Long Smallpox Poems
Long Smallpox Poems. Below are the most popular long Smallpox by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Smallpox poems by poem length and keyword.
Why, the greatest enemy of man is man
for man has subdued everything else
Fear not the tiger, fear the murderer's plan
Just hearken well to what history yells!
At times twas jingoism, at times a rancorous desire to do harm
Fear just man's malice and his ugly evil
If his dagger blow fails, he'll get you by black magic charm
His heart and mind alone well shelter the devil.
For how many fall prey to lions or snakes
one could even count them on fingers
Man invents a cure for smallpox but missiles too he makes
and he mercilessly kills without harbingers.
Man invented as many things for his destruction and harm
as he did for his benefit and good
He's inventor of bombs as well as tractors on the farm
And doesn't he detest acting as he should?
Man alone is behind the bloodiest of bloodshed
The angels too had foreseen his wars and battles
From the gory battlefield to the humble homestead
with the shrieks of murder our earth forever rattles!
Close your doors and your home secure
not to deter beasts, but to lock out the robber, the thief
For no greater danger than man lurks there for sure
Fear not the fierce bull, that you can turn into beef!
Wild beasts might be known to gobble us up
but isn't man as well found to be a cannibal?
Gosh, humans too on human flesh do sup
Man tis far more fearsome than any poor animal.
The greatest enemy of man thus is man himself
How much blood has he ruthlessly spilt of his own kind
Look out for the bottle of poison on his shelf
Till the deed is done, no knowing what goes on in his mind.
The poor young lady refrains from venturing out at night
How now, what does she so fear?
She fears nothing but assault by man's might
so rarely is she stalked by a grizzly bear!
Fortunately for us, this ain't how it always ends
man can always be the best of friends
So we can still count more on buddies and cronies
instead of focusing on foes and fiends.
For man he can be a hero and saviour
if judicious he is about right and wrong behaviour.
Besides religion as I know, infact does actually foretell
That the end of ALL killers and murderers
is that inferno of divine wrath we all know as hell!
They said you came from chimpanzees—
That deep in some African jungle
You leapt across species,
A silent hunter cloaked in blood.
But we have lived with chimpanzees
For tens of thousands of years.
We shared forests,
We shared meat,
We shared mythologies.
Why now?
They claim you're a natural disease—
But if that were true,
Why does nature not offer a cure?
Polio fell. Smallpox vanished.
Yet you—since 1981—
Have danced above the heads
Of even our greatest minds.
You are not nature’s design.
You are manmade silence.
You are a disease of profit,
A political invention,
A capitalist experiment gone global.
You were born in the shadows
Of white laboratories
Fueled by Cold War paranoia,
By the greed of corporations
And the prejudice of empires.
You made kings of pharmaceutical companies
And slaves of the sick.
You are not a virus.
You are a business model.
Billions have been spent.
Trillions earned.
You made markets out of mortality.
You made luxury yachts
From the suffering of mothers.
The cure?
Buried beneath patents,
Guarded by legal walls
And the blood of the voiceless.
If the world can send robots to Mars,
Edit genes,
Simulate universes—
Why can’t it cure a virus
With a mapped genome
And decades of study?
The answer is clear:
Because your existence
Feeds the engines of greed.
Because a cured patient
Is less profitable
Than a permanently treated one.
And you dare—
You dare to point your trembling finger at Africa,
The continent where life began,
And say: “There. That is where I was born.”
Lies.
The first known case?
The USA, 1969.
A teenager.
No jungle.
No monkey.
Just silence.
You demonized a continent
To distract from your laboratories.
You blamed the poor
To protect the rich.
But truth, like water, always finds a crack.
And now—
The world is watching.
The veil is lifting.
Young scientists are rising
Not for profit,
But for justice.
For healing.
For the truth.
Your days are numbered,
HIV.
Not because you are strong—
But because your creators
Can no longer contain the storm they sparked.
And when the truth stands,
No lie—
No corporation—
No empire—
Can withstand its weight.
We see you.
We name you.
We end you.
Fort Pueblo 1854, retaliation swift, no one was toying.
We rebels thought the British Empire annoying
Nonchalant agents ignored the plan with noncaring eyes.
It is a misnomer that the Europeans are the good guys.
We were the bad guys during the Indian Wars, totally unfair.
Giving smallpox laden blankets to the natives without care.
Making our friends our enemies, a move that was dire.
Making us less than people, a mean kind of fire.
In retaliation for the small pox deaths, White Earth led a raid.
He brought Apache and Utes in, to slay as if it were a parade.
They came to many a dwelling, and killed quite a few.
