Long Ambulances Poems
Long Ambulances Poems. Below are the most popular long Ambulances by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ambulances poems by poem length and keyword.
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.
HORRIFIC HIGHWAY
Driving at the speed allowed
On Highway N17, traffic ploughing,
Zig zagging, racing, and over taking
Accidents in the making,
Motor bikes screaming past,
Driving fanatically fast,
Showing off thinking it’s a blast,
A terrifying scene,
Spades, The queen
Of death on the road,
A taxi collides with a
Garbage truck,
Taxi overloaded, what
Incalculable bad luck, people just fly
As most the passengers die,
And garbage and muck,
Fall out of the truck.
Driver trapped underneath,
Fire men, paramedics
Try to pull him out from beneath,
Traffic police guiding cars, into
One lane,
For some, it will never be
The same,
As ambulances carry the
The injured away,
To perhaps see another day!
The dead covered with silver
Thermal blankets are waiting
For the mortuary van
Damn,
Don’t want to see any more,
Want to run,
But trapped in heavy
Traffic jam,
I want to scream and scram,
Suddenly the police open,
The road,
Other cars also broken,
But minor injuries
Thank God,
1st responders, I must
In awe, laud!
NON METERED TAXI’S IN SOUTH AFRICA ARE ALLOWED UP TO 15 PASSENGERS IN A MINI TAXI
AND UP TO 22 IN THE LARGER ONES – THIS WAS AN OVERLOADED MINI
TAXI – MORE OR LESS HALF THE PEOPLE SURVIVED. THIS OCCURRED JUST OUTSIDE
JOHANNESBURG
Thinking is seaman's chore
in calm oceans, not the seagul's noise.
You need the right condition to
avoid sublimation-- a house burned down
by a mob needs practicing generosity.
Thinking of suffering in pandemic is itself
an act of suffering, needing resuscitation. Start with masks on the dead without coffins, truck-loads of bodies, with no where to go, ghosts of doctors exiting to cheering crowd, ambulances screeching to a halt, melting urban hot zones and infectious rural alarms.
You need the right condition to survive thinking of suffering, the wailing in hospital hallways, the hungry and the food banks, the mothers and bored infants, poorly-clad nurses teeming with pride. Pandemic has foisted new thinking on future survival, not trips to Niagra Falls. Thinking is luxury of living, not mortgaged by the dead, and suffering in thinking is legacy of the dead. Before the pandemic thinking was an easy kill by TV and internet, now pegged to a killer surge.
Ask for the roots of suffering and you never get it right, xenophobia's order of the day and thinking in despair. I think therefore I am – infected with fear and dread. I suffer, therefore I am.
One moment he was alive; the next he was dead
Gunned down midst a gang war, a bullet in his head
No motive whatsoever, nor rhyme nor reason at all
Only alienation and desperation casting their dark pall
Over an act so unspeakably wanton and cruel
It incinerated once and forever all Laws and Rules---
Society's fabric pierced, penetrated, shattered and rent
As mourners paid clumsy tributes, broke down and went
Home to a future that now felt so grim and so bleak
A Future of ambulances clanging and sirens' shrieks
A Future here Now on countless sidewalks of slums
Where murder's a hero, law and order a bum
so often now
Boris the imbecilic
non party go
cry if you want too
you would cry too
if you happened to you
One kicking cat
one a rapist
i would vow never
to kick a ball again
The cheeks have turned
and i have cricked my neck
Andrew guilty but still they give him shelter
No wonder Harry got to
Fork my lines like a L
------------------------------I---- ------n
---------------------------------g- ---t----i
----------------------------------- -h--------n
----------------------------------- --------------g strike
A Sim
a lea
similarly assimilate a simile
S------------------------e it can get worse
--m-----------------l
---------------i
well going by our history
i am ashamed there is a you and me
i hope the cats and dogs reign
shh there goes another squealing
songs of panic
too late
or just too soon
Word Lyric for Music #4
”Hearing the Wind in Garden City”
Got off the train at silent midnight,
Standing in the glow of a swerving streetlight,,
Then I heard something fly through the center of my soul,
It was the big yellow bird with black nuns in tow,
One by one the avenger attacked without pity,
But I was alone, hearing the wind in Garden City.
Drove on old Highway 50 at noon time,
Pulled the car into the shade with the Sunoco sign,
Standing in the darkness of the dour men’s room,
I saw the Cherokee killer wearing the lizard costume,
Soon, seven miles down the highway, he will show no pity,
But I was alone, hearing the wind in Garden City.
