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.
I am Saul, beset, besieged, afraid to face the war
Without the latent singing of my natal star
Exposed. Fiends and witches medium know alone
To bring up a spirit or read the scattered bone
But those dark, heinous hags are no more
With venom wrath I slaughtered and purged them
And still find no praise in the silence of my core
From him who first hated them ... no ah nor em.
I am Saul, speak to your king, is any left
To compose me, I now of old Samuel bereft
Can find no spark of God or light abroad
Endor is far, the trek is hard, trek is hard.
One witch is there, you are sure? One for me
To consult and consort and be forgiven
One to tell aught of promise or pallid tragedy
How stands my course between hell or heaven?
At dead of night, the deadly still becalms the world
And I am cloaked darkest rags and identity curled
Catlike within, laden with ritual wage I venture forth
To convent with awful hag, and make my fickle sport
And then a hollow voice was heard, a distant chilling
Echo, with edges icily dripping in the dark of my heart
The witch of Endor like a foggy figure, rising and nearing
The leaves and all things normal fled, or moved apart.
Then out of the cavernous depths of earth
I Saul saw, like entrails from a flimsy sow at birth
The form, the icy apparition that soon became
Exactly as the figure of he as Samuel named
Looming me with frightening spite to the end
The sword twisted, gut wrenched, headless time
Mark how the judgment my soul have rend
Mark me shivering in the alien, cold, callous clime.
What thing is this, what dreadful horror to my eyes
Seditious vampire, treason is the altar of reason's lies
Yet nothing shakes me cold unless the force is real
The apparition came and went and my fate was sealed.
And I Saul, king, who heard the dead groaned before
A thousand cruel ways upon a bloody floor, aghast
Beheld what had no explanation in temple or shore
Sin's perdition entangled me from a calamitous past.
It was a hot June./ Late afternoon./ I stormed into that saloon / like a 30 men
platoon!/ The bartender says, "Gentlemen not in here." / I smiled and said, "Old man have
no fear."/
You wanna take this to the street?/ I can hear your racing heart beat./ How dare you
try to compete!/ Call me a poetic athlete./ I hold the title not you./ My verses are sicker
than swine flu!/ You probably never been in a fight in your life./ I'm that damn good - go
ask your wife!/ OOPS - did I mention something you didn't know?/ Someone ring the bell
it's a TKO!/ Someone call his mom./ This is going to be bloodier than Vietnam!/ What?! You
heard it through the grape vine?/ I'm a poetic fighter on the frontline!
You reap what you sow./ I slaughter any foe,/ and just in case you didn't know./ I'm
the great grandson of Edgar Allen Poe!/ So what cha think about that?/ I'll beat you with my
wiffle ball bat!/ I'm trained for combat./ Walking over poets like the bottom of a doormat!/
Someone turn down my pens thermostat!/ I think this paper is about to catch fire!/ My
words will wrap you in barbed wire!/ I will own your soul./ This pen is my pistol!/ N. C. is
where I'm from ./ My lyrics will set you ablaze like Napalm!/ Read the headline,/ I'm a
poetic soldier on the frontline!
Yes I will haunt the night./ I feel guite / comfortable on the frontline./ Call me Dr.
Frankenstein!/ A freak of nature, not of this world./ Don't talk smack/ Jack/ It's a fact I'll
take yo girl!/ A cassonova from birth./ I'm not of this earth./ I know you can't stand it./
But I was born on another planet!/ You hear my voice,/ and my weapon of choice,/ a razor
sharp scimitar!/ I can hear/ the fear/ I'm the fallen star!/ So as I drop the H-bomb/ I hop
back in my UFO./ You know where I'm from/ beyond the rainbow!/ At last you feel the teeth
of my canine!/ A poetic soldier on the frontline!!!
