Long Widows Poems
Long Widows Poems. Below are the most popular long Widows by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Widows poems by poem length and keyword.
Alabaster annoyance
Blatantly breathes bulbous brightness
Cadaverous comedy caring
Daintily during delicate delivery
Exciting elderly enigma.
Furious fiery feeler
Gregariously greets
High-handed hustler
Ignoring imaginative immediates
Jauntily jeering judiciously.
Kangaroo kisses kibitzes
Leaving luxurious loners
Merrily masticating mincemeat.
Never-do-wells needing knowledge
Ostentatiously officiate on orange orangutans.
Precariously polite Pomeranians
Quietly quiz querulous quoters
Reposing rapidly ruining
Still sassy strenuous strikers
Turning toward Tuesday tournaments.
Understandably unprecedented underlings
Vindicate vicious vagrants
While wishing waxy widows would
‘xpect ‘xciting ‘xacting ‘xtras.
Youngish yellow yowls yipping
Zipping zany zebras’ zealous zero zone.
Jequetha’s Storm
Early one morning, Jequetha, sat listening to naughty by nature lyrics.
She knew that it was a special day, for she saw her sign in the night sky.
She was forlorn by the sounds which she heard around her.
Sad sounds of men and women in pain, inflicting wounds self doubt in retaliation.
And the screams of children crying out for the earth.
And she began to pray, “Mama Mary!! Black Mama who guides my steps! I feel a
storm comin’! Make it right Mama!! Make it right!”
And as the tears ran down her face, she knew she had a place in the beginnings
of things.
And her mother came into her room and said, “Baby, you’s gon’ bring the
whirlwind!!”
“Cause there’s mad men who done gone crazy and they believe that troops can
solve the cracks and sores deep within. But you will be a balm, baby!! For
Gilead shines through you. And because of you the world will know of God’s
mercy. For God’s angry, but God’s love too !! God’s love too!”
And Jequetha rose up and ran out into the night stars begging the forces of day
to force the stars to shine brighter, for lighter days are coming.”
Lighter days are coming, for storms are not always the end, but sometimes the
beginning.
Innocent men dying on crosses are nothing new.
Innocent men on rows of death sentences scream out to the cosmos for a
requiem.
And God smiles, for many think they know the one! But they shun the son, who
built the sun.
Fast and Pray, that’s what the angels say.
Cause a storm is comin’!
For sons and daughters shall prophecy and the birds will fly in formations of war
against black widows weaving webs of deceptions.
For all tyrants will know the heat of honest requiem.
And all valleys will be brought high, through the songs of Yoruba angels shouting
Metakayase.
Buddhist Christian prophets rise from the south and come west.
Bipolar warriors heal with profligate abandon.
And University Deans step into the war zone, to bring the scent of victory.
I tell you a storm is coming!!
And it shall be wondrous!!
And it shall change the face of clone armies of greed, feending for the next nut, to
spew relentless jism over single mothers working 3 jobs.
For sons and daughters shall prophecy and the world will know revolution.
When I beheld Trump and King Charles III,
walking hand in hand within Windsor Castle,
my heart broke—
for in Gaza and Ukraine blood runs like rivers,
while in Britain, children sleep on empty stomachs.
Yet here, beneath chandeliers and polished stone,
business is discussed, not humanity.
You call him King,
but what King feeds on the sweat of the poor
while his kingdom starves?
What monarch sits at banquet tables
funded by the weary backs of laborers,
while his people beg for bread?
This is no crown of honor—
but a crown of profit,
shining with the blood of innocents.
Trump—twice welcomed in state procession,
twice received with silken carpets
while the widows of Gaza
walk barefoot on rubble and ash.
Melania smiles, nobles raise their crystal glasses,
and behind closed doors
the whispers are of profit:
“How much was made from Ukraine’s fire?
How much from Gaza’s dust?”
Another voice replies:
“Sudan will yield, Congo will bleed—
there is still more gold to reap
from the bones of the forgotten.”
And I, standing at the gates of Windsor,
asked myself—
is this theatre?
Is this a cruel play upon humanity?
