Long Aides Poems
Long Aides Poems. Below are the most popular long Aides by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Aides poems by poem length and keyword.
I listen to the Leftists
I listen to the Rightists
They are not among the brightest.
The Leftists want a $15 minimum wage, a guaranteed job
For every wage-earner in the US, be he gentleman or slob.
They want free health insurance, free college tuition
They haven't the slightest economic intuition.
With all that guaranteed government stuff
Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer will have it exceedingly rough.
Though the federal tax form itself will be razor-thin:
How much do you make? -- Send it all in!
Of course, those on the Right are not a whit better
When it comes to the President's outrages, they're aides and abettors
His insults, his outright lies, they dismiss as 'inconsequential'--
As long as stock and bond market gains remain monumental
After much consideration and not inconsiderable thought
I've reached a conclusion, one that's dearly bought:
A Pox on the Left and a Pox on the Right --
I'll not purchase a house; I'll not be a renter
I'll just pitch my tent smack dab in the Center
May 03 2018
JUXTAPOSED AWARENESS
On and within the fullness
of this beautiful sunshine day,
I peacefully sit here pondering
the present chaos of the world.
How awe confusing…it all is–
outside, flowers are blooming,
birds and butterflies are soaring,
and the quiet wind peacefully blows.
.
But within the physical and spiritual me,
there seems to be a battle for power control
over which system is the most in control when
it comes to sustaining me physically and spiritually.
Indeed–within–the heart seems to challenge
the brain, while expansion and restraint tease
the soul and spirit with respect to focus and divine
wisdom and guidance in oneness of mission purpose.
Here at home and around the rest of the world, atrocities
continue within its circumference: supporting inequality,
denying climatic change, ignoring human disasters,
and pimping war; all deemed…apt power aides.
Indeed, as I sit here looking out into the Godly beauty
of nature’s canvassing in the springtime, all is painfully
sighted and sourly tasted by the awareness of the chilling
wind of change murderous war is bleeding onto peaceful life.
Once more and again–we hued–wherever we may be
in our sojourn, are caused to detour round-about-focus of
empathy to drop off aspiration, inspirations, hope, faith, and
collective actions, to physically and spiritually aid victims of war-
mongering power-viral infected oppressors we all battle in common.
As I sit here gazing out/into this beautiful canvassing of nature,
hell flaming fires are wreaking devilish havoc not too far away and
at the same time, bombs shred life and spread their collateral pains;
all leaving peace to be realized in the spirituality of the actions of love.
As the “round-about of nature leads us back to the sojourn pathway
our ancestors left and foot-printed for us, let’s move on past syndrome
roadblocks and continue to cover miles of awareness–honking honks–echoing
to all the world that “...our equanimity too, is essential to world harmony.”
*Image of Contrary To Popular Belief by Medium.
The End Times
A locomotive train chugs remote wails,
The tempest brews a calamitous stunt,
Falls of exiting steam, moist teary tails,
A structure of ills desires cured a want.
Veil vibration replaced by hissing wake,
Cataract succession cues lined motion,
Some distracted or misguided, opaque,
Soulless of no else deluged rain ocean.
Sullied countenance, mockery furthers,
Epochs and places are just meaningless,
Thoroughly isolated faced earthworms,
Constantly moving, redemption is thus.
Ejected wetness lift drips of sweat mix,
The stench of septic mortal feces foils,
Contour be less as the haunted will fix,
Worker's fast recovery spreads uncoils.
Rally cry register whispers pitch, softs,
Periodic responders aides the crushed,
Posture updated processing kickstarts,
Rancid remains, putrid folks, relief guts.
Orders of ruinous wayward verve shifts,
As shots of waterworks claim offensive,
Soapy lathered bodies recast the stiffs,
Challenging chambers took a directive.
Where'er 'twas is whate'er 'tis to be-be,
My sweatshop is done I will be obeyed,
For I am the Lord master 'tis realms me,
I give to you all of that you hath prayed.
'Tis all you lived, died for it is paradigms,
Earn that you buried a tip for end times.
2022 February 11
'That’s not my elephant, Miss Ella. Get to tickets to Cairo tonight.'
I looked up from my desk, picked up the phone and sullenly said ‘alright’.
But before I could make that call, I had to cancel with Eddie;
Our first real date as a couple; I was making Italian spaghetti.
