Long Closures Poems
Long Closures Poems. Below are the most popular long Closures by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Closures poems by poem length and keyword.
Partnering with hotels all across the planet.
Cendyn helps so trip organizers can plan it.
Managing data and guest information.
So travelers can plan their best vacation.
Aiding resorts in dozens of nations.
Boosting their online reputations.
Creating great proposals for best perception.
Getting visitors in the hotel guest reception.
Managing displays online of the menus.
From cell phones visitors can peruse.
Guests can easily see what dining to choose.
Relying only on costly paper displays will amuse.
Merging with competition to boost the hotel industry.
Fighting for deals will be a thing of NextGuest history.
Working with resellers like Amadeus.
Delivering the services on behalf of us.
We hear the struggles from COVID closures.
Of hotel employees facing varied exposures.
Our contacts have been wearing many hats.
As we’ve learned from our checkup chats.
We are here to help them weather the storm.
Adjusting our postures and changing our form.
Making changes together to adapt and stay strong.
Collaborating to make the relationships last long.
We are not completely out of the weeds.
But we’ve been cultivating dynamic seeds.
We’ve taken a hit and weathered the pain.
Empathizing the hotel challenges to maintain.
Using the tools to outsmart a global recession.
Helping resort staff handle their role succession.
Reaching customers to get dynamic outcomes.
By collaborating to reel in some profitable sums.
Last year we cried poverty but now we cry for joy.
Helping staff play with the tools as if it’s just a toy.
Innovating for the future and adapting to the fight.
Only success for Cendyn and clients is what’s in sight.
Why we're married to the Weather
The British Summer ebbs and flows, and with it moans of wrath and woe
They wait for months to see sun, they speculate will it come
It arrives… and within a week, they speak of burnt alive
It lasts for days or maybe weeks, the heatwave cooks, they act like freaks!
Too hot to work - life shuts down, or walk? They put their foot down
Does talk cease… no, we’d be so lucky for five minutes peace
The air conditioning breaks down, the shops sell out of hand-held fans
The ice cream prices triple, my favourite raspberry ripple
Then rain comes… and all you hear, can't we have a bit of sun?
The rain is fine, hardly monsoon, the fine stuff that still wets you through
The brolly blown and battered breaks, the drains are blocked, the mud is caked
The garden… I've a watering can, still a hosepipe ban
The leaves turn gold and gently fall, the clocks go back the darkness calls
The autumn colour palette, Nature's cue to hibernate
But travel… plans are stopped, because the leaves the lines have blocked
The winter brings it's usual tasks; road closures, drifts and icy blasts
The children play in snow storms, the snowmen built in quick form
And nature… stirs a surprising crop, the wakened snowdrop
The April showers, the Mayday flowers, the country fayres washed out for hours
We British moan every twist, but yet we cannot resist
Like a spouse… we whinge and grouse, not a change would we arouse
Under the mantle of night, full of hidden meanings,
Where stars dance their stories in silence,
There lies a world where vocations drown in shadows,
Children with grand dreams, trapped in dusty golden cages,
In the name of egalitarian humanism, they disperse in the cold wind.
Schools, temples of logic and unfeeling iron rules,
Bury geniuses under mantles of conformity and doubt,
Sacred callings, intoxicated by narrow ignorance,
Begin to perish, bound in invisible chains, under a dark sky,
In an orchestra of silences where the echoes of spirits fade.
Children, who once dreamed of universes untouched by time,
Learn to suffocate their wings of free thoughts,
Under the weight of the gray everyday and norms devoid of magic,
Their dreams merge with the dust in the old corners of rooms,
Where the light of the candle of knowledge struggles to guide.
Under the yoke of the official world, contemplative spirits groan,
Trapped in the web of formalities and mental closures,
Entire universes, swallowed by the blackness of daily monotony,
Wells of creativity dry up under the sorrow of indifference,
In a world that refuses to see the magic born from within.
Oppression begins in their fragile childhood,
When magnificent ideas turn into painful silences,
Geniuses wasted in vain, like dust on waves of unforgiving time,
In the name of equality, their freedom becomes a shadow,
A distant illusion, lived in a dance of shadows and extinguished dreams.
