Long Directory Poems
Long Directory Poems. Below are the most popular long Directory by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Directory poems by poem length and keyword.
MysticMisfits™ Staff Directory
Staff Spotlight:The WanderPoet
Position: Ephemeral Verse Consultant
Clock-in Time: Unknown
Clock-out Time: Immediately After You Notice Him
You won’t see him arrive.
You might catch a glimpse--
a flicker of velvet,
a whisper that sounds like unfinished poetry.
He drifts between aisles,
scribbling stanzas on the backs of receipts,
leaving notes folded in teacups,
and misquoting love spells near the lip balm display.
He never applied for the job.
He just appears
right before a storm,
drops a single verse,
and vanishes before the ink dries.
We tried giving him a name tag once.
It wrote itself into a sonnet
and dissolved in moonlight.
Check back often. New employees arrive whenever the veil thins… or HR sneezes.
Before technology, to find
A number, you would look
In a pretty big directory
Of names bound in a book.
There were two types - the yellow pages
Listed business phones
And the white-paged paperback contained
Your personal unknowns.
The names were alphabetical
And had a home address,
Plus the number for the telephone
To dial (not to press!)
We have a copy from the past;
Our grandson found our page,
Though whether he could picture
Using it was hard to gauge.
Of course, most people used these books
As booster seats for tots.
Suggesting that today, though,
Would make most young parents plotz.
Pearlescent the corneal reflection, on a blind mans eyes
orbs of obscurity, belie a defunct projection of screens
for Eventide is ever present, nuanced beside a braille directory
his mind’s focused on Feral senses, gut instincts, acuity
knowledge of darkness, has built its own safe haven
Plumb lines are useless, if life’s following a ball of string
the Thrum of a moths wings, leads him to the window
fingertips sense the drapes, yet another Crimped reality
fly away little creature, go find your own darkness
you don’t want to be trapped in here with me
with a bittersweet Tang of sadness, the moth is released
Howling into the distance, on a gentle summers breeze
Eight word Bardenesque challenge Poetry Contest
PEARLESCENT 2. HOWLING 3. THRUM 4. TANG 5. EVENTIDE 6. PLUMB 7. CRIMPED 8. FERAL
Sponsored by John Hamilton 22/03/2021
MY POETRY
Here's the entry !
Not for contest
but chanced to set,
doing my best.
Appreciate.
Directory !
Taking no theme
for her or him.
Nothing supreme .
Only blank film .
Biometry !
Light, strong or firm.
Thoughts sprout on arm.
Dreams shine on derm
carrying own charm.
Geometry !
Curvy or straight:
Whims going great.
May you accept
or can reject.
Gem Factory !
What's in a name ?
Words ef poem
glisten as gem.
Poetic game.
On Chemistry !
Combination :
Words ! Emotion !
Perfect fusion.
Composition.
Sweet Symmetry !
Words play random.
It's my freedom.
to feel seldom
any boredom.
It's Poetry !
Verse : Rhymes both run
each taking turn
in depth or fun :
Satisfaction.
On US Army about
Legacy is leaving a mark on the people around you and the world.
Like placing a rocket upon their shoulder
Or giving them choice within the assessment scale of your grade
I could only hope I haven’t left a scar
Gentle as fragile instances passing by my observation
The Flame and The Fire control detonator
Who let the kids play with the matches
When overmatching the match mayn't appear the overmatching of the most ethical
Then will the most ethical appear hypocrisy if the Decision Dominance saves soul from trap of the Devils
Inspired by Ogden Nash
These poem was written well prior ADP 3-13 was published in Army Directory
But will the Army then give me benefit of serving as a source
People today claim themself with no shame being AN INFLUENCER
Do the they comprehend responsibility then ?
Are you ready?
Picture eighty-seven children, practicing for a Christmas show
in a sales barn that does not have heat or a sound system.
A skunk died somewhere in here a few hours ago.
Many are screaming.
Some are crying.
Many do not know me.
I am new in town, and obviously crazy.
It is freezing cold.
I had unwisely told all the mommies
to do their Christmas shopping
and leave all eighty-seven children with me
without any other adult chaperones.
I could be a killer. I guess no one understood that
because they did.
We were all sobbing when they returned to pick up their
children. I did not show it on the outside. I was too "nice".
I was sobbing on the inside, trying to figure out how to save
face when it failed, flopped, and was the worst show they had ever
seen.
It came to me a few hours later after I had my heart attack and died twice. I called six mommies and gave them parts. One was the narrator, because she knew the children's names. Which was
a much better start than I had. Two others would get them on and off the stage.
Did I mention I telephoned every number in the church directory to see if anyone could figure out how to rig up a star that lit up on the back of a pick up that we could all follow from the church to the manger (aka sales barn) the night of the program? The man who could do it was named Ziegwier. The last name in the book, so I called them all.
