Long Shrilly Poems
Long Shrilly Poems. Below are the most popular long Shrilly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shrilly poems by poem length and keyword.
There are those in our society
who scream about fighting bigotry,
claim that we hate people with dark skin,
when you fired for insulting them,
claim that our women fear for their lives,
when the female sex is lionized,
claim that no one cares about the poor,
but nowhere else do the poor have more.
They keep having to go redefine
what bigotry must be in their minds
to find a new foe for them to ‘fight,’
...Or find excuses to smear the right,
when in truth on us they do project
their own prejudice, which we reject,
and in their gaslighting they won’t see
the types of remaining bigotry.
These days if you hate folks with skin pale
nobody gets up to gnash and wail,
no one declares you’re on the warn track
the way they would do if you were black.
In fact, degenerate leftists hordes
instead cry out that we should see more!
That their skin color makes them a blight,
they should apologize for being white?!
That an arbitrary fact of birth
is what should determine your self-worth?
That if you look one way you should bear
guilt forever, and endless despair
for sins of generations long gone?
That you’re responsible for their wrong?
That you alone pay for slavery,
when it was done by all societies,
be it black, brown, red, or yellow shade,
but it’s only one tint that must pay?
When you can shut down discussion hale
by screaming shrilly,”You’re a white male!”
When your claim pale folks are ‘born racist,’
and should not be allowed to persist?
When folks like I note the hypocrisy
the powers then try to silence me,
anti-white racists, the truth is plain,
allow this bigotry to remain...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
There was a young Aussie called Billy
An ant attached and bit the end of his willy
made him holler and dance
all these ants invaded his pants
His swearing and cursing for miles was heard very shrilly
She began to twist in contortion
Her legs now a state misproportion
her neck it did crack
she fell out of her sack
Now moves about with much caution
Every morning took off for a jog
One day got stuck in a bog
how does one now get out
for help a desperate shout
Eventually hopped out transformed here as a bullfrog
A young man supplied equipment for sport
To a local nearby family squash court
a girl a mis-hit on one of his balls
to the floor with much laughter she falls
In pain he declares this squash game with danger is fraught
A demure young lassie called Jilly
Owned a beautiful black and white filly
The last ride was a farce
horse bucked Jilly's flat on her ass
In a landscape that's rocky and hilly
Then a long came Billy the Bonk
A left hook had injured his conk
in bed with another man's wife
took off for the flight of his life
All the geese in observance let out a boisterous honk
A blonde affectionately known as Annie
Her desire for love is uncanny
all her clothes she did shed
too much time in her bed
She's now known as overworked Fanny
footnote Sack a colloquial term for bed in Australia
Overshadowed by the green canopy of trees,
My heart finds its peace amid the singing of birds...
The cuckoo calls out to me shrilly,
I raise my head and look her in the eye,
She acknowledges my presence with a nod,
barely imperceptible, yet beckoning me nearer,
She bellows out an unforgettable tune
and I am transported back in time
To another place... within a man's dancing arms,
whirling and twirling and swirling around, laughing...
The song ends and I see her fluttering away,
farther away from me and my memory,
I lock it in my heart and wave my hands,
a final goodbye to a beautiful songbird,
The shadows are longer now,
sunshine long gone,
I walk back to my home,
alone,
yet, satisfied,
a walk in the woods has always been effective,
My turbulent mind is soothed...
for now...
10.25.2021
Unrhymed couplet - 12 syllables and
Unrhymed imagery of 8 lines and
Free verse
For Constance La France's "Let's mix it up" contest
in-flight convergence
by Michael R. Burch
serene, almost angelic,
the lights of the city extend
over lumbering behemoths
shrilly screeching displeasure
they say:
that nothing is certain,
that nothing man dreams or ordains
long endures his command
here the streetlights that flicker
and those blazing steadfast
seem one: from a distance;
descend?
they abruptly
part ways
so that nothing is one
which at times does not suddenly blend
into garish insignificance
in the familiar alleyways,
in the white neon flash
and the billboards of Convenience
and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance
as we thunder down the enlightened runways
My angel I have heard on high.
I'm lost. I don't know who I am.
You seem so high up in the sky,
and I am really in a jam.
By the tinkling of heaven's chime,
I ask myself, suppress a grin,
where have you gotten to this time?
What kind of trouble are you in?
I do not know quite where I am -
maybe, to the slaughter led,
just like Mary's little lamb,
except that I will soon be dead.
I can hear your voice so shrilly.
I will find you, my little lamb.
You needn't be dramatic, silly.
If I must use GPS, I can.
Oh, my angel, I must confess,
I don't know the reason why
I got myself into this mess -
a whale's belly? I want to cry.
Oh my gosh, my little fool -
find you? I wonder if I can?