But in the deep darkness, hidden under layers of routine and forgetfulness,
There is a light that cannot be extinguished, only temporarily muffled,
In hearts filled with longing for transcendence and pure knowledge,
The song of silent revolt is born, magic revived from the ashes,
For the genius of truth, no matter how oppressed, always returns to the light.
And when it ends suddenly, unexpectedly,
You start to count.
First on the days, then the hours - then
Just counting until 100
Then
Beginning again.
The dead find their faces
The living count faces
Then most forget
Unless the face has your DNA in it,
But you remember the body bags
Being moved around in the night,
The nurses crying,
The lies being spread,
The excuses,
The obfuscation,
The blundering incompetence
Of bureaucracy and officialdom.
The elderly kept in deathcamps
that used to be nursing homes.
The grinning mayors
And governors.
It’s going away now.
Less and less each day.
It’s going away now
It’s going to a place
Where the living cannot find it
It’s going away now.
And suddenly you are very angry
About the stupid shut-ins and the shut-downs,
The politicization of tragedy.
The muddled and slanted statistics
The ridiculous projections,
The false data.
The contradictions and bluster.
The draconian regulatory and government
Sponsored power grabs.
The gagging and intimidation
Of workers.
The trashing of basic freedoms
People
Jailed,
Fined,
Harassed.
The banning's.
The right to collectively worship denied,
Peaceful protest denied.
Businesses forced into bankruptcy.
The unemployment
The waste.
And destruction.
The sundering of families,
The needless school closures,
The suffering that led
To clinical depression and drug overdoses,
The disdain of those
Who rejected commonsense remedies.
The manipulations
And machinations,
All the willing useful fools
Chorusing together to tread down
Democracy.
The grinning talking heads
Who doctored the news.
The attacks and the cancelling
Of those who begged to differ.
Dissenters labeled conspiracy theorists.
The cover-ups:
Gain of function.
GAIN OF FUNCTION.
The dumb mantra of the ignorant
Demanding we 'follow the science'
But the science was wrong
The scientists lied
They lied.
They all knew
AND THEY LIED!
And I am still counting
In case it returns
And I have a lot more things to count,
Lots more to tally and be made
ACCOUNTABLE.
Stages in the “Art of Giving Up”
Suspenders
My ass won’t hold the pants up anymore
Turn Signals
Just leave ‘em on
I forgot where I was headed
Velcro closures
If you know why it’s already too late
Your “mobile” phone
Is no longer that mobile
Its ringtone
Bring on the Clowns
Stairways
Look like an optical illusion
Your birthday
No longer a celebration….
More of a destination
Your ZUMBA class
Sounds like a cricket discussion group
Your feet resemble those of Bilbo Baggins
“FUZZY SOCKS AND CROCS”
6/8/2021
Fuzzy socks and crocs Poetry Contest
Under the mantle of night, full of hidden meanings,
Where the stars dance their stories in silence,
There lies a world where vocations drown in shadows,
Children with grand dreams, trapped in dusty golden cages,
In the name of egalitarian humanitarianism, they disperse in the cold wind.
Schools, temples of logic and unfeeling iron rules,
Bury geniuses under cloaks of conformity and doubt,
Sacred callings, intoxicated by narrow ignorance,
Begin to perish, bound in invisible chains, under a dark sky,
In an orchestra of silences where the echoes of spirits fade.
Children, who once dreamed of universes untouched by time,
Learn to suffocate their wings of free thought,
Under the weight of the gray everyday and norms devoid of magic,
Their dreams merge with the dust in the old corners of halls,
Where the light of the candle of knowledge struggles to guide.
Under the yoke of the official world, contemplative spirits groan,
Trapped in the web of formalities and mental closures,
Entire universes, swallowed by the black of daily monotony,
Wells of creativity dry up under the sorrow of indifference,
In a world that refuses to see the magic born from within.
Oppression begins in their fragile childhood,
When magnificent ideas turn into painful silences,
Geniuses wasted in vain, like dust on waves of unforgiving time,
In the name of equality, their freedom becomes a shadow,
A distant illusion, lived in a dance of shadows and extinguished dreams.
But in the deep darkness, hidden under layers of routine and oblivion,
There is a light that cannot be extinguished, only temporarily muffled,
In hearts filled with longing for transcendence and pure knowledge,
The song of silent revolt is born, magic revived from the ashes,
For the genius of truth, no matter how oppressed, always returns to the light.
