Long Flagged Poems
Long Flagged Poems. Below are the most popular long Flagged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flagged poems by poem length and keyword.
Someday in the future
Our moon will turn red
Raped and stripped
And left for dead
For in her core
Is the need for humans to survive
But the greed of us
She will never revive
These actions of us
Will resonate through universe worlds
Where we will be tagged and flagged
As totally absurd
We managed to escape
The year 2012
We are now about to be
Cast and shelved
Many years ago
We had the chance to repent
But where ever we went
We destroyed and left spent
Who ever is left
From our human race
Will have nowhere to go
To ever show face
As out there, their are
Other races of creed
Much different from us
The perfect seed
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-6.php
When Mortimer Manders collapsed in the street,
his daughter, Muriel, was with him.
Though now seventy-five,
he’d continued to thrive,
in spite of the irregular rhythm
his heart was now keeping. But this was quite grave.
He hit the hard sidewalk real sudden.
When Muriel knelt
beside him, and felt
to locate where his pulse was, she couldn’t.
Soon, passers-by stopped and gathered around,
but no-one had medical knowledge.
“It’s good, I suppose,
If you loosen his clothes:
I think that’s what they told us in college …”
She looked wildly around, and thought that she’d found
a willing and capable saviour.
A red firehouse lay
thirty metres away –
(might as well have been Outer Moravia!)
When Muriel pounded the firehouse door,
a voice answered back through the panels,
“You make think it inept,
but we’ll only accept
an approach through appropriate channels.”
“But he pays your wages,” she argued with force:
and, pointing to where he was lying,
“You’ve got to come quick –
he’s collapsed on the bricks –
my father is probably dying!”
“You don’t understand how these things are arranged,”
said the voice, from the depths of the station:
“You just call nine-one-one.
If we try to respond,
we are risking adverse litigation.”
Running into the roadway, she flagged down a car,
and the driver agreeably shocked her:
with a white coat and bag
and a hospital tag,
he said, “Yes, you are right, I’m a doctor.”
As the quack pulled away, he turned briefly to say,
in a voice that was suitably gloomy,
“I will not touch that man,
for if I lend a hand
and he happens to die, you can sue me.”
The ambulance came, but things got more lame,
as Mortimer started to weaken:
though the ambulance crew
looked resplendent in blue,
the responders were all Costa Rican.
“We’ve lived here some time and our English is fine,
but we can’t touch our defibrillator.
To avoid getting screwed,
we must talk to him through
an officially-sanctioned translator.”
“But you sound good to me, and it’s peachy, you see,
for my father speaks German and Spanish.”
“But your ganso is cooked.
No interpreter’s booked.”
And the ambulance packed up and vanished.
So the moral is clear. Clear of medics please steer.
Your best course, if you’re feeling nervous, is
lay on linguists each day
in Magyar and Malay
– and don’t call emergency services.
Rolling clouds over rolling hills.
Kentucky is winding it roads out in endless curves.
No hurry,
this journey drives me
through its curling landscape
as a self-reading picture book of racial memories.
Born in a far way place, I feel rooted now
to these unfolding boonies and hollers,
backwoods and backroad, places
that speak to my very bones.
A small town ahead, a clapperboard store
a gas station and a 7-11. Despite being modern
they have that tumbledown structure
that is native to these rural backwaters.
The shanty tilt of well-worn porches,
dusty front yards flagged with
the fading banners of old glory.
The sun will be going down soon,
I'm driving slow, meandering into a history
I recognize as my own.
The fields are threaded with deer
as evening paints the gleaming creeks gold.
I'm told
that perfection is a pocketsize piece of scenery
no one has discovered yet,
a place just right, one just now
appearing as my memorable soul.
Being so awfully insecure
among confident people
seems ridiculous and brittle;
I'm very humble by nature,
it will not take me anywhere:
I'll end up gathering crumbs!
I'm too stubborn, still refusing to pay
for these silly and shameful faults;
I would cry out loud to feel anger,
not sit at a corner counting doubts!
I should blame you instead, dear:
because I'm getting hit hard by reality!
I won't cry on your shoulder, just be forgiving
when I seek some empathy, it's too humiliating;
if a man cries is because is a liar when he swears:
he'd rather carry inside silly and shameful faults!
Admit that you've been constantly cheating,
sneaking out at night while I was sleeping;
you dropped a sleeping pill in my Martini,
snuck out and flagged down a yellow taxi!
These silly and shameful faults
have given me sleepless nights;
don't kiss me to cover up the ugly truth:
it's a parody not as sweet as Baby Ruth!
Learning Young
From back when I was 7 and 8,
When candy bars cost 5 cents,
And “being polite” meant
Even to strangers. The wrinkled,
Baggy, old man, who
Lived in the basement apartment
Next-door, with the pass-time
Of sitting outside on his
Stoop atop five steps to ground level,
Would always call me over
To sit on his lap, which I’d do,
Because as a child I’d been taught
To be nice, be polite, especially
To the older elders. So, I’d go,
Not happily, breaking from backyard play.
He’d hold out his hand, with
A brown penny on it, saying it
Was mine if I sat on his lap, which
I did less for the penny
Than a kindness toward his old
Loneliness, sitting on his stoop
Always staring off into boring space.
Then, once seated on his lap, he
Galloped his knees like adults do for toddlers
To give the thrill of pretending horse play.
Which were nice memories brought to me,
But I was just that much older that
Feelings unpleasantly flagged through me.
So, I’d jump down, taking my penny, going home.
From those days of never mentioning, or
Realizing, or obeying, or valuing
The Intuition, I was knowing it as what
We just termed, “getting the creeps,”
That were too uncomfortable to forget.
That made being a polite child
Insufferable for me — thus, I never told mother.