* This is just me venting, not written toward non of you guys...hehe
no drama Obama stars there was old woman who lived in a shoe
T-squared Joe nickname of his own in pied piper of Hamelin tragedy
Humor can be found all around
At my reflection I can laugh at me
Dubya as the little boy who cried wolf
Deadeye Dick in little red riding hood a frown
at my reflection I can laugh at me
humor can be found all around
Teflon Bill it doesn't stick to you he plays little jack honer
Eco prophet dual roles global warming Ali Baba and the forty thieves
Humor can be found all around
At my reflection I can laugh at me
Poppy Bush narrates the goose that laid the golden egg
Wet head Quayle in tortoise’s hair stonewall is in town
At my reflection I can laugh at me
Humor can be found all around
"and don't forget the pretention"
###########
everyone nodded along as
the first line Hit
cut w-/ Posh .. chugging
stars , throats end to end slit.
Schemes o'er everything
I realise now that you need
these 'things' ,
imaginary or other wise. Anything
to keep the Belief that
Life is worth living.
By their ridiculous Forgery
to emphasise insubstantial shapes , mutilated
text , colour & breathing connecting Heart
to Pen under strict obligation
to remain Nonsense
Above seperate Action.
I just want to be Honest
o'er the vicious Cycles of Trend
inspiring by reflection
We replace real life as we all
like Motion Pictures
Lost within Code
he might be you or me Beating
the walls as we try
out these twillight eyes switching o'er
to Terra's Remote viewing
zoom ignites thy Bone's hollow Fractures
happening, pure & simple , we errode
in a sudden glass moment ...excuse me
& my obvious slander .. Keeping it real may soon dismay
at a pulse of Cheekbones ; Paper artic traces flickering on
nervescreens before our pristine chords reciting
"Nobody's story" revolving round
nothing really ... simple words.
Oh Lord its so clear
All Places & All Times
its just us
trying to make faces in the sky....
and scream no more dropping
for
your daily optic reset calibrating
BRAND NEW
Our CCTV standard view
declining to smash utterly as Minute
Splinters
prevent such ink immediate
between Mind & Matter ,
Powdered Charcol , meaning the whole
Legal Judgement satisfied
Logic there in
Personal reasoning & Multi - simplicity
Leftscreaming up the curb
as if
you were just walking by... Society's Needs
cackling inhuman . Adverts scattering w-/ only One
Purpose rocking aby sentence.
Cast Calm to Create.
The place, New York City, downtown Brooklyn. The time is two thirty in the
morning, the job, stake out, Red Light district, yeah, you know the place, full
of full of vice, graft, corruption and every other kind of crime. Oh Yeah ! name's
Rodney, Rodney Townsend, my friends call me Brick, don't ask!
I'm here looking for what we call at the twenty third, the Rip. Just our name
for a modern day "Jack the Ripper" Real nasty, I've seen his work, see I work
for the Vice squad, detective sgt., so I got the lucky draw for this assignment,
Six women in all dead, sliced and diced, with one exception. Last week, in
Central Park, same MO, she got lucky....she lived!
In the report she kept saying something about a shadow, a shadow that moved
like the wind.She said this "shadow" attacked her attacker. She said the shadow had a "
Big sword" and took one swing and killed the perp. But when the cops got
there they couldn't find a body, gone, lots of blood, no blood trail, no body. I went
to the park to check it out, nothing much to go on there, strange!
Damn, I gotta go, just heard a scream not to far away. "William thirty Baker, requesting
back up at Lindsey and forth, by Momma Spinelli's bakery" Rounding
the corner, " oh my God" "William thirty Baker, I got a dame covered in blood, and
it aint hers. I also got a stiff, better send the wagon.
One look at the stiff tells me he's been cut, cut deep! From neck to knees, and
he's colder than ice in a scotch on the rocks. "Lady, ya wanna tell me what went
down here?" That's the first thing us cops ask, ya know. A.......A.... Shadow, it...it
was just a Shadow" " Come on lady! " And it had a....a.... Sword!!!!
The Samurai Returns
To be Continued!!!!!
(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:
"He is brave and a warrior fine--
In a stroke, killed twenty-nine!"
Thus went word from town to town,
Only to come back around...
"A better man there be none,
Seekest thou a finer one?"
Crept-in a common sight of doubt:
Who's it they talk about...?
"'tis the Tailor from this land--
He hath the strength of Heracles' hand--
There he goes, tall and proud..."
Seeing whom, approached the crowd.
"Tell us, O Courageous one,
How didst that you have done?"
"Tell us, tell us!"cried the throng
Only to shroud his path along:
"I know not what 'tis ye talk,
I'm in a hurry, ye impede my walk.."
