Long Advertising Poems
Long Advertising Poems. Below are the most popular long Advertising by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Advertising poems by poem length and keyword.
So what brought you back here after twelve long years; what brought you back here when you don’t have any good news to share?
You run the company bone dry and suddenly took off to the sky. You have been living a life filled with luxury, hosting executive dinners and weekly exorbitant party. Pretty women dining on your lawn and men caught up in a brawl, exhibiting colorful socks and advertising their mother’s frock, the moment was rare but there was more to share.
So what brought you back here when you have nothing to fear, what brought you back here when the message is already clear? You have made a fortune from me to access my personal diary, you have used all my thoughts to buy house, land and property, limousine and an island across the stream and a big development called mountain of the past.
you have manipulated my words and distribute it around the world and when you get rich you throw my document in the ditch and then you come back here to continue your ridiculous irony.
See the cabinet sitting over there, it is filled with documents dates back for more than thirty years, you have build bridges and factories, trains airplanes, buses, trucks and van, development across the land and construction dating back for more than thirty years with my word running down those pages.
The words that make you into a man the words that cause you to stand, the words that send your family to school and the word that provide your daily food.
For what reason did you come back here? to drag me out into the street and disrupt my heart beat? I am just an island sitting in the sun without an amour or a gun, you have been so discrete, and I will not stop until you settle every penny you earn in the street and the sleepless night I stood on my feet, you will have to answer to the sky and compensate the people before you die.
See those people standing in line, that reaches the center of the universe, they are willing to stand there until daylight just to mark the x to remove you from that artificial intelligence desk.
Let your conscience speak to tend to matters, let your consciences speak to deal with what is proper; one group is moving out of town and I don’t know where they are bound , they are honking their horn but destiny will meet them before dawn for what reason did you come back here.
So slick and sexy. Purred past Temple Bar.
That throaty engine advertising punch.
All legal London, strolling out for lunch,
with turning heads declared, “Now that’s a car!”
So many barristers are – if not losers,
low earners and slow learners. I was one.
I, plodding back from Penge, felt put upon:
a plea, a pittance. Now for Holborn’s boozers.
That mean machine was not for saps like me.
I turned my face towards the threatening rain,
and started wearily up Chancery Lane.
A cup of tea and, hopefully, a fee
awaited me in Chambers. Alloy wheels
slid sleekly, silently – stopped at my side.
That car again! I watched the window glide
wide open. And I almost had to kneel
to see the driver. Handsome. Tall and thin.
The shirt was pastel pink, the tie was silk.
The suit was Savile Row, or of that ilk.
His words astonished me. “Well, clamber in!”
And then the penny dropped. It’s Alex R!
Agility has never been my thing,
so Reaney waited, engine idling,
as I shoe-horned myself into his car.
We’d known each other at the School of Law,
but then our paths had radically diverged.
Me, in pleas and poverty submerged,
and he, the wide blue skies of Libel to explore.
“I’ll run you back to Chambers – beat the rain.”
He asked me what had occupied my morning.
For him, the King’s Bench judges were adjourning.
I’d copped a plea in Penge – how to explain?
The major stars had Alex at the helm
when they unleashed their lawsuits on the press.
Defending thefts of bicycles – and less –
was my domain. He ruled a regal realm.
His clients of the moment, man and wife,
were household names. They’d sold their wedding day
to paparazzi, who refused to pay.
The plaint was something weird, like “Stolen Life”.
The man, from Delaware, big hair, and Jewish.
They crank out movies like there’s no tomorrow
(Chicago, Basic Instinct, Traffic, Zorro):
the girl, from Aberdare – think Cher, and shrewish.
To talk of money is a vulgar thing,
but I was desperate to know his fee.
The forty quid I’d earned, I wouldn’t see
for months to come. His wrists were dripping bling.
We’d be at Chambers in another minute.
“So, Alex,” (best to blurt the damn thing out),
“a case like that. You’re looking at … about …?”
