Long Antennas Poems
Long Antennas Poems. Below are the most popular long Antennas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Antennas poems by poem length and keyword.
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they paint sound and city pastel,
never at a loss for inspiration,
weather neither bar nor barrier,
in the face of whirlwind snowfall,
freezing ice, torrential downpour,
within themselves, he, she, they plod on,
hardship is adopted, never cast aside,
while others brazenly squirm,
wallow in uproarious denial,
wilt before the slightest storm,
taking flight in arid comfort zone,
shelter is their first convenient port,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
alert does not begin an ample portrait,
of this wilful dwindling genus,
genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
they capture worlds sidereal,
under velvet moon imagining bespoke,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
how magical their canny weave lexicon,
for us timid souls to relish evermore,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
vicarious the kismet, excitement from afar,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
Little ant, you are invited to rest here
on the back of my hand.
You’re invited to think about time with me.
I am always thinking about time,
all those thoughts pollinate my very skin.
Time little ant is not on your side.
Feel the coarseness of my skin
the ridges and gnarls
time was my master, yet a bad teacher.
I must confess that I paid too much attention
to the movement of the sky
and missed the movement of my mind,
and you little ant
waving your myopic antennas, no doubt pondering
the pheochrome taste of my words,
no doubt sensing something so large
that you can see it not.
Not even if my eye comes close to you
can you perceive me.
This is what time looks like little ant,
it’s too discrete to be trapped,
too considerable to be conceivable.
We are both just ants filtered through
its porous skins.
Now you wander onto a fingernail.
What now little ant?
Do you glimpse times cliff edge
as I you shake you off,
do you grasp that which is unimaginable to you,
yet which will surely kill you?
Do I?
Chinese trollers
Cranes and pulleys motor oil saliva
Fishhook cockroach antennas dipped to the oceans
Thousands of sailing creepy crawlers
Bandits with razors
Cross the boundless seas
Devours crumbs of every kind of confiscated fish
Left to crawl or swim on the ocean floor
The hulls share their creaking space
With bunks for 20-year-old sailor slaves
Signed on
Then denied Port for up to three years
“Mama mama rescue me.” Messages from tossed beer bottles
If these young men get sick or hurt
Sometimes over the side they go
Fish guts
Transfer the catch to larger Chinese factory ships
Shadows slinking under the middle-ocean moons
That spoon the salt from emptied seas
Every Treaty and Border violated
Back to China
On ice
The raped slave girls in blue uniforms
Sold from North Korea for two years a piece
Slice and dice with knives
Fish heads and sucker arms
Sliding along the bloody Chinese assembly lines
18 hours a day with an evening beating
Seven days a week
Packaged tagged
Up sold again
North Korea’s skin in the game?
Meat to fund their nuclear missiles
Oh
Don’t bother blaming the CCP Biden Trump
Moon or Corporate America
It is we
The religious consumer
Who have been sufficiently and recently
Re-trained
To have an insatiable appetite
To woof down Calamari
Thought you’d like to know
Though
The long modern journey of re-branded squid.
In the dark cloudy nights,
The sound of thunder wakes me up,
With the visions of threatening monsoon clouds.
The monsoon clouds overwhelmed the sky,
The ominous feeling, flashes of lightning,
The sounds of thunder filled me with eerie fears.
Once saw the lightning struck an electrical wire pole,
The flash going in ground only hundred feet away, numbing my arms for days,
The menacing sight, tree limbs, radio antennas, window glass, scattered miles away,
It was so frightening; it still blinds my rainy-day romantic vibes.
As a child, whenever lightning flashed, clouds thundered,
I would seek refuge in the darkest corners,
Pray to God, I will be good boy, let the gloomy clouds go away.
The psychological fear of lightning has stayed with me forever,
Hope the lightning never strikes the same person twice,
Glad my childhood memories are behind me; bet they will come back with the dark rumbling clouds.
THIRD WORST CLATTER OF ANTIMATTER
clatter of antimatter
alien dishes splatter
(the shape of spaceships)
his antennas* whir with rising
he considers going wireless
a dish flying at warp speed
like a zillion cyclonic bats
(female Vogon shriek encapsulated by rage)
the creaming of eggs
the earth took a beating
(local yokels evaporating)**
the pounding of this poem
pretty bad prose
destruction of the first and second worst verse
because everyone knows a Vogon
must clink and clank
on its dink and dank typewriter***
the third worst clatter of antimatter
mama Vogon whisks their deadpan bottoms
if you think your kids make noise
you’ve never heard a Vogon cry
D…o….n, well f…i…n…i…t,
Fingers smack on each key, pounding little hammers.
Zip..(return carriage)
How oh how did those earthlings type with these
Zip…(return carriage)
But this is rather priceless after earth’s fiasco
3/7/2017
Shadow Hamilton’s The Noise contest
*American television show depicted a martian with antennas
that would rise from his head “My Favorite Martian”
**Local yokels – an inhabitant of a particular locale
***Everyone knows that a Vogon doesn’t know the “meaning”
of the Universe (or words for that matter)
“What exactly are you?” “I don’t normally ask, but here we are.”
“I am, how do you say in earthling? I am your favorite martian.”
“What big ears, I mean antennas you have! Do they hurt?”
