Long Squalid Poems
Long Squalid Poems. Below are the most popular long Squalid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Squalid poems by poem length and keyword.
In the darkest and coldest world
one can find a flickering flame,
never allowed to shine brightly and widely
and break the macabre darkness;
nothing could escape from here,
from its torturous and squalid abyss...
where each demon has a frown of austerity:
ah, in this obscure confinement, I'd be afraid!
In the darkest and coldest world
the isolation is unbearably horrid;
bats constantly squeak to scare off owls that coo,
hunters hear their scary sound and speedily shoot;
nobody shows compassion for the ugly creatures
that only seek warm blood to feed their bellies!
In the darkest and coldest world
demons obey their master Lucifer,
he controls them with his menacing looks
and they dare not speak a rebellious word;
this Fallen Angel with extreme handsomeness
was thrown down to beautiful Earth
from Heaven until he would complete his wrath:
don't be prey to this vicious captor!
In the darkest and coldest world
nobody is free to breathe air and to rebel,
to plot and seek revenge in unescapable Hell;
and being doomed to obedience, there's no will
to compromise, any disorder is harshly punished
by a thousand lashes that make the flesh bleed!
Nefarious faces with pale cheeks,
dulling your senses with narcotics;
and dangerously staring at others
whose clement destiny
isn't called squalid poverty,
or negligible neediness...
All can be spared by the dint of astuteness,
making amends and becoming social;
you can be an atheist or an ungodly person:
you all deserve an assuring look of compassion,
to give up your attitude of indifference,
believing in yourself and forgetting every fault...
Nefarious faces of rapists and assassins, you assail
blameless and innocent people without mercy,
and in their hurt and blood you express your atrocity;
Cain acted out of jealousy, you act out of madness
by vindicating an amatory act and a deprivation of wealth
that were never granted by an insensitive society...
Come and drink of the water of holiness,
to purify your atrocious minds and your sinful souls:
turn to the Lord Jesus who forgives anyone
who's willing to repent, and be born again;
salvation is closer than you ever thought,
it cleanses your impure hearts with merciful love...
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday.”
Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter
paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the vulgar appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
bull all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.
Cantankerous cancers found my blood letting from the slit,
Is it avarice of me to desire the love begetting of Lazarus?
Enjoying life cadaverous like forgetting the want to live,
Is it glamorous for me to die while God desires I live?
Forgo the solid ground,
My feet dangled off the edge of a jagged cliff.
I fought the howl of squalid sin,
I caught the wind sending back the fire of my padded spliff.
Below I spotted a town,
My feet angled to squish what I saw down to the earth’s crusty skin.
Got calls asking where I’ve been.
Like,
“Just,
Just been wondering.”
Yeah yeah.
Yeah,
I guess you’ve just been wondering?
Could’ve made it better before I made it end,
Would’ve,
Should’ve,
But I wouldn’t have liked to make amends.
A couple foot of rope set up to further suspend,
Just to be an easy way out for whoever he is?
I misunderstood a friend on what is perpetuity,
I just want to live forever,
Instead I pretend to breathe on incongruity.
And as I descend upon,
I felt alive again when I grew dizzy.
I felt alive,
In my life,
I felt alive as I grew dizzy.
Goodbye Fall with all the auburn leaves of the reddest sunset,
goodbye crackling path where I met the last songbirds,
whose melody accompained me to winter's doors;
and with deep sadness I kept on looking back.
Welcome gloomy winter with short afternoons and long evenings;
watching the advancing shadows and loudly hearing
the furious sound of the squall rampaging the stately trees,
and making them weep when the icy rain comes down with lightining.
Sitting in a rattling, rocking chair, I peruse through pages of sunny places afar,
forgetting the dreariness of this frigid season and be consoled by a warm fire;
and still nostalgia abounds...thinking of the pleasant strolls of a past season,
which thrilled me with its colors, and through delight I justified my reason.
O winter, don't linger as you always have...shorten your stay, avoid foul play;
and could I ever stand a pale sun, hardly giving off with its luminiscence,
in this house hidden among the maples and the pines of a squalid valley?
Old winter, don't mislead me with days without snow...that's utter pretense!
Goodbye explorer fedora hat keeping my dreamer's head cool,
sparing my skin another ugly wrinkle, allowing late beauty to rule;
goodbye iced coffee sipped from my Big Apple plastic cup,
which I bought along Fifth Avenue in a crowded, variety shop.
Ummerciful winter, pity the desperate state I am in,
reduce the wrath of your devastation, step inside and to tell me your amazing tales...
hoping that I will write them down for everyone to read and enjoy for immortal ages;
relentless winter, reduce the dreariness of this frigid season.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Weary Is My Mind
I promise, I swear, I will never, I will always
That blaring sentiment of a pattering ghost that I detest
Among the empty hollowing of her mouth and eyelids
There lies darkness deep and unending that I fell into once,
never again.
