Long Brochure Poems
Long Brochure Poems. Below are the most popular long Brochure by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brochure poems by poem length and keyword.
A fat brochure arrived today:
Come book a world-wide cruise
For 2021; Come on!
What have you got to lose?
You get two choices, based on length –
One hundred sixty-one
Or just one hundred forty days
Of sailing in the sun.
The cheapest stateroom’s fifty-three,
That’s thousands; for a pair,
Just double that. The better rooms
Accelerate from there.
The owner’s suite, for two,
Adds up to (gasp!) three-forty thou.
Does such a number sound obscene?
The answer is, “And how!”
To visit ports around the globe,
There’s so much you can see,
But reading the brochure, I thought,
“Why was this sent to me?”
my blood and my sweat
a dream and my vision
rapid aging
constant raging
then i look at her
worthwhile are all ingredients of pain
she brings me cherry apple cider ice cold
she brings me a lavendar scented towel
she brings me a kiss that would rise nature's nature
she puts in my hand a brochure
her loyalty and her love
her beauty so soft and so gentle
benjamin button but immortal
happiness the scent of apple cinnamon
our love is like cinnamon rolls with the buttery taste in the middle
our bond is like the very vanilla soymilk savored under a rarely generous sun
forever is the napkin smiling gleefully in a warmly defiant wind
the instantaneous indulgence will soon be claimed by stage 4
knowing this, we become invisible by way of inevitable comprehension
for you, my Sweet Rare Diamond Find, I build this Sitting Place for You
i will love you to the end and back like a back massage prayer
i will cherish you post obvious like a warm smile engraved in Sky Blue Diamonds
Brochure advertised this as the writing opportunity of your lifetime
I took out a bank loan, so I could be one of the hundred participants.
It was a fancy writing spot, gorgeous inside and out.
I was thrilled to be here. The décor was comfortable and warm.
Dinner was an eye-opener. Most had brought a writing partner.
The builk had established friends. I asked lots of questions.
They stared at me as if I had grown three more feet and antlers.
The older writers had their poetic friends and did not want more.
The young ones did not want a fifty-year-old hanging out with them.
Things went downhill from here. The seminar was not terrific.
party goers ran up and down the hallways at night, I could not sleep.
For the next hundred years I will stay at home with my paper and pens.
Garbage poetry,
that’s why they make you pay—
a toll booth on the road to nowhere,
ink-stained palms held out
by men who couldn’t read a pulse
if it bit them.
Poets strutting like roosters
on borrowed dawns,
calling vanity “vision,”
calling noise “truth,”
calling themselves necessary.
Christ, the hubris
could pave a parking lot.
They workshop the life out of it,
sand down the blood,
polish the scream
until it sounds like a brochure.
Then they wonder why
no one listens.
I’ve seen better lines
scratched on barroom mirrors
by men who knew
they were already lost.
Those men didn’t pay to publish—
they paid with their teeth,
their livers,
their nights.
It’s hard to work
when everyone’s busy applauding themselves,
hard to write
when the room smells like resumes.
The real poem
is hunched in the corner,
drinking cheap beer,
waiting for everyone to shut up.
Most never do.
My voice protects human potential,
I won’t walk down your road to failure;
These words aren’t labeled confidential,
they are perfume on me clean and pure.
Walk away if you think I’ll downgrade,
I am not some low model robot;
Not gonna take the straw bed you made,
I won’t suffer your distressing cot.
My voice protects human potential,
I won’t walk down your road to failure;
Thriving’s the result of essential,
it ends the need to simply endure.
The joie de vivre that’s been delayed ,
soaked firewood that has been left to rot;
White hot ideas are doomed to fade
when we buy in to a tragic plot.
My voice protects human potential,
I won’t walk down your road to failure;
Excitement should be exponential,
not hidden fine print on a brochure.
Can’t truly live when you are afraid,
mild mannered is one thing I am not;
Weave hard work and drive into a braid,
that detailed design is a sure shot.
Open the door
Welcome to the professional relationship war
Opportunity knocks
Wanting investment stock
Offering salary positions
Full-time committed commissions
Benefits are great
For you and a mate
Travelling collegiate towns
Going down
Alpha Beta Road
Enduring wintry cold
First place opportunity went
House fraternity rent
Brothers answered knock
Calculated the luring stock
Requested a brochure
When opportunity stepped off the floor
Accepting escort to the door
Finding another place
Hoping to receive a smiling face
Innocent and bright
Wearing wedding white
And engagement ring from her knight
Both ready for the real-life fight
Opportunity gave the door a tap
Woke the Sorority sister from a between class nap
Throwing a pitch
Sounding quick and rich
She exclaimed
Not playing a game
“A.I.
Senior replied
Wrote you are a lie
We have Wi-Fi
Don't even try"
Rejected
Dejected
Opportunity still acted cool
Not being a fool
Walked over to where there's brew
Needed a break
Find out how much students want to make
Discovering academics at stake
Opportunity pondered a bit
Thinking what would fit
When Honesty walked in
Knowing how to win
One over
When scholars mature, get older
"You look hot
Join me in my spot"
Opportunity did knock
Wanting investment stocks
"Only if you speak the truth
Or honesty will hit the roof
You see opportunity when you knock
Your stock
Better be real
Or it's a no deal
There are many fakes
And hate
Out there
Our new generation is aware
And they do care
Future should be filled with dreams
Not angry computerized screams
You must love thy neighbor
And the waiter
Since they could be the one
When success is done"
"Honesty, you should not be ignored
May I open the door
And share
Ideas, creative and fair"
"I got this,"
Honesty blew opportunity a kiss
"We maybe broke
But still can joke
Reality is on our side
A light that guides
Showing vigilant nerve
Until we get what we deserve
A true blessen
Confronting political recession
Since deception
That is not our fault
Should be caught
And will haunt
Those doing wrong
Singing our campus fight song"
Opportunity figured day end arrived
And said goodbye
Leaving the course
Feeling remorse
STRONG BURSA
COMPLINED ABOUT
THE PRICE OF
BEEF CHILLI
VERSES
PORK CHILLI
AND RELISH.
