Long Serf Poems
Long Serf Poems. Below are the most popular long Serf by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Serf poems by poem length and keyword.
Apparently Soup finds the Latin word for ‘Human’ offensive;
about as ‘P.C. gone wrong’ as it’s possible to get. I have had to
include completely superfluous hyphens in order to get the word
accepted.
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Our home in the stars so often ransacked
Homo-destructus had forced us to act
So quick to breed
Killed - not to feed
Our ancient ancestors counter-attacked
All rounded up for a new rebirth
Transported far to a fertile Earth
A gauntlet they ran -
- Neanderthal man
Homo-destructus; victor or serf?
That was a million Earth years ago
Call us inquisitive, we need to know
A long stellar trek
In order to check
What occurs when you let primitives go
Five light years travelled to view their progress
Earth is an angry and war tangled mess
Our crew now lay savaged
Our ship also ravaged
Homo-destructus sees no welcome guest
That primeval race that we once left to swarm
With clubs and flint axes their weaponry norm
Strangely ironic
They’re now atomic
And Homo-destructus remains true to form
Arcane dearly loved institution really does make my blood boil
Clearly gravy train devotion yet still we don’t won't embroil
Confirm detest term “the firm” just makes me squirm and recoil
Handshakes from rakes on the take.. insane destitution we toil
Incest selection we suggest a contest like may be an election?
They josh oh golly gosh this tosh the Constitution didn't foil
Nation's fascination with wally Charles the Turd's coronation
Herd with this absurd have a word off their trolley veneration
No defection as the loyals' protection ensure all the spoils
Girth of their worth pilfered from serf & turf since birth oils
Even Randy Andy or scrappy snappy Harry can’t seem to soil
Kibosh posh arseholes nepotistic trolls on the Monarchy dole
End this whole sick rigmarole..Republic for each prole the goal
No parry views & news.. carry on as "Happy as Larry" crappy Royals
Off the land and into the pit, September rolls around.
Simple days have long since gone upon the family ground.
Stolen pride-dignity.
Gossip hounds' voices sound like trumpets to the games.
I'm in the pit, grease to my neck, not hearing the marching band.
But thoughts intrude, they are so vain, adding layers to the pain.
My dream is muddled in murky grey as the selfish look for more.
Holding on till morning light, body spent, truth ignored.
I'm but a serf upon my land, the devil has the upper hand.
So as September rolls on through, my thoughts no longer good.
Purple bands upon our hands, the grease hides all the pain.
Dreams alive for those who stare, not a clue of something wrong.
For in this pit and man-made hell, I'm struggling to hold on.
Stress like devil's electric pain, the blood beats through my veins.
Beats of heart like coffin nails erase the final stand.
In the box the farmer goes, absent from the land.
Rob a farmer of his love, you steal his soul.
There's nothing left, they're asking why, but refuse to understand.
Oh, Ezra, I feel your sorrow
Tearing your tunic and cloak
Pulling hair from head and beard
Sitting down with heart broke
A teacher versed in Law of Moses
Given by the LORD God of israel
Hearing the priests and Levites
Mixing with neighboring people
Everyone who trembled at the
Words of God of Israel
Gathered around Ezra because
Of unfaithfulness of exiles
We fnd ourselves in similar situations,
The "Persia" of then is now Iran,
Our America is divided on various fronts
It seems difficult for any plans
Is it not time we join Ezra's example
As he prayed from deep serf-abasement?
Is it not time we fall on our knees praying to God
For America's misplaced, sinful discontent?
The Israelites gathered around Ezra
They, too, wept bitterly in remorse
Could it happen in USA?
Dear LORD, our ways have strayed far off course
-Evelyn Pearl Anderson
I alone found the courage to push through
In my eyes everyone saw suicide written
It's pedantic to say I wanted to cut my wrists
When I'm tired of the manic romanticism
It's divvied out like communism but I'm a serf
Who's a slave to his own ambitions
Because with every poem, every verse, every stanza
I look for the line to take me higher
To transcend all the poetic duds
And sometimes I'm a little emotional
Because this written stuff is all I have
I used to look at it with childlike wonder
Now I gaze at it with adult apathy
Feeling like my creative spark died
Like every line is an illusion
Hiding something greater
But I can't seem to find it
So I sift through the misery
Hoping that fuel can keep me writing
When it feels like I suffer so I can write
Rather than writing because I suffer
But I'm too busy holding on to dead ends
And women I don't have a chance with
I take that anguish, that angst, and that anger
And I power my poetry to infinity
Even if it's for zero comments
And increasingly smaller view counts
I know the shadow was lifted
And I defeated the demon called depression
But in this post-depressive world I'm lost
Not knowing how to channel my feelings
And all the things I'm dealing with
I swear, I swear I just want to be happy
To look in the mirror and find something to love
But all I see is that lost child in me
Who never had a friend to say it's okay
Who never had a place to belong
And I push through that pain
So I can attain some sense of gains
Because I know I can't regress
This is what progress looks like
Disjointed verse with a burst of emotion
I'm devoid of devotion to move oceans
But believe me when I say I found it
That little reason to push through
And truth be told it was in the mirror all along
I saw myself for the very first time
And saw a beautiful soul
Struggling to shine through the grime
And day by day it'll shine brighter
Until all the muck is finally gone
Because if nobody else will love me
I might as well love myself
And this verse might not be pretty
That's okay though
Because I'll take the ugly truth
And shine it up real nice
Because an ugly truth trumps a pretty lie
I'm just angry it took me 28 years
To find it
CLOUDY SKY
Cloudy sky
Say no more to us
About rain to come.