Baffled and naked, afraid and convinced I was nearing my hearse
She runs screaming, yelping in madness as her body falls dead
Once I thought I knew, but as fate would incline
The truth would be only a weapon and shield–vulnerable. . .
never again.
The prating sound squawks as death marks before her squalid breathy voice
Her pupils' contract like a viper’s hint at prey, pouncing, and then devouring
The blood is left spattering and spurting among my grey, hollow walls
Only her wedded can clean out the muck as I have given up,
never again.
Coiling around me with her slippery scales, the precipice of my demise
The sword and the shield once though best, were only cardboard copies
My soul is shattered, and my will is blank, giving into her sweet, nectary venom
The forefront of my being is gone. . . crushed under a blanket of rue
For Weary Is My Mind
“Nobody likes a clown at midnight.” Stephen King
CLOWN AT THE ABYSS
Darkroom abscessed
with neon blush and black-blood —
sunken eyes look surprised
to find oneself in a dank dungeon.
Fecal stench, not humorous,
screams on each bold painted-on face.
“Are we dead?”
“When did I die?”
“I didn’t want to take along this honking nose! It never quits!”
“These humongous shoes, like flippers, so cold they grip!”
The clowns, their smiles and frowns,
continue to gripe in the big tent abyss.
The epic fail of their lives an applause
from the demons who have them in grip.
Like fools, they suppose, they can feel their way out.
They march in one straight line with clanging chains,
chortling, “Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho! It’s off to work I go!”*
You see, they can’t help being funny - never could.
So on they march clinging to claustrophobic walls.
Yet they, one by one, begin to notice no floor exists.
Squalid birds, their chains rattle and roll,
with cheap jokes that never cease.
“Take my wife…please.”
Rings through the air. The demons cackle and boo
their despair, occasionally deflating the roof of the tent
on their heads - it sticks to their gooey faces, causing
them to run out of hot air, go limp, confine their space
even more - no audience to exploit. When the roof rises
each one finds water caterwauled at their faces, then
strapped to a chair as sufferable makeup - acidophil -
leaks behind their eyes, into their pores, maliciously.
Clown at the abyss digs his nails into the soil, climbing
a mountain of ill will, always failing...falling, and then
the jokes hammer again...over and over, head over heels.
...head over heels,
with no end…
2/27/2020
Clown at the Abyss Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
*Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
These spray-can scrawls on public walls
Express my psychic rage with rude intent.
My tags provoke a thoughtful pause
In much the same way Banksy does,
With cold irony and unrepentant guile.
My way of bombing bubble style
Might even tease a tourist’s smile.
But my darker themes paint silent screams:
Is it public?
Is it street?
Is it urban?
Is it commercial?
And then let’s consider my masterwork mural,
A brutally honest and life-like self-portrait,
A glimpse of me in all my squalid bohemian splendor,
Nothing but pavement crack and tenement dysfunction.
Too hard-edge for primetime, you say?
Well, I didn’t get a face like this
By staying out of trouble.
So there!
AVALANCHE OF EMPTINESS
When wily death rang the bell, you swiftly slipped in it
Never did you think for a while that how will I stay alone?
Deep in my heart, an avalanche of emptiness has hit
It’s unfair of you to leave me alone mid-way of our life
To let me suffer in silence drenched in sea of grief
Hadn’t you promised togetherness in happiness and also strife?
How could you bury that vow of togetherness? Aren’t you very mean?
Why did you add this new squalid rule in our game of hide and seek….
That you hide forever, I fail to seek to stay as your widowed queen
My mind has gone blank, I see everything now only in black and white
Flowing tears have dried my soul cleaving in it a lifeless tunnel
Your memories like thorns prick my loneliness each day and night
The darkness of your loss is absolute, not just like an empty dream…
To which I could fix a ray of false hope and try my best to survive
You have left my life distraught peeling away every trace of cream
My vacant life has gained an expertise to manifest intense pain
The ‘me’ in myself is dead as a door nail when ‘you’ in ‘us’ is robbed
To fill this void by anyone else will always go in shattered vain!
22nd October 2016
For Contest- Words-Drowned-In-Tears Poetry
Sponsored by- Broken Wings
Let's SEE What's in the laundry hamper?
" One a soiled cloth diapers
a fierce icky stinkysocks
some noxious obnoxious unclean towels
horrid stinking under-shorts
unappetizing horrible awful grubby baby bibs
Oh, my some mephitic nauseating obscene panties.
Musty nauseating odious under shirts
soiled squalid uncleanly pants and jeans
awful dirty filthy blouses and dresses
guess I’d better presoak and presort some of this mess???
9/27/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©