Dire displace of a woman and her sons, count of two.
It will take time
to phase out oil-based
technology people from
the oil industry
Could also be used
creating, pipelines
building desalination
plants o get water
Into the mountains
means plenty of work
for people
Imagine all the pipelines
you would have to create
Granted if we started today
with rich people buying electric cars
it would take time for that technology
To filter down to the poor
granted you all want jobs
you all want healthy economies
take time to change
Take time to adapt to change
create plans that include the needs
of all people God created
a balanced world
where nature had the ability
to clean the air
and create a stable environment
in reclaiming arad lad
spreading plants into places
they couldn't reach
in growing trees on mountains
that where arad before
you would be giving nature
the chance to heal the world
at one time the human race
through faeces into the street
urine and faeces in the street
created the breeding ground
for the plagues smallpox
and many more
The world looked at God and blame him
but in truth, it was their fault
they changed, they build toilets
they build sewage systems
They learned about viruses
they built hospitals
they started scrubbing hands
they overcame their pollution problem
now we face another pollution problem
one man's problem
is another man's challenge
working together
We can overcome
these problems
accepting climate change
is the first step
building plans
taking time to effect change
helping people in a job transition
there is plenty of work for people
if we use our brains
to make effective plans
The Man from Darwen
Came there a man from Darwen,
In the heart of the Lancashire Hills,
A Town of industrial landscape,
Coal Mines and large Cotton Mills.
These times of hardship and struggle,
Left its scars upon the folk,
Working class agents of Victoria,
Amidst black chimney stack smoke.
Luke dear Luke, please tell me,
Of your life and how you’ve been.
Speak to me beyond the Gravestone,
Narrator paint the scene.
Born and raised impoverished,
Education for you not required.
Straight down the Pit at fourteen,
There till your lungs expired.
If it wasn’t the work that got you,
Beware of Smallpox epidemic,
Thirty-two years was no life at all,
Short lives, Victorian age systemic.
Luke dear Luke, please tell me,
Of your life and how you’ve been.
Speak to me beyond the Gravestone,
Narrator paint the scene.
Processional Cobbled Street terrace,
Mill Lords housing their forces.
Fourteen people in a two-bed house,
Sparse luxury, but Workhouse far worse.
Lancashire was built on Cotton
and its Heritage stands the test of time.
My ancestors were gritty and grafter,
Working through hardship and grime.
Luke dear Luke, please tell me,
Of your life and how you’ve been.
Speak to me beyond the Gravestone,
Narrator paint the scene.
It was quite a surprise to us
when monsters came out of the night,
the beasts and bad guys of legends
who for so long gave us a fright.
We thought they lived on movie screens,
pulpy books, and local folklore,
until they came to prey on us,
and we all learned that they were much more.
The panic, at first, was intense,
folks were dying, it seemed surreal,
vampires, zombies, werewolves, ghosts,
and other such beasties were real.
They were as bad as legend said,
but we soon figured out one truth,
the ways to kill them in legend
really worked—we knew what to do.
The werewolves were the easiest,
you just bought some silver-tip rounds,
given all this country’s hunters
it took two years to gun them down.
As for ghosts, if you do not know,
ectoplasm is diffuse matter,
floating in air, it is easy prey
for the common vacuum cleaner.
Then dump it into a furnace,
and watch the ghostie burn away,
old houses everywhere were safe,
no more hauntings came into play.
Vampires could blend in the best,
of the monsters they killed the most,
UV flashlights or smeared garlic
was all it took to make them toast.
The zombies, good lord, they were slow,
and not all that hard to destroy,
army snipers would take head shots,
and attack choppers were deployed.
They’d shoot down with their miniguns,
guaranteed they’d catch zombie head,
since the undead liked to cluster,
an easy target for sprayed lead.
We even had a kaiju-type
dragged its lumbering form onshore,
just as big as a skyscraper,
a three-hundred foot carnivore.
We fired antiship missiles,
half-dozen of them did the trick,
set up some coastal air patrols
to take care of the beasts right quick.
In retrospect, it all makes sense,
after all, we are humankind,
we’ve been waring since we could walk,
countless weapons came from our mind.
We’ve killed sabertooths and smallpox,
run down real threats without pity,
killed tens of thousands in battle,
even nuked two of our cities.
What’s a werewolf compared to that?
What threat’s a vampire these days?
Those beasts should be afraid of us,
since we always find ways to slay.
Maybe we need better monsters,
a challenge for our evolved state,
something that can inspire fear,
the kind we can appreciate—
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
A NATION IN CRISIS…FALLING APART
It has been said that America
is an experiment in democracy.
If that is so—and it seems to be—
this country is in deep septic trouble.
Today, the mad dog political moniker
can no longer be looked upon as a joke;
for America, in its political experiment
in democracy, has truly gone made and
is now falling apart from its rabid agents
of abject bigotry, hate, and racism.
It appears that the pre-experimental exercise
of attempting to make slaver as common
as shackling pets today, has forced
modern-day mad dog political power mongers
to readjust their corruptive variables
to ensure desired collateral damage outcomes.
Indeed, the demonizing of the innocent
to rationalize ethnic-based murder,
has become a Hitler-like tactic
that has proven its “negative-good” desire
that has arisen from this Frankenstein-styled
political experimentation—sick exploitation.
Though most of the rabid “hit men” of the racist
power-mongers are dead, others and their backers,
due to the allowed irregularities of justice, will and do,
remain alive to pontificate their demeaning rhetoric
of coded domestic terrorism, painfully canvassing
a bloody mosaic of a grieving nation in a bloody crisis.
How long America…how long shall it be…before
this nation becomes inoculated against the viral infection
of apathy that seems to have taken on a rabid smallpox-like
endurance, that continues to mesmerize us to simply watching
the newsy dramatization of the falling apart of a nation in crisis?
Pray tell—God’s will done—the answer will be…not long!
Wake up, people! This is no damn nightmare; it’s today’s reality.
A double sonnet in which the great detective and his faithful sidekick, Dr. Watson, alternately deduce the cause of Sherlock’s latest malady…
Part the first
Sherlock could not deduce his source of pain
at first. “Try as I might, I cannot find
the cause – is it contusion, or a sprain?
Perchance a mere psychosis of the mind?
“Yet by deduction, I’ve ruled out the plague,
consumption, smallpox, cholera, and mumps.
My symptoms, although serious, are vague –
this lack of answers has me in the dumps!
“Where’s Watson? He would have a quick prognosis –
I’ve never seen him err in all our years”.
Then! Churn of stomach yields its diagnosis
just as his friend, the good doctor, appears:
“What seems to be the problem, troubled one?”
“It’s alimentary, my dear Watson!”
Part the second
But from the learnéd doctor’s point of view,
there yet were tests and readings still to take.
He’d learnt the ill effects of poor review
and on his friend would not make that mistake.
“Stick out your tongue! Now, turn your head and cough!
Say ‘ah’. Hold this thermometer in place,
and while you’re at it, take your trousers off -
we’d better check your prostate, just in case!"
But Sherlock dashes to the water closet
in dire urgency and grave chagrin
to make a loud and liquidy deposit.
“It’s diarrhea!” Doc yells with a grin.
“How did you know?”, shouts Holmes. “How in tarnation?”
“Why, Holmes, mere process of elimination!”
written 17 Jan 2020
Although I was born and raised among German aristocracy,
I feel I have blended rather well with Russian nobility.
My name changed when I converted to Russian Orthodoxy.
I am now called Catherine. I was once known as Sophie.
Despite my mother being banished from the country,
Tsarina Elizabeth looks quite favorably upon me.
However, one major item exists where I must disagree.
Duke Peter of Holstein-Gottorp is matched up with me.
Since his aunt Tsarina Elizabeth called him to court,
he has been consistent with each unwitting retort.
This buffoon has alienated many as we have few friends.
Unfortunately, he will become tsar when Elizabeth’s life ends.
He is obnoxious, overbearing, and possesses the dullest mind.
Peter can only become a tsar of the worst kind.
Besides, he is ugly with all those scars from smallpox.
He has them on his face, arms, legs, and even his buttocks.
Peter is supposed to be the sovereign of the Russians.
However, he surrounds himself with Holsteins and Prussians.
I should dispose of this menace. There has to be a way.
I must rule Russia alone as a tsarina one day.
Catherine II (aka Catherine the Great) ruled Russia from 1762 to 1796.
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
older than the Englishmen who raised a bridge
over its Constitution, a nude Indian sped away
from a warring Englishman behind
absconding by canoe to an adjacent isle
but smallpox caught the indie afore ammunition
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
that witnessed the grapes of wrath in '37
and suffered its wine, the black potential rebelled
against the clear minority who had signed
emancipation letters without intent
ergo, cars with bodies went flying upon the riparian spine
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
leaning on treasonous city hearts, wrinkling under the trebled
degrees of island sun, chuffing at progressiveness
and how the colour schemes lightly redesigned
black power free, it seems, walks unfettered to its banks
carrying tackle, tiki-torches, tourists, a picnic, and gun