Long Underfed Poems
Long Underfed Poems. Below are the most popular long Underfed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Underfed poems by poem length and keyword.
Overwhelmed! It’s so easy to be
In this world of made-up history.
As the price of all we say and do
Comes crashing down around our ears
And the ghosts of what we thought were true
Are smothered in all our fears.
Underfed! And all our hungry hearts
Are starving for more genuine arts
That will lead our souls to honest truth
And set our longing spirits free,
In the realm of the immortal youth
Unbound of all tyranny.
For, in our dreams of far-away,
Imagination rules the day
And all that seems just fantasy
Becomes so plain to see.
And, in our dreams of never-been
We are all heroes once again
Escaping all the gravity
Of what is but reality…
My first poem posted at Soup (it truly is one of my first poems
since I enjoyed doing parodies of Christmas lyrics long before
I began writing other kinds of poetry)
I Heard Mother
(to tune of "I Saw Mother Kissing Santa Clause")
I heard Mother scolding Santa's elf
As I prowled the house on Christmas Eve.
He'd hid in St. Nick's sleigh
And then sneaked out to play
After having waited for his boss to fly away.
Mother caught him gobbling all our snacks
After he tore open every gift.
Oh, when she glared down at his face,
He went scrambling from our place
Screaming, "Santa, stop the sleigh-
I need a lift!"
Written Sept. 28, 2015 - New Poem: The Elf’s response:
A Helper Am I
(to tune of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”)
A helper am I.
I’m so underfed.
I just want to cry;
I only get bread.
Santa doesn’t pay me a dime!
I see all the gifts
laid out on the floor.
All year I slave
so rich kids get more?!
Santa doesn’t pay me a dime!
Folks leave out milk for Santa.
He hardly seems to care!
And so I eat at every stop
the snacks that I find there!
A helper am I.
I’m so underfed.
I just want to cry;
I only get bread.
Santa doesn’t pay me a dime!
For the Contest of the Silent One
Some were born to be show horses.
Pampered and fussed over to the extreme.
Accolades outperforming accomplishment
Living for tin-can applause.
Some are born thoroughbreds.
living for glory and the golden oats
blinders ablaze- racing through life
oblivious to the rattle of time...
Then there's the humble plow horse.
Overworked, underfed, underappreciated
Swaybacked from society's harsh gaze
smoothing the way for both sashay and racer
forever looked down upon-never any applause
bending over for the ones
that will eventually eat them....
The plow horse will bury the stillborn in the fields
and crows will give it a name-
I've been served lots of unappetizing things
that simply did not please my palette.
Being force fed with bitter or insincere words
is unappealing presented as a crisp green salad.
I would rather be underfed and malnourished
than to feast on something too briny or cheesy.
I won't feast on a buffet of regurgitated foods,
like dill pickles offered as sour grapes... sleazy.
Nothing has more stench to me than rotten food.
As an example, mold spores inside blue roquefort,
and don't ask me to swallow one bite of sarcasm.
That would take far too much of my time and effort.
I'd spit out a spoon of any soup if in it swims a fly,
or if the spices were added by the hand of a hypocrite.
A warm peach cobbler would make a scrumptious dish
as long as inside there'd not be left on purpose... a pit.
She wants freedom to touch her
She wants symbols to wear
Sailors at dawn
Bear no response
As if they’re not there
She repairs to the ceiling
As the walls tumble down
Underfed, under bed
But she’s good for now
‘I look for you
But not for long;
I call to you’ —
The siren’s song
She plans for the wedding
No one there but the gown
Save a place
For her eager face
Guests depart the town
She smiles in cathedrals
Vacancy to her prayer
Up all night, teeming white
Her powdered purse on the stairs
‘I sing to you,
With whom I belong.
I swim to you’ —
The siren’s song
1996, 2022
You were not born of ivory halls,
nor cradled in the velvet silence of empire.
You were fireborn—
from the coal-scented dusk of a railway station,
where teacups bore the dreams of the underfed.
We remember, because you were once one of us.
Your hands held steam, not scepters—
yet rose to cradle Gujarat like a child.
And lo, from its weary bones
you sculpted factories, towers, and fields of bread.
We watched in awe,
but not without hope.
Modi,
the nation still drinks from broken taps.
The light still dies before midnight
in half our homes.
The poor still kneel to latrines that shame the sun.
Is this our promised India?
Look not West,
for that sun has long since set
behind cold eyes and copper tongues.
The same hands that enslaved us now sell us mirrors.
Beware the praise of merchants
who never bled for soil.
Your brother, China,
though misunderstood,
has mastered the stones—
temples of steel and silk roads of precision.
