Long Third class Poems
Long Third class Poems. Below are the most popular long Third class by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Third class poems by poem length and keyword.
“Post Pep Comics”
In this time,
there are no children -
we refer to them as the 'undead'.
The young watch on
while their gods war on, it’s all televised,
committing abominable atrocities, war crimes.
Like ancient souls held in the palms
of the war machine they watch on
like zombies, vacant things
scrolling, weighing their relevance
against those dressed in designer ozempic scales, while worlds away
the third-class child attends their lessons in starvation,
surviving death and bullets
trafficked and war torn, raped and
psychologically taken,
click bait;
bleeding into the small tight margins
of Western comics where the Eagle always wins.
Archie and Jughead dispense their puerile rules,
rating us like commodities, stocks that rise and fall;
it’s all entertainment
after all.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
Alas, the world has changed
As the humans take control.
They, for their own likes and dislikes,
Have defined you, just as they please.
And now, you witness the creation of great walls…
Separating mankind.
By the comparison… of colour, of language, of the way of life.
The beautiful, the clean, the classy, the rich…
High class, low class, third class, middle class…
Splitting the world: once split by geographical circumstances.
But remember, your definition lies within you:
In your honesty, purity, tenderness and virtue.
They are to be measured, evaluated, and to be improved…
So to win the heart of man as a rightful citizen.
Remember; do not define yourself by those futile factors –
For with them, only the stupidity of mankind shall rise.
12/20/2018
1. Every space is filled
this is definitely a love match
cultivating a field of many Asters
smoothening life to a mind boggling degree
the definition of this bliss
is an outcast to the perception of many witnesses
shining our star up so high
for single princesses royal
to marvel and fantasize.
Chorus
She loves me…….
I love her…….
All that matters…….
In our world is our love…….
2. We’ve given divorce a show down
and hand cuffed division before it stabs
too close for air to invade
filled into each other to falsify vacuum
nature will melt for our hearts to unhinge.
we are so equal in need of no mental diplomat
b’cos right from the beginning,
taste of any bitter pill has been reprieved.
Chorus
She loves me…….
I love her…….
All that matters…….
In our world is our love…….
3. Two pouring wines in one glass cup
is an embodiment of incomprehensible unity
with street lights of testament
even if from a third class.
There are moments when filth
and quest to temporarily act feather brained
are too spicy
but we’ve come this far with
the belisha beacon placed in these traffics
of rushing danger.
Chorus
She loves me…….
I love her…….
All that matters…….
In our world is our love…….
4. Uneasy and completely mixed
is this journey
each climb wakes us more.
I had to scour my pride
she in turn rasterized her emotions
for a legendary recreation
of a surviving sweetness so soft to touch
like the Nubuck
unbeknownst to life, It’s been creamed
back and front to be self unrecognizing
from its own mirror.
Chorus
She loves me…….
I love her…….
All that matters…….
In our world is our love…….
Rushing to the third class
When I was a young student
Undertaking train journeys
Often looking for a window seat.
Amid the track's rhythm
Full of hope for the future
I saw countryside and cities
Leaving behind from the coach window.
The hawkers' calls echoed
Inside the compartment,
A counter point to the beggars' songs,
Their handicap a stark plea.
A clatter of the wheels,
Accompanied the train as it ran,
A sweet soundtrack while running
Through the fields and towns.
Years have passed today
I am a retired person .
Sometimes boarding
A second class compartment,
The third class is gone.
The clatters,horns,whistles,
Hawkers' voices,the beggars' songs-
Even today have not changed.
So I am and my pocket became thin
like when I was a student .
Gone I am..sure as the sea rolls over the bones of the deep
Gone is Tikvah, gone is hope, gone as so many Jewish brides
from history in the guises placed upon them by gentiles.
All who chose to remember at all, name me Typkia Friedberg..
Ah but, Hershel, my dear, was merely from the town of Friedberg.
Third class we were, entertainers not what either parents
had wanted for their kinderlekhs, there darling children.
When the warning horns sounded, we were entertaining the others.
Hershel with the wee piano on his back, and I
dancing and playing around him in a whirl of skirts.
The room was packed, the clink of beer mugs and laughter
All stilled slowly in disbelief as a clarion call of horn filled the room.
Eyes moments before full of life now haunted the space,
knowing not the way upward, out of the hidey-hole nest of the lower decks.
As the crowd surged from the room, hopelessly, we retreated
hand in hand yet we were torn apart.
Hershel fell and the crowds surged over him, crushing him piano and all
to the carpeted floor of the hall, mere steps from the stairwell.
He screamed for me to run. Eyes, hands, feet, knees elbows
no hope, no hope at all of any movement but upward with the throng.
Up one level I made it, clothes in tatters, scratched and bleeding
and then I too fell, under the boot heels of passengers.
I do not rest beside my Hershel, yet with my last breath, I cried
“Mother, mother you will never met him now.”
My dear, my heart, for before the Titanic ever sunk, we died.
*It has been said there was a newly married couple
the woman called Typkia Friedberg aboard the Titanic
but her name does not appear nor her husbands in the records.
