Long Banking Poems
Long Banking Poems. Below are the most popular long Banking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Banking poems by poem length and keyword.
The world is one giant cake bowl staring at you until you grow old. It’s has its mischief’s and its tricks and pumpkin pie swirling in the dish.
You are going to bake a cake a day for all the hungry people far away; you will put lots of cream on top and cherry to form the dots.
You will sell it at half price to the merchant on the other side; he will order a million cake a day to deliver to the people living a thousand miles away.
The dollar is on the run and the English pound is hopping along, the euro is breathing fresh air and the Japanese yen is hanging on in there .
The Renminbi is as old as it can be and has high esteem for the American dream, it has been like that for more than three decades and there is no indication that it will parachute to the sky.
The cakes are baking, their appetite is growing and they need money so get it to them in a hurry.
If you don’t have it you have to print it and you will meet with your economist to guide you on how to do this. You will print a specific amount to fulfill specific needs around the town; you will do the calculation and set up a statutory body to prevent inflation.
You have got to open some international project and invest some of the printed money in long-term sustainability. Buy a town in Africa from the celebrated bush doctor and build a treatment facility center for the different ailment in the culture.
You have got to spend it in order to mend it and if you don’t have it you have got to go out and borrow it.
America is playing games, the dollar is not lame, they have plenty of it and you have to use the right play book to release it, the till is not dry, they have abundance falling from the sky.Zelinsky is a genius and he knows how to get the American dollar. America has the machine but Zelinsky has the dream.
America is a milking cow, milk is flowing everywhere so get your gallon bottle ready because America is going to make some people happy.
The Russian ruble is nuff but it cannot fill the hungry man’s gut, you have to have plenty of it to buy a decent American dish.
Get the paper on the machine under the guidance of the banking governor to fulfill your dreams. Just print what you need.
Having lived on earth for some time now
Impatiently he dwells, harboring self doubt.
In face of impediments he loses his mind
Acquiring dispositions like hate and lies,
Hosting showmanship to look good and wise.
Never does he claim his world to be saintly
Letting dreams reign and thoughts go wild
Acknowledging failings incapable of verity.
Risking happy tears, triumphs he celebrates
Saving saddened ones to mourn disasters,
Banking on the strength of worn-out hands
As unforgiving minutes tick-tock forever.
When he gets a turn at the wheel of fortune
Losses seem to mount at every pitch-and-toss,
Regretting moments when he says:"hold on"
For he loses the ground on which he stands.
Yet he carries on, in treacherous currents
Swimming boldly in shark-infested waters
Accepting the reality of fish-eat-fish world.
Unsatiated reveries bestow vacant dreams
Never ever venturing to walk with the Kings,
Commoner he is, like his friends in drudgery.
Pride and joy of his family, a Man he's already!
Truth he owns, is the truth he delineates,
Being a flawed man, for forgiveness he prays.
October 21, 2018
Poem of the day on October 23, 2018
Placed first in..In response to Rudyard Kipling's poem IF
Contest by Silent One
Placed 3rd: Strand select 12 by Brian Strand
Banking on inherited memories rejuvenates me.
As and when I remember the memories
That me and my people long to cherish
And those me and my people despise to relish
To remember not as memoirs
But as inerasable scars.
The nation, the geography, the war, the leaders
The language, the temples, the forts and those statues, and the ethnicity
Then comes an innate xenophobia
That declares me and my people as more equal than others;
And others do live in History’s mischief,
Bloodshed as part of the living
And for the living of me and my people,
And the making of the histories
That I and my people have today
As glorious moments of the past for the present
But for those who produced this wicked ‘hero’
That is unexplainable.
The unforgettable’s enigmatic inexplicable
And this makes me feel the heroic deeds
And the unheroic moments as great periods
And people who built that fort and this temple.
I only consume History.
Producer of History
Learning from the past bloopers
I reconstruct the future through THIS present.
And those present here.
There is NO present as such
For humans live in past glories
And memories that are painful
To think about the future
And the prospective futures
Those (are) perceived either in fear or in hyper ambitions.
The past seems to me
A mere wars-the wars fought
For a feudal by a feudal
Or those slaves-(Both physical and social).
