Long Bullhorn Poems
Long Bullhorn Poems. Below are the most popular long Bullhorn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bullhorn poems by poem length and keyword.
To the windows the students all go.
To get a closer look at the snow.
The teachers began shouting although
Santa fell down from the sky down below…
The school was in a frenzy from head to toe.
Santa was yelling his “ho, ho, ho, ho.”
The windows were filled with students who know
The snow is coming down with wind that will blow.
A blizzard is on her way, you really must go!
It is the principal with a bullhorn in tow.
The busses are summoned. Drivers are yelling “whoa!”
We cannot get out, or to anywhere go.
So we spend the night with our charges in tow.
They are hungry, so we break into the milk case and find dough.
We make up cinnamon rolls. They are tasty, so
We survive the night, with only the moon for a night-light glow.
The next day there is still a bunch of new snow.
The children are not as fascinated by the great show.
To the windows no one actually looks or will go.
Teachers are tired. Their faces are not fit for a beau.
Parents are frantic, run in to and fro,
Some take their children home early and so
Some teachers get a reprieve but as you well know
The usual suspects are there all day hanging low.
Hey, what did you think of that beautiful snow?
One of the teacher’s husbands asked, not in the know.
The staff glowered at him, this silly man named Joe.
Made him their Santa saying ho ho ho ho.
That time of day when sweet birds songs intrude
And thoughts of yesterday warm my minds brood
I turn the page to days when love was true
Your voice on my heart was a sunny coo
But now the light of day turns wintry blue
The hearth is cold where I once warmed with you
If only your lotus bloomed in winter
Then I would hope amidst snow and winter
That time of day when a heart waxes worn
The birds tweet their songs to a heart that stings
Their song is a cacophonous bullhorn
And a heart echoes in veins of cold strings
That time of day when still cold the heart sings
And cold throes of a wistful winter will sting
In a dream
being chauffeured
to where? I do not know
where? the silence stifling
still as the night,
stars glowing…
but the chauffeur, driving
heedless to my faith –
Jesus is dead, he speaks
like a bullhorn
going off in my mind,
grief surrounds me
but the dream comes to life…
“He is ALIVE!”
I say it, my voice amplified
WHO IS THIS MAN?
my mind enters the war
with his spirit – evil words
a dark that won’t heal
a world filled with sorrow
pain and so much horror!
“HE IS ALIVE!”
my voice doesn’t tremble
I am at war, the shield will defend me.
“He is ALIVE!”
“He is ALIVE!”
“HE IS ALIVE!”
And, that is how it ends
I wake up, speaking, announcing
to the dawn…
He lives and so I can smile!
the chauffeur is a liar…
His love invigorates my life
His light flows through the dark,
quieting the fears,
wiping away the tears
He’ll always be here – always
He is ALIVE and I can survive
because He is mine,
this Jesus who will never die.
Oh, how that chauffeur lied!
Boy, you Folks sure have a lot of Nerve!
You empty your Corporate Colostomy Bags,
On the same Workers that filled up your Greedy Guts,
Then pay them off with their own Bloody Rags!
Have you no Shame? You Clowns! Have you no Soul?
Your Mantra seems to be a bit One-Sided,
More Money! More Money! More Money Boys!
You hoard the Cheese and keep the Mice divided!
Those Long Corporate Strings are strong and stretch for Miles,
You Dangle your Puppets and Dance them till Dawn.
"But, how dare "They" ask "Us" for Concessions,"
"Gee, can't they see that their Labor Leash is On?"
From their Lofty Loft, they "Blow" that Big Bullhorn,
Jump! Jump when we say "Jump" all you little "Slaves!"
"Breaks? Benefits? Bonuses? Insurance? Pensions?"
"Your list of Rights are "Moot" unto your Graves!"
"So, Adapt to your Strings that Feather no Wings,"
"Shove your Grievances up your Bowel Syndrome Rears!"
"You Demand our "Trust?" Then "We'll" give it to "You,"
"We'll pay you off with "Dust" for all your Faithful Years!"
Bandicoot's bounce over my dead lead head.
Grim the outlook,
I am the grimness in my own storybook.
Moods are my mannerism's.
Gooey nose - a stonking flu
got me
now I mimic a monkey
with my bullhorn blowing.
When will the sun rise my eyes?
Blighted by sniffles, I dizzy and sway
to the 'Drug Mart', there to gag and goggle;
at so many meds for a bunged-up head.
Handfuls of hope
back to the laze-upon floozy chair
guzzling pills a popping.
Later, write this,
mayhap get pissed on some bitter brew.
Bandicoot's snoring.
A little peckish.
Here a glimmer
there it is, the shiny light,
feeling svelte in a sky bright blue.
Sniffing better, sleep later.
We've many differences.
You yearn for and demand respect.
I prefer to earn it but couldn't care less...
if you respect me or not.
You shove a bullhorn in my face.
Force-feed me your warped points of view.
You put a blowtorch to my faith.
I believe in dialogue, and I'm willing to listen; are you?
I fancy energy independence.
You don't mind drinking oil from the spigot of terrorists.
While spraying me with green philosophy.
All the while running just as fat as I am.
You're anything but lean.
I respect the sovereignty of my country and others,
With a big, beautiful mahogany door and welcome mat.
Just on the other side of a secure border.
I like a fair vetting process based on merit with some semblance of order.
You've a rose-colored revolving door from hell.
Bringing sprinkles of heaven and maelstroms of chaos and death...
onto my front porch.
I like giving all beings a chance at living.
Just like you and I were given...
Funny how you'll grieve over a stillborn.
But turn cold when the unborn are torn into pieces.
You hate my God and me for believing.
Want to cancel my peace and freedom,
You're an atheist, but I'll defend your right.
to not believe in -then leave you to your peace.
Because I extend a hand in friendship,
You think I'm soft and a pushover.
Just in case you chop it off.
The other hand is clawed and spring-loaded.
Willing to put you six feet under the clover.
Disappointing Setback
Six long months they worked
sixteen bright and eager minds
planned our art event.
Artists looked ahead,
painting, framing their great works
for our yearly show.
Then the day arrived;
charcoal, moisture-laden clouds
shed their dreaded tears.
Bullhorn blared the words
heard with sad and heavy hearts...
"cancel the art show."
Artists packed their gems—
lonely display fences stood
naked in the fog.
Work of six months straight
quashed by nature's fickle whim
to spoil our event.
Sandra M. Haight
~4th Place
Premiere Contest: Setbacks
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Maybe one day at city square
I'll scream your name in a bullhorn
and post a flyer on every flag pole
my confession of loving you.
I have no fear of the consequences. Love's
the true culprit and I am its robot in action,
who can blame my madness?
Maybe one day you'll have pity on me
and stop your indifference bound to melt
once you get to know me, who knows.
I know love's in the air and you only need to
open your heart to its distinct possibility, the
arms, and kisses, will do the rest.
Maybe one day you get tired of my nuisance
and throw the towel, conquered by my resilience,
who knows, love's a crude affair of the heart, not
a school discipline.
Maybe one day you finally read one of my poems
that honors our love and promises deliverance
to the bosom of happiness.
Maybe one day you'll fall in love with me
madly.
I see them walking like cowards down the street, faces as stiff as board, and a countenance that says, “we cannot take it anymore,” their cross eyes looking steadfast at the sky and raw emotions dribbling from their eyes. A strange heat began to filter from the air, roasting leaves on the trees far and near and disrupting the city’s heartbeat. Something is stuck in the riverbed, and the children are not fed, heaven weeps when danger parade in the street and chaos is born out of the bosom of men walking around with bullhorn and my friends’ rushes to give a helping hand. The people you meet in the street have something trampling below their feet. You just don’t know when destiny will strike, you just have to wait for heaven to give you a bligh and dry the tears as they drip from your eyes. You have been talking for more than fifty years and still you don’t know the route of how to get there. Men of wisdom waste their time in the street, you gamble with ordinary people's lives, and you make useless sacrifice. You move heaven on earth, and you are still meddling in the dirt. There is no compromise and you must erase all the lies; you must stand down on your feet to cool down the sweltering heat. I will invite you to my home and show you where destiny roams, we will pull this thing apart before we start rumbling in the dark; when the weather is clear, I want you to meet with me over here. There is enough time and you have to tender to the people’s cry, gather your courage and come, and let us meet under the canopy in the sun. The mood must be right for this is the last time we you will have to make this once in a lifetime sacrifice; you must face the truth and open the windows for the youth; there is no more time to waste for the wind is banging at the gate. I see them walking on the street with bundles on their head, tears rolling down their eyes for someone has just died; the stories are heart-rending, families are scattered everywhere and there is nothing that you can do to retrieve the damage shoe. Stories after stories make you weep and pour guilt all over the street. I tell myself that I will separate from it for the world is looking for profit. The people you meet in the street have a profound message for thee.
What is love?
The North Star guiding
a lost seafarer home
or the Siren’s song luring
him to the rocky shores?
Is it frolicking in the moonlit
nights in a field of flowers
or trudging across
an arid, scorching desert?
Is it a freeway to bliss and joy
or a meandering trail
through a rugged terrain
of grief and woe?
Is it a cup of hemlock
or a chalice of nectar?
Is it a snake pit
or a bridge over the chasm
of hatred and bigotry?
Is it an ever-elusive mirage
or the rock of Gibraltar?
Love is all that and more
and yet it’s nothing,
A mere emotion, a feeling,
At first blush, irrelevant
and yet it’s an impetus, a catalyst--
An euphoria permeating our entire being.
It is here, it is there,
and it is everywhere...
Yet, it is nowhere!
It creates mayhem and chaos
if it turns and walks away.
Love knows no boundaries,
It follows no customs or creed;
It cares not for any
race or language.
Not unlike air and water
or the enlivening sunlight--
Vital in good measures
devastating in excess,
Vexing as a thorn but
as enticing as the fragrance.
Love is but love!
No one has seen it
Yet everyone is touched by it,
Its constant presence is overwhelming
Yet you’ll never find
if you go looking for it,
It traverses distant shores,
Yet it doggedly never
leaves your threshold.
You are born with it
but never can you own it,
Forever it hovers around you
but never can you rein it in.
“Love is a many-splendored thing”.
Yet none can explain its true meaning,
It would call through a bullhorn
and you may not hear it,
It merely whispers in your ears
and turns your life topsy-turvy,
More furious than the flowing lava
It would give you the chills if provoked.
He indeed is a poor soul
bereft of hopes and dreams
who befriendeth not love!
~05/02/16
~Free Verse on Love contest by Laura Loo
~"Love turns the world around"
contest by Nayda Ivette Negron