As an entity in the dream we conjured
We know not we are both the dreamer and dreamed
How then may we wake up when we are in trance
In bondage to illusions we ourselves streamed
As both the dreamer and the dreamed
We manifested each other,
Being solely each other's prayers heard
Set to hold a row in each of our hands
As we sail down the river of life,
Heading towards tomorrow
I the dreamer and love the dreamed
I the dreamer and love, an eternal kiss
A grip holding on to eternity
A promise offered by the divine
A hope amidst life's dark tunnels
An opening amidst all closures
I the dreamer or you the dreamer
In each of our slumbering minds
We vibe with existence, setting our pace
To match the tempo, creating thus
A whole new universe,
Filled with beings of all sorts
Set to be governed by ourselves
Yet, the dreams would not have been
Had the divine not willed it
Does it not make of us, then,
As an entity wished for by the celestial power
And does abiding to it not become a celebration?
The clown
Circuit circuits
moving round in circles
swings and roundabouts
junctions dead ends
living closures and
beginnings
The fool wise man
woman child in all
posits mocks
understands the world
beauty horror
misgivings paths
ahead and gone
retrieved adventoured
learned felt inspected
long gone present
Re-chisseles
comprehends in
jest and wonderment
The jester
foolhardy
and foolproof
scribes in stone
and pencil
when fool’s gold
is just enough
where paradise
develops based on
hopes beliefs
and inner truth
The clown speaks
joy in face
of darkness
insight desperation
inspiration sweating
away the clouded
skies of dogma
digma paradigm
A joker true to
juddered jibes
jewels miracles
astonished tunes
informal charters
melodies and scented
wordings
bridges schisms
buffering the madness
infinite insanity
impoverished delusion
A senseless idiot
giving idioms
meaning iconoclastic
impromptu impropriety
making sense of what
there really is
A bubble blower
whistle blower
soapy gentle creature
carbolic and pugnacious
peaceful warrior
observing pulchritude
a journeyman
The circuits circle
circuses' loops
and rounded
loopholes spirals
intervening interweaving
fabrics
tapestries
makes
the clown
Under the mantle of night, full of hidden meanings,
Where the stars dance their stories in silence,
There lies a world where vocations drown in shadows,
Children with grand dreams, trapped in dusty golden cages,
In the name of egalitarian humanitarianism, they disperse in the cold wind.
Schools, temples of logic and unfeeling iron rules,
Bury geniuses under cloaks of conformity and doubt,
Sacred callings, intoxicated by narrow ignorance,
Begin to perish, bound in invisible chains, under a dark sky,
In an orchestra of silences where the echoes of spirits fade.
Children, who once dreamed of universes untouched by time,
Learn to suffocate their wings of free thought,
Under the weight of the gray everyday and norms devoid of magic,
Their dreams merge with the dust in the old corners of halls,
Where the light of the candle of knowledge struggles to guide.
Under the yoke of the official world, contemplative spirits groan,
Trapped in the web of formalities and mental closures,
Entire universes, swallowed by the black of daily monotony,
Wells of creativity dry up under the sorrow of indifference,
In a world that refuses to see the magic born from within.
Oppression begins in their fragile childhood,
When magnificent ideas turn into painful silences,
Geniuses wasted in vain, like dust on waves of unforgiving time,
In the name of equality, their freedom becomes a shadow,
A distant illusion, lived in a dance of shadows and extinguished dreams.
But in the deep darkness, hidden under layers of routine and oblivion,
There is a light that cannot be extinguished, only temporarily muffled,
In hearts filled with longing for transcendence and pure knowledge,
The song of silent revolt is born, magic revived from the ashes,
For the genius of truth, no matter how oppressed, always returns to the light.
Earthquakes, mudslides, and floods.
The flood came with mudslides and road
closures, causing a major bridge closure.
She brought death and destruction.
She went, but not before changing
the landscape of Northern California.
She altered lives, but I was fortunate.
Once caught in a flood, I was
neither harmed nor felt any danger.
Family and property were fine and
never threatened either. But we
were shut off from each other
for a night and a day. But many
others suffered so much more than me.
Driving through a puddle of water,
My car stalled and so did I.
Communications were shut down.
So, I sought shelter and found
it through the Red Cross.
I was cut off from family 25
miles north of the Golden Gate,
a mild headache compared to
others in the Golden State.