He grinned at me and said, “you’re sitting in it.”
Econo Lodge sign
High
On
Its
Pylon
Best we can do
For you Tedeschi Trucks
To put a moon in the sky
Over this interstate interchange
Jammed with cars and a decrepit minor league hockey stadium
Advertising the glory days and beer swigging of The Wings
Glows over the deadbeat semis and construction cones
Tearing apart I-94 between Chicago and Detroit
Gleaming casino next city over
Mocking us all by suggesting
I’ll see you over here
The last great guitar players and their dwindling fans
In just a few more years
Yes it’s 2024
And for good our children have left the house
Its couches beds and kitchen table chairs
Like unstraightened frames holding all our wall photographs
Our dog doesn’t mind
Wags his tail with the additional luxury choices
For his many daytime naps
My wife and I look for familiar friends
Though we understand the band are total strangers
During these glorious last 14 years together with us
We don’t want to be creeps to Derek and Susan in love on stage
Though we were the first to love them both up there
I give a hearty wave anyway from the front seats
And I think through the spotlights there’s a smile or wink returned to us
The silhouettes
As the two and their band watch one another
Still mesmerized as they saw and sing the epic Shame
And we the audience smash our hands and shake our tambourine heads
How can the whole world not know more
About this travelling family of musical magic?
We know in our minds they’re the best band in the world
On the scale of Zeppelin or the Stones in their prime
But in the now
And here they are
Still looking good and cool and willing to share something better
Kind enough to stop over
Say hello
Between Red Rocks and Milwaukee
To this little rustbelt university town
Stadium filled only three quarters of the way with 4000 people
I’m sure a sop financially for somebody
But the masterful musicianship we joyfully hear
And we respond with whistles and cheers
As good as anyplace
As loud as ever
Afterward
Outdoors
The Econo Lodge moon buzzes and blinks in our rearview mirror
For our long drive home on I-94
Back to Lansing we go
Chasing breadcrumbs the dotted lines
Our hearts filled our ears ringing
Through the quiet speeding dark.
Aspirations are a self revealing Impress,
peeping in gem facet placeholder-
of ruby glimpses
of
Fairy tale covers,
covertly-airbrushed by the atmosphere,
over genuine zirconium expectations.
In inner light magistrate cache cow-
in the crystal stereo
of the now and here,
flashes impetus clear like a streaker revealing
to illustrate, the daring, self inspiration of its baud rate
of liberation-ad-here.
Geniing the busy body of it's own needful premise
of seedful impetuous implication, promised on premises.
A banner at happy hour suggesting intoxicating ingestion.
Drunk with in-advertising
getting premonition of-promotion, imbibing
the "jasmine in your mind."
Relation-ships moon causes the roiling sea
to gem carats of her sparkling sirens.
Alluring rocks to dash you to pieces
in drawn compliance..
Unsown light can give you the creatures of her disease,
calling bluff to serve her touring manifestations.
With marked cards to lay down in flush that had lay dormant but surfaced up from the sleeve
and from the seep of pasts saved ante ups.
They are a whiskey shot at a saloon.
Liquid courage that causes you to bark at the moon.
Tide a naked ride tied to the back of a train,
of bad ideas, after tion, ction and igeon
blows your cover, like sudden electrical storm
over the rainbow over landover and hot air,-
balloons like a mushroom
clouded idead ideal that transports you into the stratosphere of her thundering strutopeels.
Her bubble puts you in her hair brained funny papers, periodically.
To keep you sober, from occupying
a van down by the river. (Which sounds good to me) incidentally, but that's neither here nor there,
immaterial, witness,
these thought bubbles-seductively
siring, serial 'vamped vapor round firing
like a ghost mistress who puts you in a stupor
on the grounds of desiring, her consecrated things.