Those kings and their courtesans
The numerous wives and those concubines
The titles and the moribund army.
The modern PROMOTERS of democracy
Yet the common man was ‘there’
But not living.
I exterminate all the above
Including the democracy,
The dictatorship of the preliterate,
The religious kingdom, the Islamic republic.
Egalitarian society for all- the inclusive growth
I will have equality
Where people are equal
In all but something giving room for those
Like I who would like to produce
History- future history.
I produce History
Not for History’s sake
For myself – my sake.
If You See Something, Say Something.
Do you see what I see?
This War on Terror is a war that will never end.
Do you see what I see?
I see fear propaganda being fed to everyone,
about this faceless enemy we have dubbed "terrorism"
encouraging all of us to seek our government's protection,
even to the extent of sacrificing our freedom.
Do you see what I see?
If You See Something, Say Something.
Do you see what I see?
I see politically bought puppet leaders in all walks of government,
under complete control by a single privately owned banking establishment,
owned and operated by a handful of powerfully rich elite men and women,
whose ultimate goal is world dominion, control of everyone.
Do you see what I see?
If You See Something, Say Something.
Do you see what I see?
I've seen the greatest, tragic hoax ever pulled worldwide on everyone,
the red flag orchestrated attack on 9/11.
The first plane soared directly overhead me,
at a job site I was working in NYC,
so low in altitude, so close but so dead silently,
and that was no United Airlines aircraft that I ever did see.
If You See Something, Say Something.
Do you see what I see?
I see a manipulated war that will go on forever,
the greatest hoax ever pulled, The War on Terror.
Beneath the breeze that wakes the winter wheat
In every never-ending month of June.
Reflected in a stream, I waded once waist-deep,
Floats a halo worn by sun and moon.
Into an age of deeper steps, we walk without a cane;
Through memories of whispered kisses, worn like summer rain.
Banking fires, in frail attempt
To straighten lives too long unkempt.
Undressing every in-between,
Embracing love from every scene.
Bones, now brittle, feeling things
That sadly might have been;
Still we rise to meet each daily dare,
Loving every measured breath of air.
We carry room inside for all;
Unlock each door and walk each hall,
Until we find where God resides at last.
Behind the image of every thought that's cast.
Inside the echo, of all our best intentions.
Beneath a tropical sun that glows bright,
Port Louis awakes to the shining light.
A vibrant pulse, a harmonious hum,
Where dreams arise and glowing futures come.
Modern buildings in brick and steel stand tall
Beside colonial shops near their wall,
Whispering history etched in each stone,
A heritage preserved, for ever known.
Port Louis holds a full-fledged banking heart,
With local and global deals split apart,
A commercial hub, with shops quite close by,
Packed with supplies one would dream in the sky.
It hosts an old administrative house
With government seat pitched at the sea`s mouth,
The busy harbour gleams, a sapphire deep,
Where southern breezes shielded, softly sweep.
From Caudan Waterfront, the view takes hold,
A glowing modern marvel, brave and bold.
A culture hub, the Caudan Arts Centre,
Upholds artists and singers` banner.
The streets filled with diverse shades of faces,
Reflect the mixed origins and races
Of the population, a melting pot
Of cultures, creed and colours in one spot
In city of old and new in one shot.
Written by Gail DeBole on July 1, 2014
Updated on July 4, 2014
Fred Sr. doesn't like most things that start with e-.
Thumbs down to e-banking, e-books, and e-asy.
He's known to hollar, “I hate all this e-stuff!”
E-learning, e-coupons, e-love, e-cetera…
"E-nough is E-nough!"
Fred Jr., an e-cop, catches e-crooks online.
Thumbs up to e-everything! He thinks it's all fine.
He's known to hollar, “ I love all this e-stuff!”
E-stings, e-crimes, e-heros, e-cetera…
"I can't get E-nough!"
Fred Jr.'s son, an e-doc, helps patients online.
He lives an e-idea coming into its prime.
He's known to hollar, “We need this e-stuff!”
E-medicine, e-nurses, e-labs, e-cetera…
"Who would say "E-nough is E-nough?"