"Don't be humble, tell us about't",
Jumped up He, whilst all shout't;
"I will tell what you want to know,
About what, tell me though...!"
"Tell about your twenty-nine",
Sang all folk in a line:
"The Twenty-Nine",so he thought,"that I kill'd,
For me an éclat this has built..."
"I am glad I talk to you all,
Of this emprise--this caterwaul...
When on a fine, wintry morn,
I sat sewing pieces worn,
There came a lady selling jam",
He gazed,"I called--Ay, ma'am!--
Who, sensing a prospective buyer,
Told she had the best of Shire",
Again he stopped, all looked rapt:
"So I bought what I thought apt;
Now then, I stitch and stitch and sew,
There's buzzing-humming and the numbers grow",
He saw they'd still eager eyes:
"That's when I strike at the flies!
And behold--I kill 'em folk,
I kill Twenty-Nine in a stroke!!..."
_______________________________
*it is based on a story i once read as a child...though its plot was different, my poem just derives the 'tailor' and the initial 'killing spree' from the original story to combine with my own ideas..all comments appreciated...
CLICK…
Turn on Channel four,
Sultry starlets on the screen
For lasting beauty- use Maybelline
For winning smiles-try new Dentyne.
Turn the dial once more…
Aging actors on the screen
“You have our lifetime guarantee.”
“So, call right now, the call is free.”
Forget about ratings, the real Nielsen scheme-
They sell us to death the American Dream.
It wheedles; it whines; it badgers; it yells;
With wit and without, just simply to sell:
Gold MasterCard, taste a smooth Nestle´ bar,
How you can remove every childhood scar;
Seek out your true mate, reduce mortgage rates,
You need a loan? You don’t have to wait!
Leaders and gutters, Parkay- not butter,
Send a bouquet and make her heart flutter;
Grow beautiful nails, yes, please save the whales
That actor! His movie! All the details!
One snug Sealy bed, now talk to the dead,
Moments that matter, use Closeup instead.
STOP! ENOUGH!
CLICK…
Much better than butter, smoother than cream,
Free from the jingles that drive me to scream.
Now I can take my time and pursue
A worthier past time than just watching you.
I can learn how to cook;
I can read a good book;
I can go out for a drive
So that I know I’m alive.
But the will to walk out and just leave you is weak,
So it surely can’t hurt to have one more peek.
CLICK…
Imagine me up there on the screen,
Ha! The fearless con man’s scene.
Selling bath oil or lotions,
Hawking health food and potions,
Hey, maybe even perpetual motion!
CLICK…
Hmmm, but, with a new hairdo, a smart pinstripe shirt
And the right camera angle, which sure wouldn’t hurt.
CLICK…
Good God! I would do it better than him.
(a love poem for my son)
Dreams spill out of sleep
sift across the hardwood floor
covers the window
in colors of May
slamming me back towards childhood
or perhaps just to the ashtray.
One forged with labor
in elementary school ceramics;
patient fingers size up,
roll the earthen clay,
pinch it to perfection,
this unusable object
is made with skill,
crafted uniquely for my father.
A tribute greater than mountain carved faces
monuments of life’s reward.
Baseball camps, tee-ball games,
selfless Sunday morning catch,
sitting in question
understanding Auguste Rodin,
your etched piece of history
proclaimed in this ashtray.
The long afternoons,
bedtime stories,
day dreams of musketeers
tree-forts and bandaged knees,
wisdom contained in a receding hair-line
without the restriction of bookends.
This is your medal
placed with vigilance
impatient in time
yes, a five pound ashtray.
Reflections of your accomplishments
schematics of fatherhood, fired
painted with magnificence
useless to anyone but you.
Standing at the door, a lone sentry
hands outstretched boastfully,
here is your prize
an ashtray!
The reception of kings, grins of rum soaked pirates,
you calmly seat me down with the tale of tradition,
rite of passage
generation to generation,
the tribulation of the ash tray
passed from father to son.
Thirty-something
as I lay in bed
the warm morning symphony
shines bright upon my medal
like a polished chrome hood ornament,
I too have taken my place
among the tradition of the ashtrays.