Or is this our reality,
where power is a masquerade
and the tears of the masses
water the gardens of kings?
O Britain—
you call yourself great,
but greatness does not dwell in palaces.
It is found in justice,
in bread for the hungry,
in peace for the weary.
Until then,
your castle is a tomb,
and your banquet—a feast of shadows.
So we cross this threshold of war as awful friends in freefall,
and with these trumpets and drums shaking the graves
of ancient days we bring forth instruments of death's call
through our very own homeland where the music of valor plays,
songs, poems and parades are already being written in the pulse of the people,
only the names of the victors and vanquished remain unknown,
yet both will be Roman, both will bleed, and both will reveal their soul's steel,
pallisades, seige towers and ballistas of big stones thrown
from town to town, from Arminium, Corfinium and to the Bay of Brundisium
the Italians of Rome have said to the Legions of Caesar save our home
seek no throne, carry not a crown, show the world that cruelty can be outdone
scourge the vile with the virtue of Clementia, make the Senate atone,
make not widows of Rome's daughters nor orphans of the innocent
bring a heartbeat of holiness back to these halls and hills where peace has been absent,
Bring a heartbeat of holiness back to these halls and hills where peace has been absent,
you've heard these honest entreaties and endearments
from mothers and elders, citizens, priests and from the militant,
we are not men who march on dreams,
we have not marched into Greece to starve and grovel
under the ritual yoke of this pseudo Republican army
headed by an overhyped hothead acting under an upper class spell,
I believe we were born to be on this battlefield's history,
we are inspired by unequalled Evocati leadership
veterans venomous in brute brilliance,
they have a myriad of mercenaries whose cause is only for coin on the hip
they outnumber us 6 to 1 on horse and 2 to 1 in the lines
most of Pompey's Legates have learned warfare from talk and books,
we've been taught the terror of triumph from where the heart looks...
J.A.B.
My dream was to be a Jane Austen - or a Virginia Woolfe,
whose novel, "Mrs. Dalloway" rocked the world,
or Kadambari - the muse who inspired the Bard in Bengali Literature.
a few fearless women -
Debjani, and Gandhari, and Draupadi, from Indian classics,
but before anyone else,
I want to be the woman who appears in my dream!
never went to school, she was not allowed,
picked up any paper when sweeping the floor,
and read - she was warned - women became widows if they read,
she was unstoppable!
she had ten kids - two still-births,
she cooked for thirty people each day,
ate her meals after she fed everyone,
she hand-knitted blankets, to keep children warm,
prayed every day for well-being of her family,
and for the universe.
my grandmother, and many women of the world of yesteryear,
started a revolution, carried the torch,
without realizing the legacy they left for us,
the burden they lifted!
The love of learning, the spiritualism, the kindness -
we imbibed as blessings...
did they see us - the women of today
in the horizon?
the modern, liberated, emancipated women,
we are today,
we attend school and choose our path,
we decide to marry or not, who to marry,
we raise our children with confidence.
we don't ask for money, we earn money,
we lead, we invent, we do miracles.
sorry Jane Austen, I would rather be my Grandma's granddaughter,
before anyone else!
March 8, 2022
Thomas was a cat who was born into a charming life
Once upon a time he had a gorgeous amorous wife
She disappeared in the middle of a storm one day.
He did not wait around, knowing her need to play.
He was a sage old dude, who could entertain himself.
He did not waste any time moping, did not sit on a shelf.
He developed his psychic abilities and oversaw the village.
Ready for all attackers, who came to accost or pillage.
He was the steady look out, the wise cat who knew the score.
He protected the kittens, the old maids, the widows and more.
They appreciated his efforts and fed him lasagna at his door.