Survivors spoke of the couple and the woman family from Chicago.
I do not believe the names are correct for Typkia is not a name
not a Jewish name but a word meaning journal, diary and Freidberg
is the town where the pianos for the Titanic were made.
Tikvah is a Jewish woman's name and means Hope.
Hershel means deer.
Come visit us under pink tinged twilight skies..
among boughs borne under a song laden tree.
In fair view of land, meadows green coiling rise,
one hundred twenty counted souls, and me.
The older children play, running in sun washed petticoats,
hair pulled back in pigtails & ribbons, an untied shoelace floats.
Their errant hoops gone tumbling over a dew covered hill,
wonder if sun refused to shine, and not mourning them still.
How resplendent a vessel, White Star's ship of dreams,
carried their passion as coal fed fired boiler steams.
Only to sink 'neath the waves, irony in iron age..
On maiden voyage Ides of April, warned her last writ page.
To the new world go mother, father, sisters and brothers,
prayers spent all would reach safety of harbor's bustling dock.
America's shores promised in the letters of others...
went as sheep to the shearer in Reaper's growing flock.
To third class cabin dimlit, down three flights of stairs,
their mortal passage payed so high a forlorned cost.
Waiting their turn for grace, their last supper's prayers,
scrape of ice., gaping ocean roared, in darkness lost.
God bore them one and all 'way from the tortured deep,
to cold windswept mount where saints and survivors weep.
"Nothing in my hands I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling"
12/28/18
I just received a gift from my {step}mother.
Only three days late this year.
It's a Santa Claus soap dispenser... with a twirl and a twist.
I used to own it, well over twenty years ago.
It has yellow soap still clogging the spigot...
*****, that you've treated old Saint Nick like a {step},
How true to your form and fitting that is.
{Step} Santa was more of a message than a gift.
After all, I've been a half-assed {step}son at best.
But {step}mother, you must admit, I was always your third-class citizen.
From the brackish affection, impish rags you stapled to my rear,
Minor infractions, met with a strap called; I'll reduce you to tears.
You were the metal-toothed snapper in the pond of my youth.
Mother, if you deny this, you're just another abuser of truth!
For the most part, I've freeze-dried your slipperiness,
I think {step} is glacier cold, but a most accurate prefix.
The Schutzstaffel
Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
and stack them on a train,
rip them from their sleepy beds
and march them through the rain.
Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
and stow them in third class
gather them from heaven
and toss them in some gas.
Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
pluck every one in sight
feed them to the furnace flame
let smoke plumes fill the night.
Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
'til naught but ash remains
we’ll change the sky forever
Earth will never be the same.
10/14/16
Written for contest: My Take On The Holocast
Hosted by: The Seeker
the band leader motioned for the men to keep playing
They were not getting off alive, but they could go down with music
confusion and yelling was heard from all sides of the deck
cowardly men were dressing like women, hoping for a life boat seat
the kitchen was breaking apart now
you could hear loud cracking and groaning
sturdy white cups for third class were falling out of cupboards
also the pretty cornflower plates for the regular passengers
in short order, the gold leaf fine china would be hitting the water
the band leader and his brave men kept playing
they could hear sobbing and screaming then another loud crack
the iceberg had torn into the middle of the Titanic
She flew up into the air, and then hurled herself down
plunging into the icy waters with an unnatural rapid force
Eight hundred died that day, and seven hundred lived
The bandleader and his men walked into heaven together.
for the third class life is surrounded by, not a single affirmative element but utter negativity, it may be a condemned one, yet is still worthwhile living the life because in the total negativity one can disavow everything just like an absolute authority
for the third-rater is always treated by those around one with contempt, the life may be miserable, yet is enjoyable because the anger i swallowed in every moment of my life and kept in the depth of my heart with tears can be spewed out at any time, in anywhere, just like a most powerful tyrant
to impress others, may be impossible, i flapped the wings that actually i didn’t possess; the beauty of life was then however, it doesn’t matter if i was a performer of first class theatre or of third. even with those inexistent wings, i was able to fly boastfully in the spotlight dazzling colorful air though for a little while
although i searched for a way to wonderland and went after a good and ripened time for harvest, the soul rent with grief and mortified, alas, i was always wound-up to standing in the damned same starting point because no matter
how hard i searched, the way to wonderland was nowhere on earth it never
existed for me, no matter how eagerly i went after it, the ripened good time was never there for me to harvest; nonetheless, even with deeply wounded heart, i was able to find the moment of peace at the point where i started off was, may be my numbed sensitivity, caused from the debt too great for me to pay off, caused from the destitution never be filled to flee from it
“why don’t you laugh at this ludicrous fool’s tears?” the fool being ousted from even this filthy third class theatre which was filled with rowdy audiences! “why don’t you cry for this helpless buffoon’s laughter?” mimicking Caesar with antic,
‘et tu, Brute!’*
even in this crucial moment
of losing my one and only vocation the buffoon ever had
*William Shakespeare. Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene 1. ‘You too, Brutus!’