Starbuck
Author Message
Admin
Admin
Age : 53
Joined : 25 Jun 2007
Posts : 45
Localisation : Tucson
Subject: Starbuck Today at 12:19
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Starbuck
Starbuck
SixtyOne
CharlaXFabels
Starbuck
There is a place called Starbucks and that is how many ewe should have of the
things
the dollars not the things oh ewe (long pause) now where was eye at let's see?
Eh?
The coffee comes with cream AND chocolate and iff ewe add some caramel and
cream
the thing could cost a lot of dollars turning green in someone elses hands.
The new coffee at Starbucks is called Starbuck it sells for 99 cents no tax for the
poor to have a Starbuck is an ad mans fix. When eye heard that Starbucks was
experimenting with the $1.oo coffee it immediately came to me what a common
sense solution and an ad man's dream. There would be a million dollars made
in the very first week. No one in the advertising department store will “GET” it. It
takes a long outsider look to seek and find a poet mind in wonder who has paid
his last two dollars just to have a common cup of black to prance down a city
slidewalk to hold the cup up high and proudly say eye go to Starbucks at least
this just one time. How many times have eye said eye would go in there instead
if they only made a coffee for a buck. Give it a new look. Make the Styrofoam in
black or even green not white.
Starbuck for a buck. Print a Starbuck coupon. Give away about a thousand of
them for promotions send the Charlax one. Charles R Hice General Delivery
Main Post Office Tucson Arizona 85726 eye kid you not after all it was my idea or
at least send me one of those $500 cards that everyone likes to use in the
mournings when they fill up all the drive threws. Make my day Clint Eastwoods
picture on the side of the new cup. Come on AD MEN throw it up in meetings to
all the chairmen of the boards of corrections. When cokes are now in all the
better machines at well over a dollar 33 the Coke@ people will finally make tea.
Just kidding ewe just twisting the ending on this CharlaXFabel. Be the first in line
to get the thing this Starbuck please.
A manic man sits, evenly, confined, conscious, in his four cornered room. His cell phone
rings and violently vibrates! The terrible tone slashed and sliced the serene silence he had
been anticipating all afternoon. It was her! The one he was trying to ignore. He could feel
her presence, penetrating, trying to get through phone. “Why is she calling—why now?” He
pondered and mused. He began to curse the moment and what it had become. He felt his
body burst in to two and a ritualistic battle ensued, between two beings deep within his core.
One beseeches him to pick up the phone, while the other tells him no.
Then it rang again, even louder than before!! It made his temperature soar, his body
burned, and his hands began to sweat. He rubbed them on his khaki pants so hard, that his
legs nearly went numb. Not before long, his whole body was wet, with sweat, saturating his
clothes so he tore them off. Soaking wet, he reluctantly reached for the phone. It rang
again, even louder than the two before!!! He created a fist and put it through a wall.
His mind, stalled. He looked at her number, emblazoned on his phone, flashing like a
billboard—advertising lies, the same ones he’s seen and bought, over and over, a hundred
thousand times. He knew if he talked, his hell would remain the same, so he tried to stay
dry, and remain somewhat sane. As he waited for his vigilant voicemail to save the day, it
rang once again, much…much louder than before!!!! He covered his ears only to feel the
drums of war, beating, pounding, profoundly in his chest. The battle was long and his insides
raged on. He started to feel himself finally losing grip, of a stronger, sturdier, “A brand new
self!” But as the milliseconds ticked on, he found himself reverting back, to a weaker, worn-
out, “I can’t stand myself.” He had agreed that no matter how much he groaned—he was not
to pick up the phone! So he shouted, and then he screamed! Then another vicious ring
brought the man cascading to his knees.
All hope—gone, the battle—lost. With the white flag waved, he gave one last huff, and one
last puff and politely said “hello…”
Submitted for Rambling's "Act I, SceneI" contest.
Daylight fades, a city pulsates, and traffic is reflected in store windows.
Hurrying headlights come out of the darkness.