“Only when earthlings talk bad about me..you don’t talk
bad about me, do you, Jim?” he says with a sideways grin.
“Your making me nervous, my favorite…I mean, what is your name.”
“*$&@*&#@*$&#*@, but you can call me Al.”
“Why are you here?”
“Here? Where? Be more specific. Question feels a bit existential.”
“On earth, Al. We are concerned about your reasons for being here.”
“Again, Jim, a bit existential!”
“Do you mean us harm?”
“Do you mean US harm, Jim? That is the real question. There is
only one of me and so many of you earthlings” Al blows his honker.
“Al…Al…ahchoo.”
“What on Mars was that!”
Al hands him a handkerchief with unusual stitching.
“Keep the change, Jim.” he says as he walks away from the interview.
Jim wipes his schnoz with the gift and succumbs to it.
At midnight, beneath the silent crown of Mount Kailash,
I wandered alone, my eyes fixed on the vast tapestry of stars.
Then, without warning, a river of light fell from the heavens—
a radiant stream, golden and blue, draping the mountain in fire.
Figures appeared, human in shape but woven from pure white light,
walking, yet floating, descending without sound.
No words escaped their lips, yet my mind heard their voices.
Telepathy—sharp, clear, undeniable.
“We are the Anunnaki,” they said,
“keepers of the Milky Way belt.
Earth is our living laboratory.
From time to time, we come
to give tasks to those prepared.”
In a blink, I was lifted to the mountain’s peak.
Laid face down, I felt their touch upon my spine—
a spark, a flood of static fire racing through me.
I was powerless, yet strangely awake,
as if my soul was rewired.
“You are one of our chosen antennas,” they whispered,
“a bridge between frequencies,
a vessel through which hidden knowledge will flow.
At times you will appear, at times you will vanish,
but always, you remain our instrument.”
Then, as suddenly as they came,
they returned me to the path where they found me.
The light faded, the night grew still.
Yet the question burns:
How did Zechariah Sitchin know?
How did he see what few dare believe?
And why, when people say I am visible and invisible,
do I now understand—
I am simply a human antenna.
The Swallows
Like dotted foreheads of women, our land was dotted with swallows;
They had rap dances on the farmers’ ploughs and bulls’ yokes in the field
With feathery steps to the toilers’ footsteps till the land was filled with yield.
The harvest saw them fluttering about in mirth, mating and birthing new fellows.
When fields became housing colonies and farmers became paupers, the swallows
Too became refugees like humans without legs; their nakedness had no shield;
Their songs had no listeners; past pulled their todays as the future feared to yield
And stood still; droves and droves migrated towards pastures new with few fellows.
Gone were our dreams when mobile tower antennas began lynching us so much;
Much horror followed when fatal ‘hellos’ just snapped our lives like winged sparks;
Magnets and rays radiated fatwas to our stagnant gen; we flew away and away
Searching for abodes to perch safely and to have a rap once again, but a touch
On the tout corporate wires across fields make us cuddle our legs like fail marks
And fold our wings like feather blazers; fear of life drives us, to die, away, and away.
A clock spring strains to loosen its hoarded time.
Escapement teeth release it, chime by chime.
A seesaw swing—tick, tock...tick, tock... once more—
Its hoard of time released in a measured pour.
“At the third stroke it will be midnight!”—then
pip, pip, pip—counting seconds down until when—
the final pip strikes ‘now’ for every ear to hear—
Time borrows sound to make the moment ring clear.
The battery arrives; the wound spring has to go.
No pendulum nor escapement seesaws to and fro.
The second's hand still jumps across the clock's face—
With tick, tick, tick...the ‘tock’ is now out of place.
We chop the flowing hours with ticks, but not a 'tock'.
Our lives fall into moments, block by block.
If we mute every clock—the moments still flow free.
Time no longer ticks; we give it voice with what we see.
Quartz trembles silently behind the clock face.
Hidden pulses nudge the second's hand from place to place.
No rocking heart now apportions the seconds' flow—
There's still the tiny jumps that show us where they go.
Digital numbers count to sixty, then disappear.
Begin again as though the past was never here.
No circling hand retraces what has gone—
We count time passing, as numbers count up, and carry on.
The atom keeps a regular beat no ear can hear.
No hand needs to jump, no tick needs to reach the ear;
For the closer clocks come to the exact time;
the less they need a ticking face or a chime.
Antennas reach for time; far pulsars answer back.
Their ancient pulses cross the cosmic black.
We raise huge dishes, listening through the dark—
and find the universe already pulses out its mark.
We thought the 'tick' was something clocks had made.
Yet better clocks grew silent with each upgrade.
The seconds now pass as pulses on the screen—
Like heartbeats felt within, present though now unseen.
Carries a cargo twenty times her weight
with her pupil following, keeping pace
sniffing with antennas scent of the bait
she had left to retrace steps through the mace
Her feet from the ground pick up vibrations
alerting if rivals approach to fight
barefoot climbing the hot rock formations
zigzagging through the brightness of noon light
The queen and babies for her are waiting
without her food may die from starvation
almost home with pupil still following
both climb mound in silent jubilation
Walking all day may help in losing weight
Do you know an ant that is overweight?
First Place Winner: Brian Strand Contest -7/16/21-