Don't worry, my precious jewel,
my angel eyes begin to scan.
When grim imagination starts to roam,
anywhere on earth's roundish sphere,
you are always here in our home,
and your angel always finds you dear.
Buna
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mangled feet, cursed earth,
the long interminable line in the gray morning
as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys...
Another gray day like every other day awaits us.
The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn:
"Rise, wretched multitudes, with your lifeless faces,
welcome the monotonous hell of the mud...
another day’s suffering has begun!"
Weary companion, I know you well.
I see your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend.
In your breast you bear the burden of cold, deprivation, emptiness.
Life long ago broke what remained of your courage.
Colorless one, you once were a real man;
a considerable woman once accompanied you.
But now, my invisible companion, you lack even a name.
So forsaken, you are unable to weep.
So poor in spirit, you can no longer grieve.
So tired, your flesh can no longer shiver with fear...
My once-strong man, now spent,
were we to meet again
in some other world, beneath some sunnier sun,
with what unfamiliar faces would we recognize each other?
Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp, with around 40, 000 foreigners “workers” who had been enslaved by the Nazis. Primo Levi called the Jews of Buna the “slaves of slaves” because the other slaves outranked them. Despite Buna’s immense size and four years of activity, according to Levi it never produced a kilo of its intended product: synthetic rubber. Levi described Buna as “desperately and essentially opaque and gray.” He said not a blade of grass grew within the compound because its soil had been impregnated with the “poisonous juices of coal and petroleum” so that nothing was alive but machines and slaves, with the former “more alive” than the latter. Levi also related hearing a Buna Kapo say that the only way Jews could leave Auschwitz was “through the Chimney” of the crematorium. It is possible that the companion being addressed in “Buna” is Primo Levi himself, recognizing what he had been reduced to. Keywords/Tags: Primo Levi, translation, Holocaust poem, Auschwitz, Buna, mud, chimney, smoke, smoking, crematorium, corpses, bodies, death, murder, starvation, gray, color, colorless, invisible, nameless, slave, slaves, slavery, slave labor, race, racist, racism, horror, hell
As I write my brain whispers
wicked words of doubt
soft as a newborn’s sleepy sigh
the babbling of a bubbling brook
before it suddenly begins to shout
screeching like the ear piercing
feedback from stereo speakers
shrieking shrilly as a hot teapot
booming low as a bass drum
beating in a repetitive rhythm
while horned demons with their
cloven hooves dance madly
amid the cacophony of chaos
chanting a malevolent mantra
of loathing and discontent
wielding daggers of diffidence
they drive deep into my confidence
blood dripping from the blades
the silence of those outside myself
nodding apathetic assent
Beeping, chirping silicon beasts;
no souls have they, to say the least.
Shrilly, shrieking, cell phones, beeping;
alarms that keep us all from sleeping.
Walking, stalking cameras gawking;
all of our privacy they’re hawking..
What happened to the common sense,
that kept those things outside our fence?
Creeping, sneaking, auto-voices speaking;
Horrid sounds, they are eking.
We’re just trying to digest;
the beastly, techo-mess.
Flying, spying drones colliding with airplanes;
it’s so asinine and insane.
It’s clear to me, we didn’t see,
The moment, common sense, took leave.
I once knew a boy named Billy
I thought he was originally from Chile
Mostly ‘cause he loved his hot sauce and chili
Toting everywhere his jar of piccalilli
It turns out Billy was really the local hillbilly
I should have known, that was really silly
‘Cause Billy craved to barbecue anything chilly
On his boombox would play loudly rockabilly
Going around back roads willy-nilly
And Billy liked nothing girly or frilly
Till that is his eyes fell on fancy Miss Millie
With her exotic palate straight from Piccadilly
At first Billy would get nothing but stares that were grilly
Till he offered Miss Millie a fine thoroughbred filly
She let out a cry that was remarkably shrilly
All she secretly desired was a bouquet of tiger lily
When Billy misunderstood and brought her back a water lily
Seeing through Billy’s shell Miss Millie paused standing stilly
‘Cause Miss Millie was way deep down a wannabe tilly
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Did you shout out in shock that day as she suddenly stuck
her spiked heel into your spine kicking you to the curb
through the open car door before slamming her foot
on the gas and speeding away tires shrilly squealing
leaving you lying there by the roadside
red faced in disgrace
your heart shattered
your brain reeling
struggling to process what it was you were feeling
she having planned in advance which card she would play
to proclaim her innocence
You should have known better
She was just a young kid in a cashmere sweater
so to do the same for which she condemns men is ok
she would go on to say
I knew what she intended to do
though if I could have warned you
I doubt you'd have listened anyway
for who am I but a woman who knows very well
what her kind is capable of
That hawks such as she soar in circles above their prey
pretending to be a dove