Long Scorned Poems
Long Scorned Poems. Below are the most popular long Scorned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scorned poems by poem length and keyword.
Donald Trump who keeps on trying
has to be admired.
With bad press calling all the shots
his fans come out inspired.
Where evil holds the world accused;
our politics been broken.
That media has a side to pick
with poorer words being spoken.
The moment times have changed for worse.
Our precipice to fall.
When Donald for the White House comes
the media's scorned by all.
In several ways we've had to fight;
the media politcaly correct.
That just the fact that News is bad
means life can not reflect.
Our chance to hold a man to power
to bring about some change.
A statement that the world is better
electing what seems strange.
Song of Solomon 8:7:
"Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away. If one were to give all the wealth of one’s house for love, it would be utterly scorned."
Hearts beating in rhythm, softly pulsating
Writing rhymes between two connected souls
Wondrous love story God is creating
Poetry that only true love controls
Hearts believing in such hunger for light
Breathing in gentle words, exhaling hope
Amazing grace in each verse God shall write
Wondering if we should runaway and elope?
Hearts meant for one another, two as one
Brought together by the light of truelove
The poem is birthed by the Word, God’s Son
Writing hope and faith, mixed with Jesus’ love
Romance grows in hearts who’re grounded in love
Eternal, God’s love from His home above
In the garden of evil
A dark maiden wishes kisses
She summons a blond princess
Against her inner wishes
In the midst of poisonous berries
In the middle of sharpened thorns
She is grabbed by the dark maiden
Her feelings towards her scorned
Through the dark magical orb
Hummingbirds to the rescue go
They hover to show their wrath
But the dark maidens powers show
They are followed by beautiful butterflies
And in turn they too succumb
This dark maiden and her powers
Has made natures beauties run
The princess closes her eyes
To think of the world summoned from
As the dark haired maiden wilts
Against a pure and power strong
The fallen hummingbirds
And the butterflies who fell
Returned through the light
As the princess would finally tell
There is no room for the dark
In a world so colourful and free
To be with the grace of such creatures
Who followed to look after me
I hope that this will be a lesson
If others hear my story
Fight against the dark maiden
Over nature, she will never have glory
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-3.php
Scorned and ridiculed,
She carried her affliction for years.
There came a time when she bled.
Until one day her body buckled
And there laid she in her scarlet pool.
That filthy maiden was as good as dead
But Jesus reshaped her from earth’s dust
And delivered her from the hands of the cruel.
There came a time when
the unborn in her womb laid still; showed no sign of life
Curled in its fetal tomb,
And concerned expressions
On the faces of doctors
Alas, were ready when they considered the deciding factors.
But she in all the noise,
Lie unperturbed.
No doubt,
it was God who administered that herb.
And in an instant rebirth
The babe leapt, bounded and gallivanted.
There came a time
When all around her beloved child
A fiery furnace closed in,
But the loving arms of Jesus
Enfolded the child with oxygen.
Methinks that maiden would not have
made it to the other side
After the many years of
Stained tears she cried.
But she is Mother-Earth
And God has granted her rebirth.
Sun is hiding behind glimpses of grey.
Through the window
naked trees,
their bark covered in green moss,
seem frigid and grisly.
Their bird less branches leafless,
but debris of broken nests and feathers remain.
Forgotten by mother birds who's fledglings have long flown away.
(those that did not fall from the nest or became prey to predators)
Isn't it interesting how our eyes see things differently?
I see so much change whilst sitting in the auditorium of Autumn.
In this season of diversity some admire the beauty,
whilst others see death and destruction.
Seasons can be a reflection of personality and character.
Which season are you? Do you know yourself?
My Dahlia heart has never been a lover of the cold.
If I could sleep like hibernating squirrels,
or fly to warmer climates like migrating geese -
I would - I should - If only I could.
Yet I feel it would be selfish to leave my mother bird -
so I sacrifice my own happiness - but wait patiently for permission.
But, I'm struggling to sleep among lifeless souls.
My eyes perturbed by fake guides with false words.
Scorned minds who believe everything they see and hear,
plague me with their false prophecies -
why is it ok to burn some nests,
but there is an outcry when yours is damaged?
Are some fledglings more valuable than others....
Tired from the injustices of life,
I ponder do we ever learn from the lesson?
Revenge and retaliation are never the answer.
Hypocrites with blood on their hands
should not cry for peace - one life has no value over another -
nor does colour, religion or gender.
Yet we remain lost in the disorder.
Seasons change, but some minds remain the same..
Simple Sunday Musing.
10 December 2023
And finally
This time was different…it was the final goodbye.
He is the light, my whole, the pure
How do you know where to fall if you cant see?