That caused me to snub that neighbor after a time.
And it was decades before I saw
The lesson of the old man
With his pennies
For what it was.
————————————————————————————————
(c) sally Young eslinger 1/2021
Everything had gone well and the night was still young,
she had made her intentions quite clear,
home alone we're not walking, the drink was now talking,
and the score was one-nil to the beer.
So we flagged down a cab, made a ten minute trip
hoping none of the neighbours would see,
helped her walk down the drive hoping I wouldn't slip
and then she turned round and came back for me.
We crashed into the hall, and both leaned on the wall
in an effort to regain our breath,
altogether uncertain if this nights exertions
would not end in premature death.
In the bedroom she tore off her blouse and her corset,
her lumbar support and her truss,
left her ankle support on, did she just forget
but I thought I'd not make any fuss.
After I had stripped off with the help of my frame
and rolled onto the bed in the dark,
we lay side by side, now with nothing to hide
and both waited for that certain spark.
As we stared at the ceiling, a terrible feeling
was finally now seeping through,
that the worst of our fears, after all the long years
we'd forgotten what we're supposed to do.
8th August 2018
For contest 'A rattling rhyme', sponsor Nina Parmenter
(*- This is not autobiographical. Yet. )
yesterday
watched men try to ride
in some graceful fashion
a flying, spinning, gyrating, horned beast
for eight seconds
probably should feel sorry
for the exploited beasts
but none of them grimaced in pain
and limped away cradling
an injured limb
however
there was this weird,
hornless, white as snow "thing"
lurched out, fell back on the chute,
reeled and tipped, almost falling,
then it bucked, finally
too late for any good
red flagged when he stumbled
out of the gate
that sorry freak of an animal
is half the rider's score
if he can't do his part
it's a re-ride (on something better)
correct for me
to pity that poor creature,
I know–but––really?
his name was Trump Train
I'm gonna go find an election prop
and bet all I can wager
his namesake
doesn't survive the primaries
Trump Train
yeah, right
more like
Trump Train Wreck
Those trademark circular elements of style in vogue every four years
When the crème de la crème of the athleticism
presents itself on the world stage
Suspending and transcending any present day internecine conflict
Allowing, enabling, and proffering the five continents
And gathering of top-notch mental, physical and spiritual prowess
Extant with adroit prolific curved arabesques on one corner of the globe
That (like Noah with his Ark kit) human techno wizardry
Bedazzles viewers charting unparalleled feats
Whereby the human body defies the laws of physics and challenges gravity
Fielding a hypnotic colorful tapestry
Whereby the woof and warp of any melancholy moody blue, mellow yellow
Gunmetal green, roman a clef real time red doth white out
The dark knight, temporarily sequestered in a bishopric
Of faux queenly royalty, where a pawn
out the parapet of her castle keep
She imbibes requiem toward protesting the limits of *****sapiens
Inherent parameters, where fluid dynamics
of each most supreme contestant
Sans his/her specialized arena
Further the prior leg holds with free from arm-twisting head lock
And make a mockery of invisible manacles
Purportedly and formerly believed to tether man/woman kind
With unbreakable hidebound genetic/ chromosomal restraints
But nay to those who professed impossibility against the reins
Boxed and fenced in by bow rings set by Mother Nature
Well nigh obsolete and superfluous
What with evident burlesque stellar performances
Leaving the spectators starry eyed with collective mouths agape
As polished prominent performers blithely offset previous milestone
Setting a new yardstick to measure the Olympian capacity
That Heracles and Zeus would most likely deem
as some sort of magic trick
Yet lo, the sensational and majestic pageantry absolutely serious
Lying to rest what used to be merely amateur games
Whereby most any novice could coax a charade, façade, travesty et cetera
Without fear of getting flagged, but phenomenal exhibitors of today
Can nearly bank on netting a truckload of worldly wide wealth
Whereby a hand-made Scottish tartan Harris Tweed welcome mat
Ushers August men and exuding mettle and iron clad dedication
With pomp and circumstance into pantheon of future legends!
Form:
The cruiser idles like a blue-throated wasp,
a hive on wheels, humming with eyes.
I am pulled over by a constellation
of lenses stitched into the dark.
Before the door opens,
the car has already read me—
my plate a barcode in the wind,
my face a passport made of bone and light,
my name ringing in a room of servers
where memory never sleeps.
The dash blinks its verdict:
license stitched to address,
address to a map of debts and stops,
insurance pinned like a specimen.
A radio braids my breath to headquarters.
A body camera pins my shadow to the hour.
A microphone cups the syllables I spill.
A computer asks the sky for my coordinates.
Overhead, a quiet witness—
the satellite’s eyelid—does not blink.
On the shoulder, the reader-gun
speaks in laser and receipt.
In the trunk, the fingerprint glass
waits for my touch like a frost.
And they step out armored with certainty:
vests that drink bullets,
tasers that write lightning in muscle,
pepper that turns the air into fire,
batons that remember wrists,
sidearms cold as winter moons,
shotguns asleep in racks,
rifles folded like prayers.
The siren keeps time with my pulse.
The camera keeps my face.
The network keeps my story.
I am a driver in a net of light,
flagged by a machine that never forgets,
stopped by a future that already knows my name.
The city's underbelly was once tagged
by gangs staking out their territory.
And so, talented recruits got snagged
by local gangs to spray-paint their story.
Visible spaces got inked like tattoos,
depicting badges of fear: bold and stark.
Yet today, tenants in those ghettos choose
urban art: over walls, inked crude and dark.
Graffiti has been transformed into art:
while restoring pride to the neighborhood.
And even though it isn't much, it's a start,
today gangs protect murals in their hood.
And though tourist maps have urban art flagged,
the city's underbelly was once tagged.