I spent the rest of the day, calling keepers, curators and aides,
Searching for missing elephants, until we boarded the plane.
Cairo was warm and amusing, but my heart was with Eddie tonight;
I wonder what he does for a living; but I love him, so he must be alright.
'That’s not my elephant, Miss Ella' I woke to hear him speak;
'Cairo shipped him to Paris; he’s featured at the Louvre this week.
Do you know a guy named McGregor? Got his hands on this deal somehow;
Thinks D.C. is the only location; more second graders to see him there now.'
'This McGregor, he’s got strange ideas; thinks Obama has brought a new voice;
With young children to raise, a desire to learn... museums must make the right choice.'
But I’d never heard of McGregor, I just wanted to know the next plan;
For my heart was still dreaming of Eddie, and of when we could meet again.
Then my boss told me that this McGregor nearly ruined the Bill of Rights;
He said the small second graders couldn't see without radiant lights.
He got lots of support from other curators and keeper and even some aides;
I even heard tell he went out on a limb and asked one of them on a date.
'Now I hear it wasn't my elephant, posing in Paris this week;
Mr. Eddie McGregor tried to take charge, but turns out he’s really quite meek.
Get two tickets for home, Miss Ella; we found my elephant tonight;
Mr. Eddie McGregor tried to get smart, but turns out he’s not very bright.'
'Why, Miss Ella, there’s no need to cry, we're shipping my elephant home;'
But my tears had begun a minute before, when I had answered my phone.
It was Eddie, and he poured it all out, then said he'd no longer come 'round;
The government takes a dim view of theft; my Eddie had been sent down.
Wake up grumpy
tired
much older than yesterday.
Day fifty-seven,
an irrationally
not nice
non-round number,
since defiantly challenging daughter,
with the contextual right-brain unhealthy intelligence
of a sociopathic alligator,
last came home from school
or anywhere without me.
Remembering her school's response
when I suggested her six-hours-per-day aide
five days per week
not be switched out every week
or two.
She doesn't do well with transitions
including interpersonal change,
lack of power to control
a significant Other's time
to stay
and go.
While aware this is an issue,
their larger concern was burn-out.
Aides couldn't tolerate the intensity
of her hostility
and constant need
need
need for attention,
for food,
for distraction,
for action,
for...
Wondering how the best of her school supporters
would feel after 228 consecutive
six-hour shifts
Without any supervisor
capable of reassuring me
or him
or her
or them
or us
of how many more to go
without adequate social distancing
within our lumpy quarantine space.
No possible reassurance
or warning
we're just getting started,
about to end,
over the hump,
or not so much,
actually.
Perfect.
Definite only about feeling humped out
and jumped in
lack of ease,
sucked out potential for unguarded rest.
Feeling sorry for myself,
yes,
but also for her,
and for all of us
who have taken risks
to give long-term care
where receiving care in response
is not a reasonable
or compassionate
expectation of hope-filled ways,
faithful truths,
loving lives
Quietly waking up grumpy
in unsolidarity
unsolitary confinement.
dim drab
icy cold
song-less
pop open an eye
see my breath
like band-aides
rip these covers off
desperate stumbling
forced march
to Coffee
shivering
mission
complete
retreat
back to bed
burrowing deep
hood over my head
poor souls
who must rise
I close my eyes
roll over
and wait
for warmth
to waft
through the walls of
this cruel world
lucky souls
who gotta girl
to cuddle up to
comfort and freedom
never existed
in one package
for me
never was an angel
to set me free
she peeks over
the mountains east
my pretty girl
light slips through
blind slits
in deep winter
how I miss
the birds I
should've
could've
flown
too
maybe Ecuador
or Peru
dear house I'm
here with you
so many things
make me stay
get rid of one
ball and chain
clap on another
starting to feel
warm rays
penetrate
this space
need to move
be in this day
soon enough
birds will
come back to play
there's one now
faintly chirping
alone
soul hurting
feathered friend
gonna go hang
a feeder in my tree
fill it with seed
make cold mornings
brighter
for the birds
and me
I've dreamed those dreams of galore
Consecrated memories of illicit seams
On tapestries woven in my mind
Tears of matted lights flashing through time
I starve full belly contains wanton aides
Blossoming crops of flowered nightmares
Ever so frightening delightful the rainbow
Casting down fires lavational distorted hues
Dominates are those visions intertwine
Glass bottom pastures surrounded by trees
The trees blooming with monarch butterflies as leaves
Thinkings of glorious wonders vision of time
with all this my eye sees the light!!!