They crisscross like dueling knights. People in the crosswalk scamper
as if squirrels and streetlights leer gleaming yellow eyes, like watchful hawks.
The shrill trumpets of the charging gale force winds, rattle an awning,
and newly planted maple saplings bend and sway
in random pairs. Set in concrete planters, they hang on by tender rooted toes.
Pages of a discarded newspaper are hurled into the air,
buoyed on the steely breath of a frigid winter evening.
Several leaflets scatter into the street and down the sidewalk,
into the path of one lone pedestrian.
He slaps away the sports page, that flies into his chapped, red face.
Without hesitation, this castaway vagrant, down and out
by the rape of hard times, will accept an offered dime,
from a passing man in a Red Sox ball cap.
Head bent low, face hidden, a worn and dirty pea coat
pulled tightly around his thin frame, he carries all his meager belongings
in a large paper grocery bag, wrinkled and beginning to tear.
Serving as his satchel, the brown bag, damp and worn,
still displays big bold red and black letters
advertising "Smart and Final Grocery"--"Located in Three Convenient Locations".
A city bus roars by, splashing through three days of rain,
and a siren and a blaring horn is heard from the next block.
The dark silhouetted outcast, stops for a moment,
peers into a sidewalk trash receptacle, then continues slowly down the sidewalk.
A taxi pulls up along the curb behind him, and the attractive couple,
dressed in evening wear, emerge, pay for their taxi, and arm in arm,
enter Mario's Italian Restaurant, the brick bistro
that sits on the corner of Broadway and 1st.
It begins to rain again, and across the street people open umbrellas
and like the afore mentioned squirrels, they scurry home to supper.
The lone man walks in the rain, his pace doesn't quicken, his voice never spoken,
a spirit broken, ............ his sack held together by circumstance.
A passerby takes a brief glance...just a quick, chanced moment,
to take notice of "Smart and Final's" last stance.
it's really not bad at all, it seems false advertising is the only way i get any numbers despite the fact that i write the truth so well:
DID YOU SAY RESURRECTION OR ********?
Pardon me Mister Sinister Minister
But you are not so much teaching as you are screeching and reaching
While preaching to the choir about brimstone and fire
As I deem you a damnable liar
And a prodigal prostitute who should be destitute
While I remain resolute against your irreverent and irrelevant irregularities
And you raise my ire to a dire decibel
Because I am not a disciple
Nor am I a member of your congregation
Because you are an abhorrent aberration whom I abhor
You unholy whore
Your soul on the whole is the goal of a ghoul
And I anoint you a fallacy and a freakish fool
While you duel with a demon whose semen is sanctimonious and erroneous
And I point to the error of your wretched ways
Until the end of days
You serve an ironic idol who is an iconoclastic and bombastic bastard I berate with hate who makes me irate…..
And whose fate is forecast by the force of a phallic symbol symbolized by the simple minded followers of a fraud
Who, quite frankly, leaves me abominably bored
An impossible imposter who fosters the phoniness of a fake who can’t make a pretender into the defender of the defenseless
Only the senseless hordes of impious who hear and believe the pretense you preach about
And fill me with undiluted and indubitable doubt
Because someone should wash your mouth out with soap
Hang you on the end of a rope
As you grope with grievance for the allegiance of the almighty
Since your facts are based on flightiness and reprehensible rhetoric scorned by the sensible and seen for the tripe it is
Ripe and rife with ridiculous conclusions
And the illusions of illusive, insidious, insipid and all inconclusive information
As I repeat
I am not a member of your congregation
Mr. Sinister Minister of misery and miserly compassion
Whose ration of ridiculousness is reclusive and replete with completely indecisive and indelicate ideologies
And what you preach and teach about is simply old hat
And so Mister Sinister Minister
Take that!
© 2012….copyright..PHREEPOETREE...~free cee!~
Nutter Butter. Almond Joy, Mounds Bars, and Cherry Mash.
Those candy manufacturers know how to name to get their cash.
