Long Thralldom Poems
Long Thralldom Poems. Below are the most popular long Thralldom by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thralldom poems by poem length and keyword.
Time casts a heavy glow
On the world I left behind,
Transfixed on a new tomorrow,
All the new seeds I’ll sow.
Emerging is a new day,
How the light blinds my eyes.
Focus on the bright cascade
Of this everlasting rise.
Beneath the earth is trembling,
My footsteps unsure and numb.
The silence almost deafening—
I can almost hear Hope hum.
A quick glance back behind me
At the thralldom left behind,
Hope continues to remind me
Of all I’m rising from.
The dawn unfolds before me,
A light I’ve never known.
Each step is one small victory,
In this light I call my own.
A gentle breeze enfolds me,
Countless paths untrod.
With open arms, I gather
The dreams I once thought flawed.
He has made his own reed gourd pipe
To play on and allure his captive -
The stray serpent, in his basket inactive ,
And rendered a fangless, servile type .
Being a lazy sot, gets his drink
Displaying the hooded creature apt ;
And blows odd tunes with no tact ,
Nor ever allows the coil to jink .
Motley onlookers dole out a coin ;
They know not why : fear or taboo,
Or even feeling heavy with ado
And he leaves , having drunkards to join ;
Loyal or helpless the selfless reptile
Ever returns to it's bamboo cell,
Despite the strain or a nearby dell ;
Thralldom corrodes the entity all the while.
(alternatively titled eldest daughter despises us)
Eden (beloved eldest daughter) icy
flat tone of voice spoke volumes,
when she talked with the missus and me
courtesy cellular telecommunications key
December twenty seventh
two thousand nineteen
unwavering listless dull verbalization see
I subsequently told spouse, she
thy super smart self reliant progeny
fending for herself approximately
last half dozen years exhibits je
ne sais quois profound loathing
predicated growing up dirt poor free
quint lee lamenting deprivations re:
guarding legal tender adequate specie
i.e. money - at least compared to every
MainLine millionaire flush with dee -
suppose able income, and oft times
lovingly, pleasantly, unexpectedly...
receiving largasse gift horse courtesy
zayda (my father), who art not yet
in heaven sprung monetary help, ye
this second born and only son did
profusely think him (papa) lee
ving voice messages on his landline,
and tracfone, plus wrote heartfelt poem,
similar acknowledgement modus operandi,
when said offspring
became twenty three
years old - five days ago, nonetheless thee
admirable, dependable, honorable... née
holds Matthew Scott (namely he),
who helped beget
darling feels angry,
and doth plainly exhibits contempt
(you) dear reader guessed correctly
towards sorrowful dada,
where inescapable thralldom
doth invisibly chain
(think ghost of Marley)
apologetic sir, whose
precious kinder, I
will unwaveringly cherish
forever love and Revere
despite up Paul ling
destitution, grinding linkedin penury,
and red hot poker faced
anger, yes... dismay
prevails how unforgiving
once (Benny sent) baby,
inside joke, I attest neigh
scent "star student,"
now grown young woman,
no longer - figuratively
wrapped around yours
truly her finger
father who fell short, natively cree
hated abhorrent within re
cent mammary, bosom (hers)
harboring scathing unmasked vee
hum mint, blistering, rancorous,
seething, volcanic withering...,
no matter disgusting revulsion
toward aging mommy
and repentant daddy,
I LOVE YE EDEN + SHANA!
Thralldom etched in *****sapiens (mine) DNA
Though your true blue stated civilian
never enlisted nor impressed,
nonetheless I own an opinion
originally embarked on poetic quest
to express purposelessness,
when soldiers rest
at peace i.e. eternally,
many attired courtesy
smart uniform strong with zest.
Psyche steeped, macerated, brewed
as token scapegoat, cue
trumpets Don to toot
courtesy more'n one
nasty shortish brute
weasley chastened me
round mulberry bush
said monkeys chased scaredy
cat me... point moot
regarding... rung me
ragged standing astute
adjacent Thomas Jonathan
"Stonewall" Jackson
(Confederate general during
American Civil War),
his own troops accidentally
fired on him during
Battle of Chancellorsville
in Virginia doth not compute
"friendly fire" unleashed during
one among many hot pursuit
part and parcel of wars,
since time immemorial
gung ho practiced soldier and/or
scared cat neophyte unwittingly shoot
pellets traveling speed of
sound bullet out - gunmetal chute
ordinarily pardoned distinct mistake
versus homicide statute
nonetheless...about
thee (rhetorical question), wherefore
art thou purpose to war,
those slain now paid tribute
since major hostilities of
World War I formally
ended at 11th hour of 11th
day of 11th month of 1918
yet... I question military conflicts
battle hymns constitute
legacy e'er since Homo
sapiens stood erect,
many soldiers of misfortune,
sons of destitute
versus wealthy heirs accepted perception
that war was "a rich man's war
and a poor man's fight"
countless generations ago
deserters fate would mean execute
"the bastard," even second decade
into twenty first century
once sworn in at basic training,
getting discharged (vodka luck), but absolute
zero tolerance quitting before
duty commitment desertion flagrant violation,
no easy task leaving service minus
tribunal meeting severe to prosecute,
thus joining military unlike
accepting any other job
punishment greater than Das boot,
yet patriotism, née jingoism
not ideal, viz conflict resolution,
verstehen, or did this wordsmith convolute?