Creeping slowly down the old oak lane,
I saw the house, and the green unforgotten pain,
The guys tied up the moon and left the sun afright,
And shot four holes through the heart of the night.
Then I heard something fly through the center of my soul,
It was the big yellow bird with black nuns in tow,
One by one the avenger attacked without pity,
But I was alone, hearing the wind in Garden City.
Standing over their graves in the shadows of Valley View,
I saw Nancy dancing in red, with Bobby dressed in blue,
I saw a terrified girl in the darkness, begging for her life,
I saw the guys carrying a blue-barreled shotgun, and a hunting knife.
There is blood on the walls, and innocence is lost,
Four ambulances on the lawn, their tracks are star-crossed,
Then I heard something fly through the center of my soul,
It was the big yellow bird with black nuns in tow,
One by one the avenger attacked without pity,
But I was alone, hearing the wind in Garden City.
Job Description Board of the Middle East
The Sniper - not Palestinian
The Bomber - not Palestinian
The Thief - not Palestinian
The Terrorist - not Palestinian
The Child Killer - not Palestinian
The Burner of Tents - not Palestinian
The Group that blows up Hospitals - not Palestinian
The Rapist - not Palestinian
The Blocker of Humanitarian Aid - not Palestinian
The Exploding Pager Man - not Palestinian
Plant Bombs in Toys Job - not Palestinian
Booby Trap food on the starving - not Palestinian
Deprive Water to the Starving Job - not Palestinian
Genocide Promoter - not Palestinian
Financier of Genocide - not Palestinian
Propagandist for defending burning Babies - not Palestinian
Killer of Journalists - not Palestinian
Using Ambulances to murder civilians - not Palestinian
However all these positions are open
apply in Israel
they need more persons with zero morals
death is their only currency
It was murder to claim to leave them,
Proactively, without being asked,
All the panic attacks, the ambulances,
Which attended to them, tasked.
They’d stunted me, deprived of the right,
To rehab from a normal male atheist OT,
And they had said that I’d forgotten,
About trueness: life, freedom and dignity.
According to them and their church,
They had normal values on their side,
Believing that life’s most important thing,
Is conversion, not rehab for mild CP wide.
According to them, I had a duty of care,
To them: to be normal, meaning disabled,
Or cared for, and to validate Christianity,
Because church life makes you enabled.
According to them, they could interpret,
My speech to health professionals rightly,
So that made them entitled to orchestrate,
My moral precepts and views, very tightly.
They had the right to not be killed by me,
And they had morality behind them, adult,
‘Cos in my disabled state i could only specify,
Their murder, as movement for me was difficult.
29/7/2016
The sky sneers at me through the curtain of clouds
I strain in vain to see if a star is flickering
The night stands stripped of all munificence
As I turn and twist on my bed,
I know for sure insomnia stubbornly
Keeps her reins on my poor self
As I lie sleepless with my torso weighing a ton,
Whispering my anguish onto my pillow
With darts of pain stinging out from my swollen eyes
I know I have lost sense of every passing hour,
But intensely feel every moment….
My ear drums are slit by the sirens of ambulances
Their blinking lights flashing in darkness
And scrawling strange graffiti on the walls
Down in the patio, I hear the swish
Of paper flung by the paper boy
Thank God! The night has ended.
But is it not for another night’s painful litany?
Yet I dream of a bright dawn
At the end of every night of distress!
Achievement, 1 of 2
—Time to share—
I grew up in a slum where the gang members,
at the risk of their lives, fight over their turf.
My lullaby was red and blue warning lights
flickering from dashing squared cars and ambulances,
and my bedtime story was the blow of sirens passing through
the streets and alleys between boarded up abandoned houses
standing in rows here and there.
My mother, though loved me dearly,
happened to be a high school dropout
and single who brought this world to me at her teens.
She was a minimum wage earner, therefore, her life was
nothing but struggles, kept body and soul together in misery
between laid off to employed to laid off, between paycheck to welfare
to paycheck that is thinner than a sheet of paper.
Although under educated, she was a pious woman,
and that is why her keen desire was not her son to follow
the steps of her mistake and suffer like his mother.
Her wish was to raise her only child to be a decent citizen
with a noble profession and thereby add some value to the community,
return some good things to the society.
Apart from mother’s great expectation, however,
I was a disobedient rogue child, a kind of problem kid
on the block when I was a lad. I got into bad company
and led astray by them, was irregular in attendance to a school
and cut classes whenever I felt like.
Until one day I learned of my mother’s tragic death
on the way back home from her work,
she was struck by a stray bullet
in the midst of gang members cross fire.