Cruel fate nixed our sites set for buying a hoagie
Yours truly and the wife
tended to some errands,
which included going
to the Limerick,
Pennsylvania Citizens Bank
for me to rectify
an erroneous address
indicating I Matthew Harris
purportedly and presently domiciled at:
96 West Miner Street
(and whereinthehellis)
Coaldale, Pennsylvania
18218-1017
which address listed after viewing
online banking screen
indicating Good morning,
afternoon or evening,
then scrolling down
to sought after preference selecting
either checking or savings account
then clicking on View
Statements in Document Center
subsequently choosing
timeframe, account and type),
while the spouse
patiently waited in a hot car,
(slightly more comfortable
than a cat on a hot tin roof)
then going to ALDI'S, GIANT
(the latter place
to dump off paper for recycling
and making a beeline to purchase items
in the clearance section),
felt sorely disappointed,
when a series of unfortunate events
(even Lemony Snicket
would have been dumbfounded)
occurred when earlier today
and last least on the agenda
found me headed
at the Royersford, Pennsylvania Wawa
for what I envisioned being
a mouthwatering (yellow) "submarine"
or just "sub" the general term
for both the bread roll and sandwiches
made with it in both the USA
and other English speaking nations
and lastly Wawa
right there in Royersford
felt jinxed cause we
(hungry enough to eat a horse),
could not purchase
(what both of us imagined to be)
our delectable aforementioned sandwiches
which DID NOT
find me being thee unsung hero
(regarding a damsel in distress)
actually courtesy using the EBT
(electronic benefits transfer)
SNAP food card declined part of the sale,
nor could I access (withdraw) funds
using a recently issued debit card
farcical indicating expiration date,
when the spouse gave me a dour
facial recognition expression
(and she feigned pouting like a child),
cause her husband
could not head back to the house
at Pooh Corner
with aforementioned treasured commestible
already finding us salivating
like Pavlov's dog,
which dude (who looks like a lady,
with sweet emotion,
especially after washing
and drying my hair) came back
to the car empty handed.
I stand here stoic, broad shoulders back, wind deposed.
Eyes like a stagnant creek, a monument nose, pierced lips.
I stand here quivering, individual sand itches like lice.
Eyes innervated - jalapeno-bloodshot, a hapless heart attack.
I stand here wild, a romantic, ticking-bomb, a roller coaster ride.
Teeth piano-key-white, freefall hair, a bumper-car bombastic buffoon.
I stand here lurking, licking wallets and purses, prince charming.
Banking on the innocent and aged decrepit fools and loving it.
I stand here weeping, wretched, remorseful, ashamed, unkempt.
Digging at his grave, refusing to accept, strapped to cement.
I stand here, an oak, never opening my mouth. What would be the point?
The good and evil lean on my trustworthy trunk, umbrellaed under my leaves.
10/10/2018
1st Place Win!
Contest: I Stand Here/Craig Cornish
It's day seven hundred and......... well forgive my demented memory, at least you get the idea
Dreams crave to once more take hold of this insomnia
Its nothing less of a miracle that i still breath the aroma of oxygen from the earthly - Musty smells
I am one with blind salamanders, dining and making a home where this restless body dwells
The sheer darkness herein, covered in three nights, offers more comfort than the light above
The Crickets, harmonizing with unfamiliar territorial warning predator sounds, a sweet melody i have come to love
The chaos continues to unfold
A manifestation of the ripen warnings and prophesies foretold
Deafening high-pitched Whizzing sounds consume the airwaves
Clanks and clunks, beeps and bleeps in search of slaves
Divergent's, defying the mechanical gospel of automation
Believers of the old ways, banking on the principles of rawness and authentication
With me are the last scrolls, penned with blood of liberation
Humanly scripted and crafted with hope of restoration
Weapons in the hands of the loyal Knights fighting the annihilation, of golden knowledge scribbled in stone and passed from generation to generation
Behold the fountain of authentic and unfiltered knowledge, breathing life in the mist of death and endless fighting
A beacon of triumph and creativity on the horizon, a selfless gift shared wholesomely, from his writing.