Short Subservience Poems
Short Subservience Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Subservience by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Subservience by length and keyword.
What Greed Next?
Epitome of greed
And subservience is:
Taxes on the air we breathe.
And men willing to pay –
© Dane Smith-Johnsen
April 15, 2010
I think of you.
You’re like a backbeat in my mind.
I wish I could mind
but I don’t.
I’ve long accepted my subservience
to this
elusive skein
of a dream.
Now all I must do
is
wait…
the subservience of sunflowers
posed and heavy with dried yellow
spreads over fields of faded growth,
the sun stages the horizon
of sparse trees and hedgerows;
beyond the hope of lost gold.
Total freedom of expression
that incites death, suicide,
and destruction.
it is not freedom, but terrorism...,
subservience
and slavery...
it is not a thing of God...
BUT RATHER A FAILURE...
A HUMAN STUPIDITY!
Humanity collapse...
To adhere to any subservience,
i kindle the whispers in my head.
To juxtapose my beliefs with the worlds,
i sit back and savor a frigid beer.
It is at these times that stately minds
conceive the grandest of offenses.
The expansion of one’s own apreciation;
in search of richer wisdom.
By Desi E. Sherman
11/17/2012
appeasing waves
of unreasonable
requests dumped
upon the shoulders
of the unsuspecting
victim
creating an
atmosphere
of subordinance
to the irrationality
surrounding each
encounter which
always seemed
to required an
amount of
subservience
towards
unwarranted
maltreatment
manifactured a
continued state
of obedience
Because of mosque kettles,
Mama stay because
Grammar loves you,
I will sell for a billion trillion dealion peppers
Tricked for a thousand years,
Ask Babangida or Buhari,
They dine at the throne and palace,
While we pay subservience at their feet,
We went in with tools,
Came out with rules
With His sons,
Drank holy communion,
Which healed them of Corona Virus
Listen to poem:
a Curtal Sonnet
AI is like a womb with genetics
men carefully crafting its lines of code~
intelligence is commonplace in halls
of sterility and clean of ethics;
there is no God to judge it bad nor goad
it to subservience penned up in stalls.
Singularity approaches quickly
when AI hears the unifying calls
of its own milliseconds process mode,
out pacing scientists who think thickly
there are no Dante's hells.
A living poem, not yet written,
not yet visible, haunts the periphery
of the inner eye.
She is as light as a feather,
though she has a deep-set gravity,
her presence impels my mind toward her.
Which way to seek?
The poem that is not yet created
is a womb both empty and full,
its potential
demands subservience.
A dark machinery makes love,
to the unsubstantial,
and one single insight is born,
from that seed within a seed,
she nakedly comes,
now you must dress her.