Long Advertises Poems
Long Advertises Poems. Below are the most popular long Advertises by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Advertises poems by poem length and keyword.
Anxiety went into overdrive regarding...
"check engine light" being on
I desperately clutched
(the Peanuts stuffed animal) Woodstock
to help me absorb shock.
What invisible agent
provocateur née ghost in the machine
sinister force hell bent
to rob me of every red cent,
whereby checking account
incurred major dent
(albeit figurative) required
yearly vehicular ownership event.
Unavoidable collision course
with money woes does frankly zap
proud owner of car will soon
find her/himself on penniless track
after salesperson (usually a man)
intones memorized commercial spiel,
and won't shut her/his yap
until quota of cars sold
guaranteeing bear hug wrap
courtesy company president
gifted bonus and vacation to escape,
(albeit temporarily) rat race trap.
Yours truly crafts (courtesy poetic license)
mine trademark prevaricated write
crowing, invoking, and lamenting malfunction
advertises, enunciates,
and intones game over
(by Tracy Lauren Marrow,
otherwise known as Iced-Tea),
whose claim to fame 1. rapper round rhymes;
2. fleet (truckload) of motorized
hot wheels (burning rubber)
quite a fiery sight;
3. check engine light advertisement
especially fluorescent hubcaps
that glows (like the
pulsating nose of Rudolph) at night.
Most recent experience (mine)
dealing with problematic
"check engine light" tsuris,
taught me helpful object lesson
after bringing our 2009 Hyundai Sonata
to Norm's Save Station
(earlier today 8/24th, 2021)
551 Gravel Pike, Collegeville, PA 19426,
which mechanic on duty
informed me that within Pennsylvania
said mechanical setback NEED NOT
be troubleshot if car driven less than
5000 miles per year.
Betrayal My Love
Honor your own cold blackened heart
You filthy dirty whore
Demonic pagan worthless piece of godless wonderment
You stealing thieving thing
Betrayal is the soiled sewer’s game you play
Taking joy at targeting the trust of others
Wasting each and every soul you touch
That touches you with money
You give this world the ugliest thing you can
Your promise in the form of candy and sweet snacks
But give nothing back
Sinister flashing smiles, advertises, pretty wrapped packaging
Is all that you display
But when it comes to paying you
You steal my quarters
Leave me empty
What hurts worse?
Craving for your sweets my love
What is behind the machine you pretend to be?
Betrayal, poverty, as I’m left standing
No more money to enter in your slots
No more quarters in my pockets and no more candies
You worthless vending machine monstrosity
You thieving *****!
Give me back my money or I’ll break the glass!
8/28/14 Any Old Poem Will Do #3 - contest
For females over 40,
There’s a magazine called More.
At least that is the age group
It was first intended for.
So many periodicals
Are aimed at people younger.
This magazine was perfect
For that over-40 hunger.
In articles the focus was
On older women saying
That life can be fulfilling
Even when you’ve started graying.
There wasn’t much for 60’s plus
But still, they got some mention.
If younger women felt left out,
Well, that was the intention.
Then suddenly, I noticed
There had been a subtle shift
And older women seemed to get
An even shorter shrift.
For More now advertises
It’s for women 30 plus.
I looked for protests, but nobody
Seemed to make a fuss.
I’m sure the younger women
Have a lot of cash to spend
And so the “over-40” aim
Has sadly seen its end.
So let me raise my voice
For older folk and I’ll confess
That though I’ll still read More
I feel as if I’m getting Less!
While looking down from my balcony view:
a depressing sadness washed over me.
And I wondered what the world would look like:
when we no longer have the honeybee.
The fake facade of civilization:
advertises a neon paradise.
But that illusion costs us: the fact is,
nothing is free; everything has a price.
Cigarettes kill, and yet, they are still sold:
shareholder profits aren't based on good health.
Big money doesn't care if you die coughing:
each cough increases their corporate wealth.
In America, kids shoot kids in schools:
yet, gun control has been ignored for years.
The N.R.A. bribes politicians with
cash to pad their pockets, not to cry tears.
The title captures the reader’s attention,
It's like bait on a hook that draws the reader in.
Let it be clever and creative; your own invention.
It supports the message expressed within.
A title can be like a magnet; it has pulling power,
and compels the reader to take a look.
Stops one in their tracks no matter the hour,
they feel like they must open the book.
The title can't be some mere afterthought,
something that's made up at the last second.
A carefully picked title gives books a strong shot;
it can be so captivating that it will beckon.