We contenders scoff; we snicker and sneer.
The toymaker crazy idea brigade has just arrived here.
Someone throws out, Betsy Wetsy, Tiny Tears, Shrinky Dinks!
The contest is on, we are throwing down our inks.
Uh-oh. Star Wars George Lucas has entered the fray.
R2-D2, Han Solo, and Chewbacca have paved his way.
I do not mean for imaginations to get crazy, you all.
But is that manly cowboy, John Wayne, giant and tall?
Whew. Relief. False alarm. Just an advertising man.
From the 50’s, with a Marlboro cigarette in his hand.
“See the USA in a Chevrolet,” he screams loud and clear.
“Winston takes good like a cigarette should,” Trixie screams, and all hear.
What are you doing? I hiss, slightly embarrassed, and fully miffed.
Garfield comes in next, with his pal, Heathcliff.
A haughty sixty’s model brings in Beatniks, Hippies, and Happy Faces anew,
Informing us that the 60’s and 70’s was where words really came into view.
What about our urban dictionaries? The 1990’s delegation screams.
We invented words faster than a Mattel toy-namer figured out Barbie in her dreams.
The contest is on, now, the whole imagination convention is dancing and twirling.
My dendrites are hopping, clogging, doing somersaults, flipping and swirling.
What about those music videos? White-gloved Michael Jackson asked.
When his creative prowess enters, everyone promptly is aghast.
Are we doing words, ideas or what? I hear a contender scoff.
Three prissy judges get mad, and two promptly walk off.
No matter what, the creative committee is having a field day,
Meeting in Room Sixty-Two thousand ideas, and we all want to play.
Here’s an idea, one screams loud and clear.
Let’s just throw out some words, and scramble right here!
Trixie is ready to drop our hat into the ring.
She jumps right in there, to do a bit of Jell-O wrestling.
I am proud of my muse. I give her the wink.
She grabs Donald Duck, and she gives him a twink.
Her medal is all over the place, in shades of yellow and pink.
We are having a great time, our ideas on the brink….
( L A. Times - A cogent and accurate commentary by Member - johntomas )
You recycle a common but baseless accusation that NPR and PBS have become “left-leaning,” when in reality, what’s often labeled as “bias” is simply truthful reporting on deeply troubling actions -- including Donald Trump’s sustained attacks on democratic institutions, press freedom, judicial independence, and [ the ] rule of law.
Holding the powerful accountable, fact-checking lies, and spotlighting threats to civil liberties isn’t “left-wing” – it’s journalism.
When a political figure or party consistently undermines core democratic values, coverage that reflects that reality will appear critical -- but that doesn’t mean it’s biased.
In fact, multiple independent media watchdogs, including Media Bias/Fact Check and Ad Fontes Media, consistently rate both NPR and PBS as among the most factual, minimally biased, and balanced news sources available.
Programs like PBS NewsHour and All Things Considered feature rigorous reporting, diverse perspectives, and expert analysis far removed from partisan spin.
The nostalgia for figures like Huell Howser (a lifestyle and travel host, not a journalist) confuses entertainment with news.
The real “shock” isn’t PBS’s content -- it’s how politicized and thin-skinned some audiences have become when confronted with uncomfortable truths, especially about figures they once supported.
Public broadcasting didn’t betray its mission -- it upheld it.
_____
NOTES:
The Corporation For Public Broadcasting Sells Commercial Advertising Time as specific programs sponsorships making it more than just taxpayer funded. It's "Public" + "Non-Profit" + "Hybrid" + "Corporate" + "Confusion" + the indisputable highest quality programming ever produced by human beings and is the main-stay of the smartest and most courageous people on earth!
anyone who would destroy it is doing the work of Satan!
Shame On You - You MAGA REPUBLICAN-COMMUNIST IDIOTS!
THE AMERICAN GUILLOTINE is coming to your town!
_____
L. A. Times
[ ://tinyurl.com/yushhe6f ]