For acrid are your lies,
And by your rhetoric speech
No more are we enthralled.
For, this perennial drought,
On pages, in archives lies.
For rain to come,
In vain revelry the farmers wait.
For no wages, like a serf in the
Corn field they toil.
Your oath of fealty you scorned
And in the belly of sectarianism
It erodes.
Cloudy sky.
Say no more us
About rain to come
For the seedlings from drought’s
Heat wilt and by the arbor of your
Cloud eclipsed are the dreams of
The saplings, etiolated in gloom
For sunlight they grope.
Cloudy sky
Say no more to us
About rain to come.
Cloudy sky
Say no more to us
About rain to come.
For horrid are your lies.
See,
The fettle faces that cheered
You to the pinnacle now shrink
From dearth. Wane, once glaring
Eyes in their hollow socket cringe.
Languid now are those sprightly
Hands that lifted you from the craddle
To your apogee.
From your wanton revelry the thunder
Claps and into the serenity of the famished
It cuts as with parched throat for the opening
Of the sky’s door for even a trickle they wait.
Gnarled children from famine on the scrawny
Backs of their mothers berth,
And with baleful eyes for them
The scavengers wait.
Cloudy sky.
Say no more to us,
About rain to come.
Form:
The BBC has not just bowed but been kowtowed by the dastardly crowd
Proud Aunty allowed to be somehow cowed by this bastardly diss shroud
Got to worry the crisis takes its toll heads roll…they only had to say sorry
Avowed critics beef rowed & wowed their brief a mischief agenda so loud
With no defender the chief got so much grief his resignation did tender
Ploughed by true offender Boris the political pretender on another bender
Call out this lout who truth does flout the vile bile he does all the while tout
Dob on the blue blob snob & knob whose vastly ghastly gob makes me sob
Why on earth would any serf care about what this loony buffoon does shout
Revels in his dishevelled pout..amazed Aunty levelled razed by his crazed rout
Phoney baloney stories of the Tories glories..the Telegraph a trusty rusty crony
The BBC again slain by a disdain campaign as inane & insane as Johnson’s reign
Without doubt we’ve the clout to stop the lying vulture from rifling stifling culture
Scoff turn toff coven oven off..cohorts of suits in cahoots ravaging loots savaging
Candour…can’t pander to their dander & devil may care unfair slander propaganda
Boris not a novice as the orifice taking the piss remember the abyss of him in office
Country’s ex headmaster pastor of disaster willing killing our beloved broadcaster even faster
Honey tells me: Where do great stanzas come from
just out of your head when you're in-bed hon
so, they will say your mind went to our library
in books of yesterday you remember legendary words
you serf paragraphs lookin' to catch a rhyming phrase
of yesterday to bring it on your next line today or ways
cleaver enough to fit that new poem piece by piece
till it is just right to your style a real breeze...
simple rhymes to choose from a vast reservoir
only in your head all while in bed, furthermore
your poem pieces fit just fine your style for sure...
indeed, one cool kick ass metaphor
I went back to my childhood home.
To recite a few secondhand lines at a first-rate funeral
to try and hold up the survivors' bones.
A half century is a long time to be away from home.
Everything is off, smaller, colder, shadows in children's places.
I was surprised to see a new serf occupying my childhood home.
Most of the climbing trees were gone along with birdsong.
I rode around my old town with my most recent soulmate.
She's uninterested in my ghosts; she just wants something to eat.
I continued with the tour of the sad and pathetic.
"This is where I had my first six-pack.
In the bushes with the bad girls aside the railroad tracks.
The beer was warm and stolen and tasted really bad.
We used to throw stones at the cars that were piggybacked."
One day the train got revenge, gobbled up my puppy...
He was a curly-headed ball of happiness...his name was Fuzzy.
He squeezed under the fence; or somebody left the gate open...
Quality control was never quite up to snuff in our home.
I paid the karmic train with compounding interest.
"Those apartments used to be a green field
where we used to play baseball.
That law office used to be a candy store.
I guess you could say it went from sweet to bitter. Hà ha."
It's nice to see that the ice cream parlor survived
Although the service with a smile did not.
In short, you could fit my childhood into a half-mile square.
An 8-block nest, smaller but sweeter than the Vatican.
It was in high school when life got serious
Some kids overdosed,
some got pregnant
Some did heroin
Some just settled for hash
Some had big dreams
Some simply snapped.
For most, it was our first taste of death.
A few ran away to make a bigger mess.
Life turned from golden ribbons into tangles of stress.
Struggling with the undertow of tomorrow.
The chaining then slaying of innocents.
They say you can never go back.
The gears of time are without consciousness.
Time will not hesitate to chew your heart up.
Sacrifice you to the scrub of responsibility, measured fun.
Time invites melancholy, resists nostalgia. -
It's fond of guiding memories
onto train tracks, warm beer and dead puppies.
Oppressed is he, a coward in his house,
A cringing serf, to the despotic spouse!
Without a voice unless she's not adverse;
His meagre wealth kept deep inside her purse;
When friends advise she will demand to know;
He fears her tongue more than a Stygian foe!
By misfortune were she to be my wife,
I'd quell her temper, stop her wanton life;
Then tempt her with the buckle on my shoe,
Kiss her soubrettes, then flog the wayward shrew.
The Tyrant Wife. By the poet Robert Burns
Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell!
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or i'd break her heart:
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse *****.