IF ONE IS TWO FOR SUM-THANG?
AND THE OTHER IS HALF THE PRICE OF BOTH.
IS THE OTHER TWO FOR WHATEVER THEN?
CAUSE I WOULD HAVE
ENOUGH TO GET THE
SPICY HOT NUTS
AND THE FOUR DOGS THE BROCHURE PROMISED.
BAD NOUGH THOSE PUNKS WANT US TO BY ALL THE TICKETS TO GET IN.
BAD ENOUGH WE NEED THE DISK-COUNT VOUCHURE
BUY THE SODAS, MAN DEEZ SUM BADTHYMES WFOR FOOD AND STUFF.
WE SHOULD HAVE GOT, GAMBLES DRUNK, AND GOT HER TO FIX THOSE
TURKEY LEGS AND TATY-SALLY.
WE WOULD'VE SAVED AT LEAST $20.00 DOLLARS.
SHE SAID ALL SHE NEEDED WAS THEM FRESH HOCK MEDALLIONS FROM GISTER GRAB, AND SOME GINGEROOT GARLIC AND BEER, AND WE'D HAVE SUPPER REAL CHEAP.
When sorrow comes riding on the crest of a wave
It hurts you, converts you
Into someone broken, bruised, brittle and not brave
When passion comes riding on the crest of a wave
It drowns you and crowns you
With a cryptic caress, and a crazed heart that craves
When delight comes riding on the crest of a wave
It thrills you and fills you
With sanguine satisfaction, soul sadness to stave
When fury comes riding on the crest of a wave
It blinds you and finds you
A brazen brochure on how to badly behave
When kindness comes riding on the crest of a wave
It mends you and sends you
On a smooth streetway that steers your self and does save
When terror comes riding on the crest of a wave
It bites you and smites you
With a gruesome greeting that's grievous, gruff and grave
When comfort comes riding on the crest of a wave
It cures you, assures you
Of a freedom from fear and a Friend who forgave
In 2019...
I was working in call centres.
The big boys at work booked trips to Thailand...
I went to book mine.
I saw a brochure in the background...
I said "take me there."
It was Sri Lanka.
I changed my plans and felt called.
I didn't check the world map, I just started planning.
I got to Dubai, messaging a friend.
He messaged... "Watch out, there has been an attack in the city you're flying into."
I boarded the plane, it took off as per normal.
We turned on the news, the energy was tense.
A bombing, at our destination.
The Mother and Child next to me freeze.
The flight attendants pretend nothing is wrong.
I stare at the news...
The death toll rises.
1, 2, 50, 100.
The plane doesn't turn around.
I sit, for 4 hours, the death toll rising...
Me approaching. 300...
The Mother next to me and myself, we held hands.
We clenched tight.
I realised I hadn't checked the language spoken over there.
We landed, the signs made no sense.
By God's grace, I'd booked a tour guide.
36 degrees Celsius, military everywhere.
Crashes in the distances, traffic back to back.
Scared faces everywhere, foreigners turning around.
Checkpoints and bodysearches, I looked and felt anxious.
Found my tour guide in a hot, rained on crowd.
He asked to take me to his village.
I still don't know where it was.
Social media shut off, no contact to home for 48 hours.
7 Days under Martial Law...
Soldiers lining the streets, guns in hand.
Body and car searches in the mountains and drugs offered to me to keep me calm by locals.
A beautiful experience... Incredible people, scenery and adventures...
Where my "flight path" trauma response was formed.
I couldn't get off of the plane.
From then on, whatever bad happened... I was stuck on the plane.
For years, in daily scenarios... I closed my eyes and put on my parachute.
I wasn't stuck on the plane.
You're not stuck on the plane.
You don't need to fly into the chaos...
You have a choice.
Do you have a flight path response?
A road that you always follow?
Does it have to be this way?
Mohonk Mountain House is a rapturous place
where we love to visit and walk the long trails;
partake in its charming Victorian grace.
A mystical ambiance- there still prevails.
A manor-like hotel for overnight guests,
we managed to sleep there a Saturday night.
The hallways were long, and at once did suggest
past visions we'd seen which left us with much fright.
Contraptions, wall-mounted, held hoses wound up
with nozzles at end placed to put out a fire.
So much like a movie, we'd seen where setup
did look much the same and so dreadfully dire.
That night, we awoke with some noises we heard
that sounded as though they were right in our room.
A voice giggling loudly- now this was absurd,
as women-like shadows quick-heightened our gloom.
We managed to sleep, but woke up- from a dream?
Fire hoses were chasing us down the long hall!
The nozzles were faces with teeth, made us scream!
They smothered and bit us in that horrid brawl.
Next morning we saw, on the desk, a brochure,
a story which made our hair stand up on end,
that Stephen King frequented Mohonk- proved sure,
ghosts helped shape 'The Shining'- that horror he penned!