As I wondered what I should write
And floundered in my own confusion
I thought – why not write about poems
That set me thinking what poems are
A poem could be anything, we know
At best it is distilled thoughts put into rhyme
Or a moment caught in time
A window glimpse into the world
An engrossing passion’s ardent curl
A snap shot of scenes from Nature- wild
Or a slice of life, birth or death
Sometimes it could be a yearning
Or an image long hung on a pole
A thought turned inside out
Or the emptying of a mind about to spill
It could be the liberation of a fancy
For long held in thralldom
A gnawing pain, long suppressed
Or a secret, never divulged
As I pondered over the subjects’ enormity
And a poem’s vast scope,
I asked myself- ‘Why hesitate?’
Soon I felt a stir inside,
My thoughts broke loose
And a terrible block lifted off my head
My silence became audible
I embroidered these thoughts
Into the pattern of a poem
Here it is before you, have a look at it
Will it annoy you or will you enjoy!
Placed First
A Strand (1070) Poetry Contest
fettered frightened multitude at our backyard,
wailing in sombre sigh, waiting for beckett's “godots”
multitude with talents begs their oppressor to survive,
dying amidst plenty with multitudinous buried unfinished destinies,
stunted by great grand fathers who by hex and vex held million in thralldom
The new oppressor worse than the slave masters of yore bereft of ideas
conquered able bodied myriads
deceived by dinosaurs that some future belongs to them,
and by turns,shameless retards, recycle themselves from North, west south.
old felons fit for gallows, and the slumbering youth
waiting, even at fifty with no more strength to pursue their dreams
Table turned ,
A great giant of yesteryear now a crumbled decrepit through aeonian corruption
rogues who ruled and ruined us now more relevant than a Nobel.
criminals rewrite our history to fit their lenses of lies
corn and national rapist, takes a new title in the vacuum of hero
A country without a hero, the most peopled hub of Africa
A mixture linseed and flaxseed
and their youth sleep on
oh sanctity! What savagery is cast upon your honour,
where religion is the garb of two faced enemies
Leaders as criminals Yes ALL, no hero among thieves.
Desperation for power, bereft of ideas to lit up the darkness
A vast exotic hub of resources , submerged by men without honour
should we name names?
Their conscience loud the wounds for the wealth stolen for their own children
as the rest are cowered in fear, by the Police who they armed protecting them and killing others
How many gloomy days is yet to come?
How long will dreams be buried ?
In the country of cowards
as the youth whose destinies is wasted sleep on
Beyond a sandstorm’s gritty veil,
A solitary Bedouin,
Like a ghost in a sea of dunes,
Rides slowly along in the dusk.
The singing of rababah strings
Mimic the cooling evening winds;
Tambourines and flutes sound sadly
From the oasis where he’s bound.
His caravans once wound their ways
From the Atlas to the Tigris,
Trudging across the somber sands
Of a boundless and barren realm.
O Bedouin, where are thy tracks?
No hooves clatter in the wadis;
No trail of rotting camel dung.
O Bedouin, where are thy ways?
O Bedouin does your dirah
Yet teem with goat and camel flocks,
Since you have settled in the towns,
Which you once heaped with scorn and mocked?
O noble herdsman once so proud,
Tightly wrapped up in culture’s shroud,
Are you bottled up like the Djinn;
Forced to serve those who hemmed you in?
The rosy mirage of freedom
Is like a scarlet evening light
That paints the clouds with fiery hopes
Which fade in thralldom to the night.
You are a sustained landscape
one that changes only when you smile or frown,
a fermata, an endless note
something akin to love strung-out,
pulled thin
until it vibrates at the same tone
as does love, but
not deep,
just the tension of a chord made to sing
as a vibration
upon an unvarying reiterative.
The landscape is in you,
the one holds the other in place.
it forms your stance and mien. From a distance
of years
I see you smile or frown, wave or turn your back
from my outreaching arms.
The sounding wire is continuous,
only those minor wincing fractals
upon lips,
the corners of your eyes,
the bandwidth of a memory never changing.
The landscape does not build a thing,
not a brick or a leaf just
this constriction in my throat while I echo
the atonality of a mood,
and given the small modulations, your perpetual
disengagement,
and my need for this vision to change
even so, am I kept listening
to this
ever e x t e n d i n g
minimalistic curtain-call,
a thralldom
to a reenactment that draws near to love
while rebounding away.