It was the best Sunday School Christmas play in the history of the world because I was the last car to get there, due to me orchestrating so much stuff at the church, and the six women had it all going beautifully and well by the time I parked clear in the back and ran in there. I sat back and relaxed, knowing God was in the house.
A nightmare without terror,
A peaceful life without savor.
Voluble blasphemies
In the flames of a hell
Perfumed with the stench of lust.
A heart loaded with lugubrious memories,
My soul bellows in the darkness.
Running to die, for barren pleasures,
Insatiable are the sickles of the reaper.
Allergic to flashing lights, even with a spotless record,
I wander in the obscurity of their hatred.
Thirsty for bills of every color,
I sometimes gaze at my scars
So as never to lower my guard,
Always on alert like a fugitive terrorist.
A few victims etched on the clocks of my conscience,
I have lost liters of hemoglobin, scraps of flesh,
Worshipper of spontaneous shots of adrenaline.
I know the story of my genetic code,
I will never be ashamed of coming from a third-world country.
I have rummaged through the trash of my memory
Before scourging the arrogance of my oppressors.
Lamentation has never been scribbled
In the script of my existence.
Clairvoyant, I behold the world
With the eyes of the bearer of celestial lights.
Nothing but interests in my directory,
I have no time to scrutinize
The complexities of human nature.
I glean my elation
From the fears of my enemies.
I carry the stature of those slaves
Drugged by the peace pipe of liberty.
I had a red jeep once,
my husband rigged it up with
Christmas lights on the running board.
I was puffed up about it.
My grandparents had the best
Christmas lights; they were jewel-toned,
and bubbled up and down, like a lava lamp,
before lava lamps were a thing, back in
the 50's.
my parents had the same boring, drab,
fat-bulbed red, blue, green, and orangish-yellow
Christmas lights. We wanted something better, but
these were already paid for.
The best Christmas light was the time I put on a Sunday
School play with 85 children. My vision was to rig up a giant
white star in the back of someone's pick up truck, and the children and their parents would all follow the lit up star from the church to
the sale barn, which was our stable.
I had to call all of the people in the church directory, because no one could figure out how to do it until I reached a man whose last name began with a Z. I think I can do that he said, and he did!
I will never forget the awesomeness of this Christmas light though; it was my all-time favorite Christmas light. The procurement of it was awful at the time, but is so sweet in the memory now. So worth the trouble!
The purpose of a phone book
Back when I was very small
Was to raise the height of children
Who were young and not too tall.
The kiddie table sat them first
But then they weren’t part of
The main event of which they hoped
To squeeze into the heart of.
So when their parents gave consent
They joined the grown-up table
Yet being short, to reach their plates
They simply weren’t able.
So phone books to the rescue!
With the slightest little push
A directory was placed beneath
Each toddler’s waiting tush.
The meal went on until those kids
Were bundled off to slumber
And never did we use those books
To find one single number!
In seventeen sixty nine a child was born
in Corsica, Genoa's former vassal state.
Prior to his birth, his land had been war-torn,
Paoli's resistance did his birth predate.
At school, his geometrical talent was inborn,
and he was tutored by none other than Laplace.
For his accent, his peers at school laughed him to scorn,
but fortune would elevate him from grass to grace.
With his much older heartthrob he tied the knot;
much to the chagrin of his own dear family.
For the heart of Josephine he relentlessly fought,
and at Chateau de Malmaison they lived happily.
Later he would choose a military career
that would take him beyond the Corsican frontier.
France's revolution saw to his glorious rise,
when at Toulon, he took royalists by surprise.
To Egypt he led a dual expedition
of a military and scientific mission.
To France he returned and sacked the directory,
taking charge of the affairs of state and treasury.
Europe did contend with him in seven coalitions;
at Austerlitz he subjugated two nations,
at Marengo, Austria on her bended knees fell,
at Jena-Auerstadt, Prussia to victory bade farewell.
At Borodino, Russia met her nemesis,
as her vanquished forces saw their paralysis.
At Ligny, Blucher like a beaten canine fled
with the terribly smitten forces he once led.
Portugal's sovereign lord to distant Brazil ran,
when like an invincible lord he came to his realm.
The emperor he feared, and made no military plan;
thus he paved the way for him to ascend his helm.
But despite his triumphs, his weakness was exposed.
At Rolica, his troops a major set back saw.
From Leipzig he did to Elba's island withdraw,
from whence in 1815 he returned unopposed.
Russia's wintry plains did his grand armee deplete,
making his troops vulnerable to a future defeat.
After the famous battles in which he gloried,
his great ambition at Waterloo was buried.