with yourself/selves? Lol smh
Whoever is responsible should be ashamed.
Carry on
............................................................????
You can jumble my words but I rise for
it is meant for them to see
It's all about the words not an ego or
whoever wants to block little me
Seeing is believing & I can see hate makes
people do silly things
I'm obviously a bell in a hollow mind & you
can't wait for me to ring
Do something else with yourself instead of
taking aim at a target
I guess followers will do anything because
being a leader is the hardest
A matador to lame saboteurs looking for
a response in the red
I'm laughing so I guess you'll try again
if this is how you make your bread
And so it’s make your mind up time, right here in the U.K.
I guess you’ll get the same thing soon, in the U.S. of A
Candidates will waffle on each night and every day
The gullible will swallow every single word they say
For the won’ts then will and the wills then won’t
While the don’ts all do ad the dos all don’t
And some veer left and some veer right
And some will talk like black is white
It’s yes means no and no means yes
And less means more and more means less
No wonder we’re in such a mess
When their true views we can but guess
In this campaign that’s laden with
Paid saboteurs and nobblers
Integrity means my vote goes
To he who answered, “Cobblers!”
—————————————————————————————
[Only Nigel Farage would answer a stupid question with
A plain, simple “Cobblers”. Indeed, he did just that in
Interview with the BBC’s Nick Robertson. Go, Nigel!]