Long Announcements Poems
Long Announcements Poems. Below are the most popular long Announcements by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Announcements poems by poem length and keyword.
Tattoos, the rage, are not a fine art,
Not meant to hang on a gallery wall,
Black and white traditional, to sharp tribal plans,
Not huge, just simple and small,
You see, in galleries of oils and acrylic artists,
Paints are intricate, and tell a whole tale,
And these painted pieces are often worth heaps,
Often they’re there for a sale,
But tattoos have a meaning that belongs to that person,
Something no one else knows,
And often the person won’t share this perception,
Hiding it under their clothes,
Because tattoos are for personal announcements,
A permanent parade of their soul,
Not for sale to the public, like a fine art collection,
Tattoos help the person feel whole.
It's likely to happen at church before the worship service begins. But it also takes place at the end of the worship service as well. Believe it or not, it has been known to also occur during the brief 'get acquainted times'-you know, those few seconds after worship just before the announcements and offertory. By now you are saying, "What on earth are you talking about. Get to the point already". Believe me, there is serious chit-chat going on throughout the sanctuary during these few moments, but I can speak specifically for myself. You see, I wish, but I was not blessed with 'the gift of gab' having a huge depository of words. Small talk people finish your sentence before you do and are enameled with expressions like 'cut to the chase', 'name that tune...', and 'get to the point'.
Sports, health, weather, family, geopolitics, God, local and world news. Why, depending on what's going on in the world, the list is long and sometimes unpredictable. However, there are those among us well qualified to assess situations and solve the world's problem in minutes. For 'summation people', it's not always a question of time, but it's more like the way they are made up. I'm not saying that they are Jeopardy people or smarter than others. Moreover, if their world had a wheel of fortune, sighting words would not come easy for them. Therefore, they would be more inclined to buy them.
Imagine topics like sports and Geo-politics being shared for two to five minutes. Admittedly, some of us require a lot more time than others.
07162018cjPS(First of two parts)
The railroad ride was smooth as silk
Though it was ten degrees.
The train was just a minute late –
No time to feel the freeze.
We passed through towns of snow-topped homes
While sitting warm and snug,
The ticket taker’s attitude
As friendly as a hug.
But at Grand Central, we got off
And had to make a switch
To ride the city subway;
Let’s enumerate each glitch:
The crowded platform packed with people
Cursing the delays;
The trash-strewn tracks accruing more
On which the rats will graze.
Announcements stating that all trains
Are locals, not express;
Yet finally, we cram on board
As all those bodies press.
We go one stop and then the doors
On certain cars won’t close.
We’re ordered off and stumble out –
Well, that’s the way it goes.
We grab a cab and make it home
And think of those two trains –
Whatever calm the rail provides,
The subway quickly drains.
In the front door, out the back
Is how it ought to be;
On New York City buses,
Many people disagree.
The city’s added buses
With three doors instead of two,
In hopes that riders might just do
What they’re supposed to do.
Announcements blare reminders:
Exit middle doors or rear,
But still folks clamber forward,
Just as if they didn’t hear.
The lines outside get longer
For all those about to board.
They glare at front-door exiters,
But they are just ignored.
It seems a simple problem,
The solution very clear:
The front door is for entering;
To exit, use the rear.
But people do just what they want
So we are in a fix,
For even New York City can’t
Teach some old dogs new tricks!
Someday I’ll miss the sound
Of my mom singing carols
Off-key in the other room
While I’m trying to fall asleep
(We agree Bing Crosby and Dean Martin
Have astonishingly similar voices)
Mingled with her announcements
I got another one!!
Tallying up her finds
On our impossible cupcakes puzzle
Marooned on half our dining table
Ever since last Valentine’s
(She wants to entice me to help her find more
But I lost my patience long ago
So I just made her a glass of lemonade
With five ice cubes falling from the fridge)
It’s mildly annoying right now
Hearing her argue with cupcakes
Singing along quite out loud
With her unending playlist
Yet it’s also kind of comforting
To pause and think
This will be a memory of her
I can make it sad or happy
And I know I’d regret it if I complained
Because someday I’ll miss the sound
Of my mom singing carols
In mommy’s tummy
Tiny, warm, happy and content
I felt their surprise at the news and felt loved
I heard Mommy singing
Daddy's voice
reactions to announcements
calling out different baby names
Life was good as I practiced
smiling
laughing
giggling
moving my arms and legs
sucking my thumb
doing somersaults
counting my fingers and toes
recognizing mommy's and daddy's voice
And my little body grew in the dark
I dreamt about one day
playing with kittens
petting puppies
playing with gold fish and turtles
reaching out to the moon
splashing in a bubblebath
wearing silly clothes
falling asleep to lullabies
and bedtime stories
playing with toys
playdates at the park
learning to walk
learning to talk
learning my numbers and ABC's
climbing trees
chasing butterflies
flying my first kite
touching and smelling flowers
Easter egg hunts
Christmas mornings
I felt so much anticipation and love for my arrival
as mommy rocked me on the big chair by my crib
AP: 3rd place 2020
We’ve left behind orphans, you and I,
a gaggle of memories like street urchins
left to starve and die in the
city of self-imposed amnesia.