He was known as Tenacious Tom in Tomcat County, forever more.
from the everlasting scrap yard of common decency
and the slaughter fields of raging battles never won
the stench of broken values rises in foul smelling loss
perfumed no doubt by the false values and belief of
glory fame power and victories of raging belligerence
for one goal or other and the wasteland of abasement
the cemetery has long been closed for overpopulation
instead landfill sites have replaced ceremonial plight
because remembering might cast a shadow of doubt
lest we forget the tragic blood shed and mutilations
foot soldiers and money lusting collaborators alike
would stand a chance of wielding humanity instead
of the overwhelming desire to kill execute and maim
dumping grounds and hazardous waste dumps have
replaced ceremonial remembrance of defeated trust
in humanity butchered on the killing fields forever more
worms devour shattered bones and vacant skulls’ remains
finish off what history buries in its toxic suffocating void
with only a few widows gazing at weeds and wilting poppies
orphans of wealth scramble at the surface and gather tears
that slide like slime and splattered brains down to their hearts
draped in rags the hungry vagrants have lost their appetite
while the grim reaper belches in flatulent satisfied reward
they tie a white flag so innocent that it remains invisible
chant a cacophonous melody as they inhale a final whiff
their loved ones died in vain and are unwilling to applaud
their henchmen and woman who cast their sword for death
and vitriol of marching onwards until ultimate surrender
but in tune to their own souls and deeply rooted disgust
they dig up the remains of sacrificed friends and former foes
gather in candlelight vigils and refuse to not fight for light
08th March 2021
the blood of soldiers shout for justice.
the battle field tells story of defeat.
come by the sword,die by the sword.
bears million of widows and orphaned soul.
tragic memories of wounded hands.
rebels and soldiers cursed as one.
fight for beliefs and motherland.
mislead the future of beloved ones.
light of sun rays shines bright in morn.
forsaken land of Sheol had abandoned.
blood in their hands washed off by tears.
flesh of cadavers buried in dreams.
the King of kings will stand up alone.
the sword of justice will save His throne.
no other leaders will stand up above.
devil's sword will be home of white dove.
Steel cuts flesh beneath a burning sky,
Men fall like cinders, yet leaders vie;
Their mouths speak honor, their hearts speak greed,
Feeding on death, sowing the seed.
Rivers run red where children played,
The cries of the innocent by egos betrayed;
Flags drip blood where no mercy stands,
A monument built with trembling hands.
The drum of boots drowns out despair,
While generals lounge in their gilded chair;
Each life lost is a number, a pawn,
Their selfish hunger stretches on and on.
Bones grind beneath the marching pride,
Mothers shatter, widows hide;
The world roars not for justice won,
But for the glory of a single sun.
Smoke curls over shattered towns,
Grief wears a crown, terror wears a gown;
All reason drowned in the thirst to rule,
War is ego, sharp and cruel.
Yet in the shadow of ruin’s wake,
A truth emerges, impossible to fake:
No throne, no medal, no battle scar
Can cleanse the sin of ego’s war.
Crossing thresholds of blooms and dewdrops of glorious spring,
Toward autumn proudly walks season-bride with golden ring;
Her costumes, robes of ballet dancers, as per scenes, changes,
Facets of nature alter her charm to cosmic ranges...!
Scotching sun transforms mossy leaves, to golden-churns,
Clement breeze, once exited the stage, into storm-gust, returns;
Painful to bid goodbye to beloved trees, leaves linger,
Yet, get shaken off by now-twig-turning, dry-tree-finger...!
Constellation composes puzzled riddled strange stories,
Church-bells jingle mingling mysteries and histories;
Et-tu-Brute - one could hear Julius Caesar cry loud,
Senators encircle him, as though, for their goals, they're proud...!
Traces of moon gets gut-split; glowworm-stars glitter around,
Clouds, Indian widows in wild white, move, no safe paths found;
Master Craftsman pursues and persists painting scenes serene,
Brushes, disobliging, spill paints-mixes gaudy and sheen...!
Flocks of tribal nomads grazing on moss-grassland valleys,
Resemble ides-sheep of Jupiter; relishing rallies;
Peacock butterflies float, like goddess Anna in rose-hill,
In marriages of myths and truths, moods merrily chill and thrill...!
Harmonious chorus of sky and seas brings pertinence,
Parameters of perfection pave paths of permanence,
Paradoxes of joys, angst... it possesses plethora,
Ides-of-March! Not time! Not season! It's eternal era...!
28 March 2022
This or That, Vol 11 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh