Long Clipboard Poems
Long Clipboard Poems. Below are the most popular long Clipboard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clipboard poems by poem length and keyword.
A man woke up one day
Lost in inner space
Went so far down
The proverbial rabbit hole
That he did not know
Where he was
Nor what time it was
Nor when it was
As he stared out
At a bewildering world
A world lost in inner space
Deep down in his dreams
Filled with nightmarishly real
Monsters, demons and ghostly apparitions
He saw them and began running
Running running running
With the hell hounds behind him
Leading him to the edge
of the pits of hell itself
abandon all hope
ye who enter here
the sign read
above the entrance to the pit
and there was a devil standing there
armed with a clipboard
and a computer spreadsheet
Satan was the ultimate bureaucrat
Name barked the devil
Date of Birth ?
Date of Death?
Don’t know? That won’t do at all
Hmm
Car accident due to drunk driving
And you killed a child
Bad on you
But here in hell
The punishment fits the crime
And the devil laughed
Joined in by the hell hounds
And other nightmare creatures
A bell ran out
In the purple crystalline sky
And slowly the worlds receded
And he found himself alive
In his room
And vowed
That today
Was the day
He would quit drinking
Quit taking drugs
And quit chasing strange woman
And having wild libertine sex
He picked up the phone
It was Satan’s aid
Be careful what you vow
We are listening
If you fulfil your vows
You might find yourself
Escaping life in Hell
It is up to you to choose
And the man got dressed
Went to work
Thinking deep thoughts
And drove off a cliff
And back down the endless
Worlds within worlds
He comes out to the orchestral suite of William Walton's Henry V
Refuses to shake hands with Jimmy
Sits unemotional on the plush armchair
I'm the technician running the cameras
Standing with a clipboard and head-set
Rousing the studio audience
Before agreeing to go on the show
He'd signed an understanding that said
He'd refuse to play Lip Sync Battle
He welcomed the make-up, but was
Seemingly agitated with the microphone
Up through the ruff
He sips the concoction that he first
Examined with suspicion and continues
To wear the provided sunglasses
That were deemed a solution to the bright lights
But also the dark glasses contain the secrets in his eyes
The ones he cannot disguise
After his disaster of an interview
I hand him this poem and after reading it
He suddenly shows an interest in playing Slapjack
Who's Got Time for Politics?
I had the kids in tow,
as I was walking out the store.
A nice lady with a clipboard
enquired who I was voting for.
"I'd like to help you out," I said,
"but I've got a lot to do.
Y'see these two are late for school
'cause we just got jabs for 'flu."
"I have three jobs
and it's testing my endurance.
Sixty hours on the best of weeks
and I still don't get insurance."
"I can't put my kids in day-care
'cause I can't spare a dime.
I barely make slave wages;
of course, no overtime."
"And if I quit one job
I can't get unemployment.
I'm lucky that my partner
is on a third deployment."
"I spend my spare time on the phone
trying to get prescriptions,
that won't require another mortgage.
It's giving me conniptions!"
I'd packed my groceries in the hatch,
and strapped the kids in tight.
"You're very nice, and you've a job,
and I hope you do it right."
"Sorry I couldn't be more help,
but they're all crooks and lunatics!
With all this stuff that's going on,
who's got time for politics!"
- Grim
He is young, excited, thrilled, with his clipboard and new almost-position.
His own idea, he wants to be in charge of the focus room, a place for out-of-control children
during the school day.
He is full of glossy ideas
About how terrific it will be for the misbehaving children,
And for him, as he can carry around the clipboard and he will have a title.
Under his guidance, these children will play chess, and board games, and they will laugh and sing
While their classmates, who are behaving, do not play, instead spend their well-behaved time,
listening to a teacher ramble on about math, something most of them believe they will never use.
In case you did not understand, this means that the child who wings a water bottle at a teacher,
And the child who makes the class amazingly difficult for all of the others,
Will get rewarded by going to the Focus Room to watch a movie, eat popcorn, and play
with the coach while the others are bombarded with math and science, and other boring stuff.
You can use the focus room, he told me.
Why would I want to? I asked. I have my own room.
Because we are making it nice with a cushy couch, bean bag chairs, and a movie theater,
With a popcorn making machine, he answered.
His great idea.
I do not know about you,
But as I child, I would
Have never left the
Focus Room for math or science or any of the other boring stuff I knew I would never use.
I did not say a word, not wanting to spoil his great idea.
Read Ezekiel; you will see
better than any poetry
that trickles down from man's clipboard
"You shall know that I am the Lord ."
Your Master’s righteous cloak is not
a bold retreat from evil’s plot.
In peaceful times and in discord,
You shall know that I am the Lord.
These three, Noah, Daniel, and Job,
God, deemed righteousness as their robe.
Thru famine, wild beast, plague, and sword,
You shall know that I am the Lord.
The last two stanzas here are from a poem, Robes of Righteousness which has not been entered in a contest as yet.
You Shall Know N/A NO 1253 NEW POEM ONLY Brian Strand 11/24/23
You Shall Know N/A The Unsupervised Stop Sign Craig Cornish 11/6/23
A Poet tell the best stories,
It’s a daily struggle for me, when I am on
Schedule, to show up there….at 3035
I usually take one foot slowly off the bed
I have to transform my body into someone else
Her name is Waverly, the most frequent alters,
a pretender, but not like the mouthy poet (A.L)
Seven hours of lies, trying to make ends meet
Twenty eight years of deceits, show in the receipts
Of hard, hard labor, and the back breaking toil of the day
The pointy nose, hold on to fake clipboard
Should I hate them, the system or me?
They is so many of us low renter in that place
But in the days of the corvid corona 19
These, days there are So many of them
Uprising, coming and leaving, the drilling
Should I hate them, the system or me?
The ones who tell the best story
Is the most observant one, to the craft?
A river is a body of water
With lot of stories to tell
Sadness and happiness,
My experiences there comes with pain,
Shame and mostly the sadness of
Staying at one place so lengthy!!
My restless spirit is now catching on to me
Is it too late for me, for us?
Me or my altered or just I
Oh, how I remembered them so well
Within each new poet there is a new idea
Each new idea brings a zest to future poems
The new poet fades too soon: so has the pointy nose
They never, stays, but memories of them, stain like glass
Taking the memories of their appearances
like shadows over the sun:
Did i really had years of experience
or just years of daily repeats
An eyesore in the community as progress takes its toll.
Windows broken, rust on the old metal frames
Vacant, dust filled, old broken file cabinet in the corner
Taking a walk through it, I could feel the past
Wondered how many lives this old building touched
A way of life for so many
Security in a weekly paycheck
A faded time card on the floor where the office was
Dust covered wooden desk
A monument to the industrial age
A table with the boards curved from age
Where people ate lunch, talked, laughed, cried
Discussions about the kids, sports, politics, shop talk
Feel the past? Yes, days gone by, good days
Boards rotted on the loading dock, a rusted hand truck
No ventilation, no complaints, an honest days work
Clipboard hanging on the wooden beam
Can’t you feel it?
Shuffling into the parking lot, lunch cans in hand
See you tomorrow
Kids waiting for Dad to come home, supper on.
Just another day.
I’m a woman, never claimed to be flawless
Stretch marks, I’m not skinny, I’m not absolute
At one time I have lived my life lawless
Never have I been perfect this I won’t refute
I’m only human and age is creeping
Scars galore from past struggles
Open minded but stubbornness is seeping
Experiences many, never lived in a bubble
But for all my faults I am in control
My life and my ways may contradict
A good heart and I am giving, keeps me whole
When it comes to my words at time they conflict
Experienced love, happiness and pain
Heartache, the joy of giving birth
Loss of a child, abuse left me feeling drained
All gave me my undeniable sense of worth
I believe we all have the right to express
Never claimed to get along with all
I don’t like the drama yes this I confess
If a friend and hurt I would always call
All I’ve been through, others have seen more
How jealousy kills relationships you see
I learned to appreciate differences before
I avoid others that with me will disagree
I never claimed that I’m the very best
Yet to the pleasure of words I am drawn
With all that I’ve just admitted I guess
either take me or leave me, life goes on
https://soundcloud.com/brenda-chiri-649321782/life-goes-on?ref=clipboard&p=i&c=1&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing
Come to Now, brothers, and how!
Firewood after dark.
Compliments, O sacred cow!
Fling and flicker stark.
Could be, O my sages.
Riddles wrought in rhyme.
Time, bequeath thy ages!
Prime o'er Soul? Sublime.
Tapping on the clipboard?
Fingernail or pen?
Dragon, will ye guard thy hoard?
Fennel, fire, and fen...
Oblique? Carelessness, critique?
Frequency, catch flame!
Will the strong succor the weak?
If they want food, claim.
Catch up on thy sleep? Dig deep.
Cross the boneyard? Creep.
Preparation! Want to weep?
Stack behind the heap!
Present in the moment?
It's better that ye be.
Rebellions to foment?
Sink foemen in the sea.
Wind, rattle the weathervane!
Let the boy explain?
Yes, before we toss in main!
After a spring rain!
Educate for poppies?
Dreamers, why wile away?
Fish for gold or crappies?
O for, some sunny day.
Fright or plight? Best be polite?
Doom and dynamite!
Gods of death, thy dun delight!
Lone in line of sight...
The elliptical hums its sibylline canticle,
counting aeons in the marrow of my thorax.
Trainer whispers conspiracies;
I vault Himalayan escarpments, breath argent wind,
limbs pendulums of forgotten constellations.
Neon acolytes scroll ephemeral auguries;
mirrors, obsidian tribunals, reflect only decrepitude.
I seize dumbbells—orb of primordial sovereignty;
sweat ignites into microcosmic heliospheres,
celebrating the heresy of vitality
in a sanctum devoted to fragility.
The clipboard combusts in incense of imagined awe;
I pedal, I lift, I breathe—
each motion an imperial edict: mountain, river, comet.
I am venerable, absurd, immortal, human;
my laughter detonates Olympus beneath fluorescent firmaments.