Long Bulletins Poems
Long Bulletins Poems. Below are the most popular long Bulletins by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bulletins poems by poem length and keyword.
If only love happened round the world
That would be a pretty slow news day
Actually CNN would have to shut down
No “JUST IN” bulletins, per se
Weather reports predict nothing but sunshine
Temperatures high in the 80s
People goin' round wearing dirty big grins
Things all coming up daisies
Wake up, wake up, my real good friends
Time to rise and start your day
Don't try watching the morning news
CNN has shut down they say
No point in broadcasting only good news
Boring and humdrum for sure
Imagine watching nothing but jubilation
It would sure bore one to the core
Wake up, wake up, my good friend Jack
Seems you were having too good a time
You had a great big smile on your kisser
If only real life was so sublime
She was the best of us.
She was gloriously fun and exciting.
She laughed like no other, throwing back her head, full mouth open.
She was outgoing, completely her own person, and outrageous.
We adored her.
She grew up a few years.
Began dating three men at a time.
Engaged to one man, married to another.
She was living a life other women did not dare dream of in the 70’s.
She was a party animal before society knew women could be.
She came up missing in February.
Her car was missing too, a beautiful, two-toned sports car.
All the contents of the car were missing too, and there were a lot of them.
She was moving to another region at the time. She had partied with friends.
The next morning she was taking the loaded car and her children
To move away from their daddy and all of his clan.
People who had been there for her children when she wasn’t.
The Highway Patrol put out bulletins.
People searched for months.
She never showed up, neither did the car.
The 70’s was not ready for a party animal in the form of a she.
It is a different time now.
I wonder if she would have made it if it happened today instead of 1979?
A State Of Majors and Algebra
From a bridge I lift eyes weary from equation forms
Majors and Algebra instruct
From on high the state loves us
Instinctively feed us what we must know
Keep us in place for hours
Guns on every head…to get ahead
Conclusions always drawn on time
Lines of math carried like conversations to their ends
Fractions fix themselves in front of us
Captured by majors on their heels
Algebra comes undone
Undressed for our consumption
Work, like dreams, goes on forever
Tonight it waits for majors and algebra to merge
Ranks remove me to seclusion
Books fall with rain into retreat
Lives are bulletins with holes
When government controls
Shocked to life with streams of data
Or shot to death in line with reason
Options can be unkind
No one inspects the dark
Perhaps it is not there
No one suspects me
In this my figures lie in wait
To see what moves prove
A state of majors and algebra
Or my escape
This morn I woke before the sun
The sky was dark and menacing
Just like the man who yesterday
Shooting his gun indiscriminately
Those innocent lives he took away
A massacre after a bright sunny day
Mass killings are now three hundred and seven
Of innocent souls who are now in heaven
In days now totaling three hundred and eleven
These evil creatures instigating Armageddon
There is nothing I can really say
but wish they’d take those guns away
On this deeply sad, traumatic day
My thoughts are in the USA
I send my love and hope and pray
that you will all keep safe today
Written after another mass shooting headlined our News Bulletins
9th November 2018
There are things that you will hear only once or twice, and if you are wise, you will treasure them for a lifetime. And again, there are things you will hear time and time again, and if you are wise, you will value and never take them lightly. In my case, both things attached themselves and stuck to me like glue.
For example, at our church, I filled in for our head usher one Sunday. Standing at the main entry, greeting and handing out bulletins to attendees as they walked in, one gentleman said to me, "You are no Al Berry". I smiled in agreement with him and must have said to myself, "You sure got that right". I had learned long ago that Al was so well-loved, because Al always loved so well. Hearing a statement like that is rare, because knowing a person like Al is also rare.
On one occasion that I will never forget, I greeted Al at the entry and said, "It's good to see you, Al". His reply to me was so real and genuine and spoke volumes to my heart. I don't know if I had ever heard it the way Al said it. You see, Al has fought many battles with illness, and sometimes he was very near 'death's door'. Moreover, like the morning dew, Al has always been faithful, always bouncing back. Like apples of gold in pictures of silver*, Al spoke fitting words in reply when he said, "It's good to be seen".
745am070320PS*Proverbs 25:11
Update 92020: Al passed away a few days ago. Though I will not see Al again
in person, he shall ever be within my mind.
Pensile clouds of a new Truth loom.
With them are selected versions of
Extinct grief.
Looking through the yellowness of a
Dog’s eyes, this aura of Truth, pervasive,
Sours my palate.
What say the bulletins and tabloids
In their speech potency?
Have they recoiled on the sudden encroachment
Of stale seas
Or have they rolled out drums for Haley’s ROOTS?
Between Kamby Bolongo of watery essence
And the forested, warm plains of Juffure, ROOTS!
And drums fashion themselves out for Kinte,
Who must tap gently the face of the drum
For earthly summons.
From sinuous, valleysome frontiers backward,
We yodel loud,
Fronting bands of ROOTS.
The little town is eternal or seems so as I come back to trace
my childhood down these sidewalks. Each house holds
faded memories yet, creeps back into my mind until once
again I live the mystic solitude of my youth. Those echoes start
to stir within me. I hear it in the mocking-bird’s song, the musical
notes that my youthful ears must have heard, and still rings in the trees.
From the songs of birds, I start my visit to the past, both joy and pain
Into my youth. On this day a curious man, trying to get close to the
THROUGH CAUTION TO WIND, of a boy. The boy and his bare feet
with a sling- shot hanging from a back pocket, the love of nature in his
heart and pent up energy busting loose.
I was that boy, roaming the streets and fields beyond. It is that boy that
whispers to me now, creeping up to my ear to let me live it again.
He sings to me in my solitude, a song with a thousand notes, all in
adventure, it is he that sings to me now. “Do you remember when we
were we together?”
“Do you remember our good times?”
“We were together then,” he whispered to me.
Yes, I remember, for I treasure every note.
More than once I trod down these streets and over the railroad tracks,
more than once I felt that hot summer breeze on my face,
more than once I saw that delta moon go down through the trees and
heard the cricket’s call.
He runs ahead of me pointing to the old church that I attended as a boy,
so many years ago. He awakens my own song, a sweet song of
old friends, some passed. This old church that traced my steps through
Vietnam, bringing me strength and comfort through the little bulletins
that brought me closer to home, if only for a little while.
The boy wipes a tear from my cheek, for his questions are ill timed,
but I have heard, him.
Now, at this moment, I am back for a thousand echoes are within me,
never to die. I was that boy and he whispers to me the words to our
song. He calls to me from the shadow of a big oak and from the
grassy fields with sights and sounds from the past. He blends himself
Into the shadows as I recall the shapes of old buildings and memories
flood my mind, things I nearly forgot. He frolics with me for old times
until I must leave. Now, as I say “Good-by” I hear him whisper the words
to our song, he whispers his farewell.
Word has reached
A distant planet out their
Semaj, this ancient Celt
In ancestral despair
His droid Etto
Has bulletins relayed
The last human on earth
In final death display
Civilisation as he knew it
Has gasped its last breath
For the butterfly winged angels
Has left earth in death
For once again their desire
To gain the orb of life
Has left the world as he knows it
In death dying decaying strife
For weeks he travels
To a world he once knew
In ancestral pilgrimage
Answers he pursues
He arrives through earths atmosphere
Human eyes will never see
He lands near Loch Torridon
Kingdom of the King Kane family
Whats left of his village
Bodies drained of their life
Children and the elderly
Man and his wife
For the very last time
He views his ancestral surround
For on these peat laden glens
Black Roses abound
Alba, his country
In death dying decay
As he speeds through its glens
Black Roses display
He reaches the lowlands
And its riches of soil
But nothing else grows
Black Roses spoil
Moments later
There is the sound of a sonic boom
Black clouds above separate
Lights appear through the gloom
Tasteless pelt whiffs of mundane air
Against my nostrils numb with dread;
Scarcely fathom I what spectacle fair
Beyond this umbra curtain latent lies.
Tetchy harbingers over dark corners
Lurk under dismal mirage-like cloud;
Tomorrow's dreams in eldritch lines
Occlude wisest presages renowned.
Each day's bleak bulletins present
Chillily menacing brutish shadows,
As jinxed year's tides forward hop
Into ever-spiraling strangling woes.
Suave eccedentesiast lips no longer
Can mask sore past's swelling blight,
Nor plastic laughter as finely conceal
Apprehensive misgiving's inured bite.
Though indelible certainty clear outline
Of stealthily skulking prospect obscure,
And crafty clock dials key inchings hide,
This menaced soul shall still reign pure.
as i light a candle for you
i brake down and cry
for i have done everything
i think i should do
i have sat people down
in a pew of there own
even greeted and said
"good morning" and "hello"
i gave the change that was
in my cup holder
and i save the bulletins
i keep in a folder
i tell people what i do for you
and how much i give over a drink
or two , not to brag or boast
just so they no that i am
in your house i never curse
always pray for the things i want
but when i am home i'm on the phone
telling everybody the the Joneses are
divorcing ,and the Wagner's are in
foreclosure, it's harmless.
we yell at each other because we
have guilt and shame cursing you
using your name in vain
nothing ever changes my prayers
you never even consider
i am tired of all this
there has to be more
all the good deeds i have done for you
mean nothing in your sight so true
dirty vessel cold and stained
in my heart of guilt and shame
need the emptiness purged and filled
need a savior to fill the need
for the stains of the past
have already been washed away
he spilled his blood for me and that is true
to take away the sin of the world
and leave me white as new
if you are empty and nothing is new give your
life to JESUS do his will for the life you lead
is now gonna be dead
pick up your mat and walk
and sin no more
i tell you the truth your stains
will be gone
because they have been washed away