We’ve staged our own deaths,
reciting happy obituaries of our former selves,
birth announcements of our new incarnations,
everyone duly notified of fissure and closure.
So that those troublesome orphans,
believing us dead,
homeless, unattended,
are left forever behind;
memories unremembered,
past disowned by present.
But they know where we are,
and they come,
knock on the doors behind which
we’re safely ensconced in new lives.
We let them knock,
cringing and waiting
with furtive glances
from behind closed curtains
until they finally recede into the night.
They are unconcerned, these little orphans.
The camouflage of our reinvented selves
don’t hide us.
They will be back.
“Twas the night before Christmas and all through the malls
there was widespread confusion and hot, frenzied brawls.
Many shoppers were wanting the same bloomin’ gifts.
Desperation resulted in feud-level rifts.
There were four grandmas fighting for one preschool game.
Their ferocity made angry pit bulls look tame.
Jostling shoppers collided and bags hit the floor.
Their attempts to retrieve them caused head butts and more.
Loud confusion—“That’s mine!” “No, it’s mine!!”—could be heard.
Startled bystanders heard more than one naughty word.
Two old geezers that should have been home fast asleep
bumped into a tired Santa; all three muttered BLEEP.
When announcements “Ten minutes till close” hit their ears,
those who hadn’t found all they desired held back tears.
The wild nightmare soon ended, and tired folks went home,
knowing that no time soon, crowded malls they would roam.
All would vow, “NO MORE last -minute shopping for me!”
Christmas morning—well-rested— all smiles by the tree,
they remembered the monsters they’d been just last night
and rejoiced that those creatures were nowhere in sight!
November 22, 2018, entered in Joseph May's Night Before Christmas
contest
Neon lights outlined stalls
in braids of red and green
in the dim cavernous hall
of the railway station.
Muted drum taps of passing feet
and crisscross talk were pierced
by stabbing announcements
of departing trains.
A stairway tunneled upwards
to the street
where a wall of daylight
met squinting eyes.
Stonework still wore the soot
of steam trains long silenced
from impatient panting,
their age had passed.
My age was diesel with its fumes
pumping out incessantly
without pausing for a breath.
Guttural piston beats
pulsed the air with shudder.
Some of us still left home
riding dreams on train tracks
or else sailed them to England on P&O.
Most stayed at home
and waited for the ballot.
Out of step with the sixties
the railway station languished
in its nostalgic façade.
Newspaper banners headlined protests
and the Vietnam war.
Through its ageing concourse
young men moved in haste or haze
towards uncertain destinations
Nonviolent designers
of Public Service Announcements
Like "STOP"
smoking
shooting up
drinking
trashing
burning
ignoring various morbid diseases
sinning
sundry mental/spiritual pathologies
unsafe behavior
And feeling ugly
smelling
bad sexing
eating crap
unsafe touching
Undeclaring vengeful killing wars
Straight White Male supremacy
ecofeminist confused agendas
greens
reds
whites
blues
browns
blacks
Lust
rust
greed
going to seed
All these STOP campaigns
seem to miss my pointed
loser experience
that aiming for what makes me right now happy
is, perhaps, a long-term disgrace
So, what I aim for
instead
is whatever lies
and hiddenness,
safe camouflage
behind
and beneath respectful society's
muttered under sour breath
"good riddance"ness,
I aim for saving face.
You can campaign
all commercial day
and consummating night
to persuade me that my health
is also our happy
absence of communal fright
and resonant,
perhaps even resilient,
brilliantly enlightened
and empowering wealth.
But,
in my heart
of hurt
addiction
depression
anxiety
remorse for an angry life
at least half dead
from fear
you may uncover me
in ways I can't pretend
to self-righteously defend
I need some campaign
even larger than anti-addiction
to thinking either bliss
or blues,
Win/lose
Earth's evolving
devolving runaway mission,
money exchanging zero-sum transmission,
inside a nonzero multiplying transmission
system
Not for peace,
or win/win health
is also wealth,
or whimsically precarious
happy nest
unrest;
not sure I tried
my best.
I want to join
Earth's Great Return
for self-regenerating
revolving annual campaigns
springing climate forth
summer's healthy maturation
falling harvest wisdom
wintering indigenous
sacred
nurtured meaning,
Theological enlightenment
ecologically empowering
in-between
co-arising Yang SunGod
and Yintegral
Matriarchal Earth
Tribes consuming public campaigns
green co-passionate
communion
saving Earth's most happy
sacred face,
warm embrace,
holistic place
divinely humane race
toward peaceful space
and pace.