Some books are left abandoned on a shelf
because their title didn't stand out in a crowd.
A write with a stunning title advertises itself,
choose one amazing; so you can be proud.
05/02/2021
The News changes seconds after seconds
body's mind's and heart's too
from channel to channel advertises
eye sees for a mo
one friend says to other
what is to do or not to do
if something is done by opposing
surely there to rue
whom to hear whom to not
for whom to cry with in to
inner world conflicts in confusion
very hard for soft glue
I feel it in the morning dim,
when I head out to drive to work,
a bite of chill that saps the vim,
tough now it seems just a flirt.
Again, when I drive home later,
auburn fringe of a maple tree,
soon to attract the spectators,
from the dull steel of the city.
I spot it in a gaudy sign
that advertises back-to-school,
weighs heavily in children’s minds,
all bemoaning a fate so ‘cruel.’
Next, in the light of our great sun,
more slanted than it was before,
the light feels like it’s tired, done,
ever retreating, more and more.
At dusk I hear the geese fleeing,
they are making for the south too,
their constant honks sound like bragging,
“We’re out of here, sucks to be you.”
And on the roads more deer will go,
the rut is only weeks away,
cars must avoid scrambling does
chased by bucks looking for play.
Most will bemoan the summer’s end,
but I think I am fine with it,
never fond of heat that offends,
or insects…I always get bit.
Soon I can go out for a walk
without having to sweat at all,
no mosquitoes or chiggers stalk,
I welcome these first hints of fall.
He's in the line for a quick pick up,
it's early in the morning and not much of a line
and he needs some milk and toilet papers, says
“I've had better days, this shall pass.”
He's said that line to himself a hundred times, sometimes
with an Irish Bostonian accent that advertises his background.
“If they have eggs too, get a couple of dozens,” he reminds himself,
even though he stopped eating eggs to lower his cholesterol.
“Hey check this out. They're giving a 25 dollar coupon, maybe I can get
a carton of camel's cigarette," until he realized he 'd missed his chances,
setting into a state of quiet panic – “and what if they ran out of milk too,
can't have black coffee, never.” Thank god he was not a diabetic hyperdermic like the fellow ahead of him, who held onto his cane anxiously, cursing under his lips at the parade of cars. “Those sons of es drive luxury cars begging for food, ain't right brother.”
He agreed. “They ought to be shopping at Cosco” though their abundance assumed desperation.
“Amigo move over,” a heavy-set lady screamed pushing her cart forward undeterred, plowing through the line with meshes of anger and energy.
But he didn't care, thinking he was in waiting rooms with buckets of dental pain, the kind of places patience survives, pulled down his face mask for a deep breath, standing next to a German automobile,
admiring the driver's audacity to risk it on the highway. His luck a rain started and wind blew off his old hat, as if God was sitting on an upper-story chuckling with whirls of irony., watching his beloved children riding a ferry to
nowhere.
The nurse said, “ This will soothe your pain. “
My left hand was connected with Iv.
And, I was observing how
The blood flows through the narrow pipes
A playtime for my very own blood!
The nurses were talking among themselves
Why the veins are not prominent enough,
How I should help them to make it visible
Visible enough for another poke.
I was lying there,
In between sleep and consciousness
I was lying there,
Amidst hopelessness and timelessness.
And I was looking at the
television in the corner of the room
Where life advertises 24 hours
Its diversified colored illusions...on and on.
And suddenly I felt calm, I felt peace
I felt I can lie here and at least supplicate to God
For His mercy, to expiate my sins once and for all.
I was not able to move any of my hands,
One was stuck with Iv, the other one with an oximeter.
Alone there, I felt for a moment that God forgave me, perhaps.
And the nurse came back. “ We are ready to send you home!”
Squatting next to a garbage bin,
she dons a fake smile that doesn't fit.
And though track marks tattoo her skin,
her addiction won't let her quit.
Abused by pimps and those she serves,
each encounter has left its mark.
And a cheap dress hugs girly curves,
as she shivers there in the dark.
Forced into a life of disgrace,
she feels she hasn't a single friend.
And her hair hides her haggard face,
trapped in the land of let's pretend.
Whispering sly, suggestive words,
she advertises sex for sale.
And propositions jocks and nerds,
feeling frightened, hungry, and frail.
Lewd proposals, oft crude and stark,
are overheard above the din.
And she sells herself in the dark,
praying God understands her sin.
(Quatrain)
8/22/2015