3/31/18
written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2018©
Look for the ancient pathway
Where the path breathes with life at every sacred step;
Heaving and yearning,
gradually freeing our souls;
untwining and untangling even the ugliest knots.
Until all we seek is Your face,
And all we hear is Your tender voice,
Beckoning us further than we dare to tread alone;
Pilgrimage becoming sweet
When we place our hands in Yours,
The rough ways You do make smooth
And the crooked path You do make straight.
Whilst the Wolves and Hyena’s mock in vain;
Our heads now drip
with Your precious oil,
And our human form with Your feathers You do hide,
For You know our feeble frame.
When shadows are drawn long at eventide
we remember we are but dust
As the scattered embers remain;
our life’s refrain
We still our souls to remember thus:
Tales of knights in armoured suits,
And battles long they fought,
awoken as if by ancient dreams,
Drawing on the waters deep for the thirsty soul ne’er can sleep
Quenched now only by Thy healing streams
Thee my burning embers cool.
Seeking solace now instead of noise;
Wisdom’s cloak is gladly worn
When the hour presses deep
upon our souls
The oil of gladness is our song.
With fervour we press on towards The Prize,
Though lions roar and oceans swell,
We have learnt the beauty of Your ways
And love to dwell in Your ancient Courts,
listening like small children to their Mother’s soft sweet voice
We deftly tread upon the world that Thou hast made,
and Thou aides us on to Beulah Land
Where at the river shall we cross
Into The Jordan Sea
??
I hear it from across my river view-
the echoed horn of Metro-North's rail train.
At early dawn, I sit and wonder who
is going to the City to sustain
essential duties- heroes so humane-
those doctors, nurses, aides, to lend support,
along with first responders who deport
to hospitals where Covid patients bide.
There- they at risk help stay day's death report;
own fearfulness of sickness override.
April 9, 2020
~HM~
Contest: Brian's Choice 5
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 05/08/2020
Note:
Metro-North trains go through the Hudson Valley
along the Hudson River to Grand Central Station in
New York City. Because of the Coronavirus, they
run on a limited schedule for essential employees
who work and are needed in the Metropolitan area.
This autumn morning with the birds waking up
and the leaves changing is Election Day. I meet
Jane Trichter on the downtown train and discuss
Henry's upset. Her skin is soft especially her cheeks
and she is intelligent and sensitive. The subway riders
do not recognize their representative.
All week, at the office, I accomplish nothing substantive
but keep the aides and interns working
and cheerful. On Tuesdays there is always a wave
of constituent complaints, by telephone. One woman's
Volkswagon is towed and the police break in
to get it out of gear. Do they have that right,
can they tow even though no sign said Tow Away Zone?
It is an interesting question but I try to avoid
answering it. The woman persists and succeeds
in committing me.
The people at the office want to bomb Iran. A few Americans
held hostage and therefore many innocent women and children
pay the postage. It may be good classical logic to hold responsible
the whole society for the acts of a few, however, then
I must begin to expect the bomb and the white cloud that waits.
Apocalyptic visions are popular again
but we are more likely to thrash the earth to within an inch of its life
than scorch it to charred rock.
Corner of Church and Chambers,
German tourist's language, accent repels me
although I wasn't alive 45 years ago
and many sweet, great Germans opposed the crazy Nazis
but lately I've read Primo Levi's If Not Now, When?,
seen William Holden in "The Counterfeit Traitor",
have followed the argument started by revisionists
who say the Nazi atrocities never happened.
War brought many shopkeepers, bookkeepers close to their earth,
weather, seasons, death.
I see daily life as low-intensity warfare
as my father, the World War II vet, did.
Off to work we go. What is war?
Population control, mother of invention, diversion
from the work of making life permanent.
Today is Election Day and because it's a day off
for most municipal employees, the City Hall area
has been quiet and easy to work in. Henry and Jane
hold a press conference on teenage alcoholism.
Leslie, the other aide, who I'd like to draw
the stockings and clothes off of and feel her whole body
with mine, goes home with her mother, leaving me
standing by my desk with my briefcase at the end
of Election Day.