"And I will be content in every
circumstance.”
With how many abandonments I have
experienced you would think Id be used to
it, right? It hurts so much each time…. I
know the process…. I can't help being sad
though…how do you move on knowing
they're out there just fine and moving on.
Oh wait, there's no cholce but to go on. Its
soul crushing. It’s living in agony some
days until it gets better. Hopefully it stays
better longer this time. To the better days
??????
What is the joke of life?
Death.
It’s hard to let go of the concept that no
one cares while simultaneously wrapping
your head around the fact that the person
you knew put up a facade.
Feel my wrath and feel my fury for I am a
scorned woman.
Some people go to their grave with their lies for that I will never understand. No
shame.
It shall come to us all,
Death.
The Great Divide
They built their kingdoms not on truth,
But on blood and stolen youth.
Their riches rose on broken backs,
Their glory paved with cold attacks.
Not thought, not craft, nor honest toil,
But looted lands and foreign spoil.
Their minds, not forged in sacred fire,
But fed by greed and false empire.
They called it freedom — masked in chains,
Their system thrives on others' pains.
A house of cards on shifting sand,
Now trembles at time’s final stand.
The South, long trampled, starts to rise,
With ancient fire in modern eyes.
From ashes now the Phoenix sings,
While dying West clips its own wings.
Their towers, wooden — soaked in lies,
Shall crumble beneath awakened skies.
Their money, myths; their power, rust,
Their future turns to ash and dust.
The wealth they hoarded, soaked in sin,
Will not protect the crumbling skin.
For justice walks with time and flame,
And calls each thief by secret name.
Oh Europe, dressed in silken pride,
Soon shall you run, with none to hide.
A refugee in lands once scorned,
By those you mocked, oppressed, and warned.
The beggar’s bowl your fate shall meet,
On once-colonized dusty streets.
The broken bones you once ignored,
Shall rise — now armed — to swing the sword.
No trust shall greet your outstretched hand,
No peace shall dwell within your land.
What’s stolen shall be torn away,
Your heirs shall curse your yesterdays.
A new world order takes its breath,
Beyond your grip, beyond your death.
Where balance reigns, not fraud nor fear —
The end of theft draws ever near.
In the darkest final hours,
I began to write
And my words now spoken new
from scattered ashes light the sky
To begin and end each day
caught up in beauty’s distant wake
All loneliness filled by pages lined
with happiness and joy
My fate betrothed, once mistress
scorned
—a lover more than wife
Whose vision so much sharper,
her dissection cuts through bone
To slay the muted dragon’s fire
in present elocution
Beyond all past and future clouds
above the darkening storm
To live each breath and gifted word
that heaven sends pristine
Never destitute in blessings shown
—or in things I wish I’d said
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)
johnny was the life of the party
when he used to go
a great sense of humor
but back then he didn't know
the shy fellow
who was mostly quiet
very,very rarely did he diet
he learned compassion
at a very young age
sometimes he thinks
at that moment he was saved
johnny today is a very different man
he's past all his test
and knows how to make a stand
he is what God created
and now he knows
all the pieces that fit together
that God did mold
notice the poetry that he does so well
when he is singing his voice you can tell
there is a passion that haunts his words
the pain in life as life occurred
romance to johnny is the center of the world
his favorite past time is being with a girl
and turning them on is his favorite thing
i know my poetry make their hearts sing
ask him where it comes from
the really good stuff? the truth is
i just write and it just comes up
sometimes my extra intelligence
may just play a part
but when my God he made me
He made me with an art
so here i am, much like you
battered and scorned but not through
and if there is a message that
God want's me to give you
it is, live and let live
and allways be true
Form:
Pere Lachaise
Five into the Twentieth
Death is not worth the doing
Life is not worth the living
So I am in-between two worlds
Rotting above the ground
Whilst the corpses laugh in their comfy warm beds
They sleep in peace
I walk upon their heads
Trembling
Seeking solace where there is none
As the leaves fall the season will soon change
I shall remain as I am
Inebriated with ravens and fools
In cafes with strangers
Safely away from the human touch
Wine flowing through my veins
Wine caressing my very pains
The clouds float overhead
Raining on the dead and almost
Feigning hopes when there is none
Five and twenty blackbirds singing deaths song
They offer me a map at the graveyard entrance
How trite, a map to my very own hell
My journey though might be a hard sell
Tumble as I do upon so many stones
Black roses hidden where once they were shown
Bloody nights with both razor and thorn
When I arrived at the morgue
Surely I was scorned
Adélaïde Paillard de Villeneuve
You have no home, not even in death
So it’s with you I wish to hold hands
You the first and I who will never last