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.
Who are the masters of illusion?
Deep Staters, lobbyists, think tanks
In collusion.
Brought to you by big business ads
and the news, and the Father of lies.
The ones really making popular culture decisions, trend bending, puppeteering, racketeering, engineering our demise.
Provided, cover, like chemtrails in the skies.
What demons are behind the madmen, on the "scene", and on the rise.
That will do anything,
that they know.
To muddy up all the deeds,
that they've sown.
Through confusion and lies!
Are they behind the scenes, out of reach?
Untouchable, apparently.
But really, we share in the blame.
Living in shame in the same old Apathy.
Of violence and sex of immoral folly.
Of untruths and halftruths, damnation alleys.
Get mad for 5 minutes, then forget all about crimes against humanity.
Do we all have ADD or just plain lazy, or helpless when not United.
Is that we have civil strife? To keep us off balance and off of them?
Are thinktanks sought in kahutz, in dissolution?
Like minds that fight in the ranks of evil revolutions?
The crowning of man, a worldwide tarot reading,
a rave on the mobile church transmission.
Do your own thing,
what thou wilt,
New Age. (Crowley/ Blavatsky/(black) hearts with a mission.
Trending....ticker tape sutured on the screen (Psalms of a sermon)
Piping you like concessioned Vermin.
Countless new horrors,
never spoke of before.
Endless corridors,
yet new ground,
unexplored.
If you've got the time,
and you do,
just wait.
Spend your time, waiting for changes.
Till change, (not the kind you want)
comes looking ( with a clipboard )for you.
"Where does it hurt?"
She asks, clipboard like a shield,
pen cocked like a firing pin.
"Here," I say,
pointing to the silence just beneath my ribcage.
Not the lungs. Not the liver.
The place where sorrow goes to calcify.
They send me down long corridors,
all white noise and flickering fluorescents—
like memory on a bad day.
I wear a gown that opens in the back,
like every conversation I regret.
Inside the machine,
I lie still as a kept secret.
The MRI growls like an old god,
searching my insides
for evidence of war crimes.
I think about the shrapnel—
not metal, but moments.
The look she gave me
the night everything broke,
like she was already ghosting
through the wreckage of my voice.
I tell the technician:
It’s there. I can feel it.
Each breath razors against it.
But the scan is clean.
No foreign objects. No narrative.
They call it “psychosomatic”
like it’s a compliment,
like my body is staging a play
my mind refuses to direct.
Back in the doctor's office,
she says, "There's nothing inside you."
And I laugh—sharp and wrong.
Isn't that what pain is?
The something that feels like everything
and shows up as nothing?
I ask if she can x-ray a metaphor.
She doesn’t smile.
Just types and nods and offers
a pamphlet on stress management
as if I haven't already built
cathedrals from my coping mechanisms.
I leave with no diagnosis—
just a quiet war still raging
beneath my skin.
A soldier in peacetime,
saluting ghosts
that never made it
into the file.
I sit in an open room
watching young girls come in and out
the clipboard in my lap
she calls my name and i stand
with slightly pudgy belly
scared
knowing there's a life already within
she know's i'm scared, but leads me to the hallway bathroom
handing me a cup for my sample
so i do what i am told
waiting in the exam room
i am shaking when she reads the pregnancy test
two single lines form
i am pregnant
i cry for a minute
out of shame
maybe relief,
because now i know i'm not alone
then i look at her puzzled
I have no family, no relatives
i've moved away so many times
running from my past
she hugs me, tells me everything will be fine
I smile and believe her
cause i have no one else to trust
eight months later she is by my side at the hospital
she smiles and says "everything will be fine"
I cry because i know someone out there cares!
*There is always someone out there that will help a teen in need.
Women's center's are only a phone call away.
mom, i'm pregnant contest
karen croft
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.
MY SOMEDAY PC
Someday when I’ll lose all my fading imagination
I’ll ask my PC to bring from the clipboard a poem for me.
It’ll inscribe a sonnet on the splendor of the rising sun
in programmed words formatting dreams I failed to see.
Someday when I’ll miss the melody of my mute music
I’ll ask my PC to play from its music store a sonata for me.
It’ll select and play Mozart’s ninth symphony, a classic,
my heart will pulsate in the tracked tune of rhapsody.
Someday when I’ll feel desolate and forsaken
I’ll ask my PC to project on monitor a lively friend.
It’ll display an animated smiling face I’ve long forgotten,
the hyperlink to the photo archive it’ll instantly send.
Someday when I’ll be depressed and a loner
I’ll ask my PC to open the inspiring page of history.
It’ll decode the encrypted tale of life from an uploaded folder
to set me on a browsing journey of self-inventory.
Someday when all colors will disappear from my palette
I’ll ask my PC to show me a picture of sunset hued sky.
It’ll retrieve a Monet from the database searching the internet,
I’ll copy and paste on the blank canvas where my mind will lie.
Someday when it’ll be time to close window on the world to exit
I’ll ask my PC to delete my story it had saved in the binary code,
because I’ll never want to virtually exist bound by strings of digit
in the electronic memory that nobody would ever download.
October 3, 2018
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
Imagine this if you will
She
Gladly going about your daily business
Being stopped by a suited man armed with a smile and a clipboard
Who says excuse me Mum may i bother you for a second ?
I am currently conducting a survey
I know you enjoy and like to play and carry on regardless
with reckless ??????
Are you fond of games ?
And are you fond of solving puzzles ?
Good then riddle me this ?
Do you know what word ?
I am trying to describe by means of using alternatives defined in or by a thesaurus ?
1) Deserted
2) Jilted
3) Forsaken
4) Rejected
5) Orphaned
Still stuck ?
Well here is your final clue that even you surely
are to cold and calculated to miss
It's a child's greatest nightmare and fear
And the cruelest thing a mother could ever do
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.
Let not your heart be troubled by the recruiter's garrulous spiel!
After all, he's paid to embellish army life to offer you a fabulous deal!
When he called you 'private' you assumed there'd be privacy in store.
Never mind that you must share the latrine with fifty guys or more!
Make it a policy to eat all the curious grub the cooks slop on your tray!
Compliment the mess sarge - it might defer you from KP for another day!
Tell your sarge his wife is lovely - though she's as homely as Hooligan's goat!
He is certain to acclaim your acumen and a three-day pass he's apt to float!
Always appear busy - walk around with a clipboard in hand wearing a frown.
The captain might promote you to PFC on the spot so don't you let him down.
If a grumpy sergeant should deign to ask what you're doing, you could retort,
"Sarge, the colonel told me to inventory flypaper use on post and submit a report!"
Never volunteer for anything, though it may be an offer you shouldn't refuse!
Arrange things neatly in your footlocker for display and always shine your shoes!
Sergeants like things regular and complete, so don't give them any sass.
Officers' mega-egos are crushed if you don't salute, so always salute the brass!
Scrub the floor, shave your mug and be ready for Saturday morning inspection.
Best you pass the captain's scrutiny else he won't shower you with affection!
Keep your hair cut, a crease in your pants and you'll get along without a glitch.
They might even see fit to promote you to general on your very first hitch!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
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