And we ask, not for surrender,
but for humility.
Is asking weakness?
Then was Gandhi weak when he begged salt from the sea?
Does pride build bridges
or only statues?
O Prime Minister,
remember your father’s wisdom:
“The devil you know…”
Even devils can teach us walls, canals, and stars.
We do not want thrones.
We want toilets that flush.
Trains that do not fail.
Hospitals that do not sigh under the weight of decay.
We want peace in our plate,
and peace across our border.
Let not whispers of conquest distract you—
India and China, once bound in chains,
can rise in tandem.
We are not enemies.
We are echoes of the same wound.
If this century bends eastward,
let it not bend in silence,
but with the chorus of a billion
finally heard,
finally clean,
finally united.
With them, it's always been about lineage.
An overinflated self-worth, unbridled privilege.
An incurable case of chronic God complex.
Justification for sacking villages, countries, continents.
Taxing everything into spiraling debt and death.
Hoarding stolen gold and precious gems.
Making certain everyone has less than them.
Enslaving dreams of every woman and man.
Knighting everyday with blackness and dread.
Chaining those with any hint of dissent.
Rewarding themselves with garish monuments.
While the self-professed Gods overindulge
in blood-soaked magnificent opulence.
Serfs pulled the weight of Kingdoms and continents
Sun-burned and underfed, tilling tired fields.
Putting milk in empty bellied pails.
Tending flocks, kept the castle tidy.
Wiped royal asses, put fish in the krill.
Fought in the king's frivolous battles.
Enduring hunger, plagues, bent backs.
Forever dodging frivolous royal wrath.
The roaming hoards and king-sized rats.
The serfs sang, worked, and prayed hard and meant it.
A well-known fact that royals seem to have forgotten:
Real Gods were never inbred, mentally defective mad men.
Real Gods don't have bad teeth or straddle chamber pots.
Serfs have always been far more important than kings.
Without them king (dumbs) would have collapsed.
Serfs should be the grandest piece on a chessboard.
Not cannon fodder for a Plastic king's plastic wars.
God save the SERFS
i pray for better days
damona prays for another bone
i pray for damona's health and well being
damona prays for the safety of our next home
i pray for the strength of our underfed bodies to remain intact
damona prays for the lawful elimination of all leashes
i pray for those whose situations are far worse than ours
damona prays for those who are still skin and bones from extreme malnourishment
then we feel God nodding towards a particular area
then we see a man tattered and weary
with the money i made doing odd jobs here and there, i buy the man soup, crackers, and water
i bless the middle aged man with this gift and a five dollar bill
the man thanks us and wishes us Many Blessings and Safe Travels
i reply by wishing for God to Smile on him
as i wave to say goodbye, the man rubs damona's head and softly says 'He Already Has'
I hate this world I'm living in
I hate it to the core
I hate this world I'm living in
Can't take it anymore
The hate that sparks a genocide
Does anybody care?
The theft, the lies, the cover up
Is there much more to bear?
I hate this world I'm living in
A place where children die
Abused, neglected, underfed
The world stands idly by
I hate this world I'm living in
The constant threat of war
I hate this world I'm living in
Where is that exist door?
I hate the trafficking of souls
Who are in desperate need
I hate the leaders who are blind
By power and by greed
I hate this world I'm living in
Where animals are killed
For sport or just for appetite
My cup of wrath is filled
I hate this world I'm living in
Where sex is monitized
I hate this world I'm living in
Deceit's been digitized
And yes there are some happy times
Where sun shines through the rain
These fleeting moments are so few
The residue is pain
I hate this world I'm living in
And though I rant and rave
It will not change a single thing
I have no strength to save
And so I struggle through each day
See nightmares every night
Please make for me a world in which
The darkness turns to light
Eileen Manassian
This prose, a shipwreck...
Barnacled and long forgot
at the bottom of a lonely sea.
This song, a rusted railcar...
alone
'n fallen
down
a
d h
i c
t
beside a siding
at the edge
of a
once-factory-town.
These words, an underfed pack mule...
high
packed and piled with 'needs'
and wobbly-leggedly hoofing
down
a screeway, knees buckling backwards.
The words I choose
can't bear the feelings
i hoist upon, i strap to them
but i persist and enlist
whatever i can write
and stuff it full of my feelings
and send it, in my blind lover's hope,
off to you.
Hoping only that
some small sense of
what i'd packed
finds you where you are.
A world away from my heart.
It is my only cruelty
to weigh down, to insult these
Words. To charge them with
my heart's effulgencies.
I am kinder than i am to these words.
I am kinder than i am to these words.