Long Satireme Poems
Long Satireme Poems. Below are the most popular long Satireme by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Satireme poems by poem length and keyword.
For me or against me?
Do stay out in your uncertain nest,
Go to your heart desire,
Follow your real heart
If i am not enough for you.
Really,it's sometimes difficult
When my pockets seemed dried
And empty,
I failed in action when such happens,
At harmattan things seemed even worst,
For the pockets get even drier and smaller.
I know i will smile one day.
No longer then twist me and tell
Me lies...
Or flying around me like flies.
Be for me or against me
For good.
I know the symbols
Of your deceptions,
Writing all over your smile
And speech like the words of Jezebel.
The movements of your waist
Like wind from nowhere to anywhere
Are all relics of your coming and going.
Then be for me or against me,
For my heart is tired,weak and feeble
As i wait to see if the next will
Step in and stay for good.
I sought to write verse tried and true,
But jester scuttled my muse making me blue.
I responded with childhood rhymes I once knew,
Yet that clown pilfered all and then withdrew.
Rebounding, I sought rhythm's cadence to renew,
Alas, he scrambled my patterns and my timing did screw.
Regaling remaining wit, many riddles did I queue.
Frustratingly, that spinster unraveled every clue.
Revitalizing the inner spirit, a few puns did I brew.
Revolting, that huckster for shallow laughter did sue.
Forlorn, I tried with other's quotes to imbue;
He called me a charlatan and my lack of honor did rue.
Form:
Mr. Webster defines "impatience" as a dislike for anything causin' delay.
Alas, my paucity of patience I am reminded of each and every day!
'Tis a subject upon which the Lord and I are in constant consultation.
Lord, help me in my quest for more patience is my earnest supplication!
On Sunday morns I squirm in my pew listenin' to the preacher pontificate.
His interminable oration goes on and on - for my football game I'll be late!
Again that very afternoon I lose all patience with my favorite football team!
Their fumblin', stumblin', bumblin' play just makes me want to scream!
I have little patience with slow movin' traffic causin' me to lay upon the horn!
Others extend a finger in response! (As I understand it, that's a sign of scorn)!
I impatiently wait for the leaves to blossom on my trees around the first of May.
In the autumn season, my patience is taxed rakin' those infernal leaves away!
I lose patience with the government always intrudin' in my life,
With their inane and meddlesome schemes that are so very rife!
I'm impatient with folks who babble on and on when a word or two will do,
Or retellin' a story I've heard a dozen times - 'tis a classic case of deja vu!
Forgive me Lord when at times I even become impatient with Thee.
If impatience is a sin, Lord I pray that You'll show mercy unto me!
Help me in my quest to be more patient is my earnest supplication,
But won't You please expedite Thy accomodation is my exhortation!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
(for: those who fell on the hills of Liberia)
I hear a song from my hills
I hear it sound from afar;
And towards my homestead
Near those aging banks of the Niger
I feel the disturbing songs
Of drummers announcing with cannons
The ravages of Monrovia
Like ancestral funeral men
But these drummers are different:
A shadow of their ancestors?
Is it something beautiful
For Doe’s ever-haunted soul
That Sulima should breathe of
Blood-fouled air?
Does it touch the heart of Taylor
That St. Paul’s river should mirror
The dying souls of pregnant mothers
On forced premature delivery mats?
The guns are eating
New diets in broken skulls
Everywhere!
And all my kins
Are traded for the mean
Prosperity of war
The smell of their black blood
Slapping the face of our dignity:
And does this dunghill of skulls
Touch on the human side of Johnson
And those other warlords?
How long would the orphan’s bones crack?
When would a man walk freely
Across the streets?
Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us:
When the guns would stop singing;
When would fear stop celebrating?
Here as I sit in my hut
Fully fed-up with homicide news
Of thousands and countless of my kins
Dragged into early and tombless deaths
I dreamt of slow-walking hunger
Load-bend of the souls of my kins
Like ants in a dry season:
Would you tell me the number
Of black skulls cracked
On the top of every hill?
Tell me the quantity of black blood
Spilled each day along those currents
Of Mao and Sherbro rivers
And the quantity of children’s bones
And ribs ript open near Monrovia:
Would you be brave enough
To tell these and more atrocities
To the deaf ears of the world,
O! strongmen of noble Liberia?
Form:
(For: those who fell on the hills of Liberia)
I hear a song from my hills
I hear it sound from afar;
And towards my homestead
Near those aging banks of the Niger
I feel the disturbing songs
Of drummers announcing with cannons
The ravages of Monrovia
Like ancestral funeral men
But these drummers are different:
A shadow of their ancestors?
Is it something beautiful
For Doe’s ever-haunted soul
That Sulima should breathe of
Blood-fouled air?
Does it touch the heart of Taylor
That St. Paul’s river should mirror
The dying souls of pregnant mothers
On forced premature delivery mats?
The guns are eating
New diets in broken skulls
Everywhere!
And all my kins
Are traded for the mean
Prosperity of war
The smell of their black blood
Slapping the face of our dignity:
And does this dunghill of skulls
Touch on the human side of Johnson
And those other warlords?
How long would the orphan’s bones crack?
When would a man walk freely
Across the streets?
Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us:
When the guns would stop singing;
When would fear stop celebrating?
Here as I sit in my hut
Fully fed-up with homicide news
Of thousands and countless of my kins
Dragged into early and tombless deaths
I dreamt of slow-walking hunger
Load-bend of the souls of my kins
Like ants in a dry season:
Would you tell me the number
Of black skulls cracked
On the top of every hill?
Tell me the quantity of black blood
Spilled each day along those currents
Of Mao and Sherbro rivers
And the quantity of children’s bones
And ribs ript open near Monrovia:
Would you be brave enough
To tell these and more atrocities
To the deaf ears of the world,
O! strongmen of noble Liberia?
Form: