Long Squabble Poems
Long Squabble Poems. Below are the most popular long Squabble by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Squabble poems by poem length and keyword.
I chose to write,
For all those torn-off branches,
For all those scarred backs,
For all those dehumanized bodies,
For all those centuries of persecution.
I chose to read,
To deconstruct racialist concepts,
To destroy the carnivorous chains of slavery,
To desacralize the supremacist missions of colonization,
To uproot the alienation installed in my consciousness, brutalized by imperialist Westernization.
I chose to educate myself,
To denounce the negrophobia of the Republic of Enlightenment turned slave trader,
To challenge the heirs of the enslaving empire of racist philosophers,
To never forget the bestiality of the Code Noir,
The savagery of the slave trades,
The barbarity of human zoos,
To never erase from my scorched memory the drownings of black bodies.
I chose to turn off my television,
To no longer listen to parrots singing the praises of xenophobia,
To no longer be imprisoned by the conspiratorial diatribes of the fascist fanatics of the far right,
To no longer watch the privileged squabble while fattening themselves on the taxes of the proletariat,
To no longer pollute my mind, tormented by the misery of the cradle of humanity.
I chose to fully embrace my Africanness,
To never say that my ancestors were Gauls,
Like those domestic blacks who champion the celebration of republican hypocrisy,
To never curse Africa in my heart,
Like those traitors who participated in the slave trades, slavery, colonization, and neocolonization,
To never sanctify the banana republics of the sphere of influence of the so-called homeland of human rights,
Which drives thousands of Sub-Saharans onto the deadly paths of clandestine migration,
To never place myself on the same level as those racist, racialist, supremacist, and eugenicist complexes,
Who sustain vile theories about the utopia of racial superiority.
I WILL NEVER FORGET
We lived in peaceful area of suburb,
far from any squabble, not least disturbed.
Then sophomore, I had to walk to college
along path parallel to river Ganges.
On my way to college, I had to pass
a young chap under a tree setting canvas.
He used to cast a glance on his specific style.
I used to reciprocate with courtesy smile.
About his painting I never felt curious.
Perhaps performing some artwork, oblivious.
Either of us felt no urge to interact.
By name, we were unfamiliar, ‘That’s fact.’
Haply one day he rushed to stand face to face,
offering a closed envelope: I had to guess:
Must be a painting of riverside view.
The painter shyly said, ‘A small gift for you.’
Returning home got surprised to see, it’s my portrait.
Amazing achievement: I will never forget.
Bewildered to get emotionally involved.
He disappeared letting my dilemma solved.
09/22/19
Edited on 05/12/20
'I will never forget' Contest by Silent One.
~Tribute to A Leader~
High above Mount Rushmore,
a man with courage flies.
His history of endless integrity,
matches the blue, righteous skies.
Character and commitment do
historical figures make.
No, ne'er a dishonest man, who's
in it, just for the egotistical take.
Great leaders, once in a lifetime!
While twits squabble over the maningless
ones, at the local bar.
Demeanors are a dime a dozen, with
nothing but critical repertoire!
While masters in leadership, fly above
all the rest.
They already proved they are the best.
Fly on, Great Eagle and may all good
things come your way.
You have kept all your promises to all
your people, how oft I heard you say.
Tonight, we light candles for you at
home in loving, peaceful,gratitude.
We learned from you, being honest is the
most formidable, honorable attitude!
1/19/2021
~3~
they are fools let them squabble and fight
but we do know how to love and share
we will do what we feel is just right
we depend on nature to take care
but we do know how to love and share
our instincts are pure and innocent
we depend on nature to take care
we donot cheat but play it decent
our instincts are pure and innocent
we follow the plain rules of jungle
we donot cheat but play it decent
we chat, play and easily mingle
we follow the plain rules of jungle
we will do what we feel is just right
we chat, play and easily mingle
they are fools let them squabble and fight
19.5.2020
There’s a good man deep inside me
though most could never tell,
when I’m brawlin’ with the devil
drinkin’ booze and raisin’ hell.
Satan grins and taunts me
it seems he won’t backdown,
a good man wants to get free
but the whip - it does come down!
I knew I had a slim chance
once things had gone awry
to crack his whip with vengeance
as I stare him in the eye.!
The dust flies in our squabble,
the whip at his command,
that’s when I dropped the bottle
spun around and grabbed his hand…
A sight to behold
we fought and we rolled
now the devil feels the burn!
Now the whiskey won’t drown
since the devil’s shakedown
it’s the point of no return.
His demons they surround me
but with sober strength I find,
with the sunrise in the morning
I can leave it all behind!
You’ll sing and dance and revel
once those chains are tossed aside,
it’s the whip that flogs the devil
when the reaper you outride…
Heres a man trying to bridge, a route to sanity along a ridge'
He's being hit.' with the same old twaddle'
As his so called betters loudly squabble'
I recall a board and stick' used 2020; they must think think us thick?
That with much mod tech, and breifing easy to do)
Thise ww2 methods, we would not see through?
It shows indeed utter contempt; of humans from the 50s'
The sacrifice, that they were first targeting shiftily'
It was gain the grandparents.' pull the younger in.'
One life lost was one to many, 'yet when the nhs needs some tin?
Lives are ten a penny ' they'll take the strikes and try to trash
As today the truth runs rampant throughought the land
Its aversaries have really now lost, the countrys trust.
Then some with spine stand; on the settling dust.'
Mr Bridgnd is Just one of many ' such people would incline to heal '
But all the liars; just aren't ready to' apologise, of genocides steal'
In the (long dead narrative) they, still strive to hide.'
I doubt that many, 'will' last out this ride.?
He was an ancient warrior from times of old
back in the days when the sun was new
and the stars at night were brilliant blue
like the Canopus star he once knew
Often, he was found rummaging the forest
looking for the rarest mushrooms
as the eagles flew he counted tree rings
indenting the roots of his ancestry wings
Then one day, he was reborn again
in an era of squabble filled with wars
silence became an oddity full of slew
and "The Sacred" a rarity hidden in full view
They tagged him "bipolar" with doctorate degree
this was a world of medicine & mental deficiency
yesterday he howled at the moon * starkly stars
today he is a sad man, longing for a trip to Mars
He, ancient warrior of days of old
fights the good battle everyday,
mistletoe on oak, he holds his staff
all the time knowing time does pass.
Written by: Mystic Rose
Dedicated to a friend, who suffers from bipolar.
Progress
by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the nipple still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time he/she spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, nipples
Who can understand why war still exists where
there are clouds reflected in water here
History has proven its futility
even the breeze has a peaceful touch
The graves of the fallen state “they died for us”
Lizards bask on warm stones
where we could not imagine
the compassion of our enemies
Tiny finches twitter in the hedges
How the agony of dying haunts forever those who see
Bright red ti leaves, philodendrons and crosses
of comrades fallen
In dense shadows of shower trees
greatest jubilation comes
where Mynas squabble, good naturedly
Such a happy sound of morning
Another war is over”
If only peace could last forever.
The sparrows and cardinals
squabble -
hedgerow turf wars.
Sudden low evening rain.
Do the trees weep, or does the sky?
Anger seeps into drywalls
fills eyes with a restless acrimony.
Yesterday the sun was a brightness
on the wrists of small boys.
They played out a violent video game,
a shrill virtual savagery;
strife is merrily cast into the consonant air.
Garden blooms seem to badger each other
for a nook of sky.
Tonight I hope the owls keep blinking.
I hope tomorrow,
the Dalai Lama, or a politician
will actually say something wise.
Perhaps, a news anchor
will tire of his daily sneers?
Will owls stop questioning?
Wait! Is this a fresh morning breeze?
Are there hand-washing angels, do they rise
now within us to scatter and flay,
lather all into amity;
dissolve the moth bones, the spiked wings,
of that darkly spawning fray?