Long Freezers Poems

Long Freezers Poems. Below are the most popular long Freezers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Freezers poems by poem length and keyword.


The Careful Dissemination of Funds

I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.

The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.

Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.

I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.

Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life

The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.

Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.

Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.

Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free. 
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity

Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.

Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.

I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.

Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone. 

And nothing for me.


A day in the past

Jack is learning so much at home, he’s bright and cheerful and never alone,

there’s always something good to do, like playing with bubbles or a trip to the zoo.

Experiments with water and soap, testing if objects sink or float,

painting and drawing are so much fun, there’s so much to do, we’ve just begun.

Last week we went to BCLM, and learned how coal was mined back then,

no shower for you, when you got home,

a tin bath it was, but you didn’t moan.

No electric for your light, no tv to watch at night,

no pre-pack food or take-aways,

no fridges, freezers or microwaves.

History, science and a life of nowt, all learned about in a fun day out,

to actually see, with their own eyes, helps children’s brains to realize.

Being told things read from a book, is not the same as having a look,

to experience things through seeing and doing,

teaches us more in this life we are living.

A picnic in the museum grounds, then jump on the bus to look around,

down stairs first, to take a peek, then upstairs, to choose a seat.

Into the town we went on the bus, a man stood waiting and waved at us,

cobbled streets and lumps and bumps, down the road, past the petrol pumps.

Then to the narrow-boat for a trip, through the tunnels, watch that drip!

The limestone is white and crystal like, then out of the dark and into the light.

Legging the boat, through the narrow gap, is hard work for 2 at the back,

but we get through and come out at last, Jack’s glad he didn’t live in the past.

The chain-maker is doing a demonstration, he has a chain, for a link to go on,

he makes the link as we watch a while, “you would start at age  6”, he tells Jack with a smile.

So much fun we’ve had today, laughing and learning along the way,

looking at things, we’d never see, while stuck in school, at least till 3.

Jack looks at me with a smile in his eyes “thank you nanny, it was a lovely surprise”

“I didn’t know we were going today, to that museum to learn and play”

” I love being taught at home by you and seeing all the things I can do,

like making cakes and playing chess and doing experiments that make a mess”

We get home and Jack sits on my knee, “I’ll get that book you bought for me”

he reads his book to me out loud, I tell him ” I love you, you make me so proud”
Form: Rhyme

City of Angels

If, as hippy folklore claims, it never rains in California,
Then the watermark is never washed out of the phoney cheque,
And when you’re dead and gone there’ll be no one here to mourn ya
For it was only God above urinating down your neck.
Carbon monoxide inhalation, it’s said, is pretty good for you,
So quit that forty a day habit, baby, move it with the flow;
Auto-suicide will wend its merry way and turn you blue,
So wrap your ruby red ones  ‘round a tail pipe instead and blow.

Handprints down at Graumans, stoned celebrity status crested
Of the celluloid long-dead and the many who are soon to be;
My shopping list wants tummy-tucked, liposuction-sculpted, silicon breasted 
Platinum blonde-haired bimbos who are certified free of H.I.V.
The boardwalk stretches like a sunshine catwalk by the sand and sea,
That roller babe looks good enough to eat, this must be heaven,
A junk food, high-cal sex blitz, glitzy steam hammer driven reality,
Her brain and heart aged sixty, yet her body twenty-seven.

Hang loose, chill out in air-conditioned stretch limo deep freezers,
It sure ain’t safe to mosey around alone, so don’t take chances;
And the infrared sun might fry your cheek to cancer and bejeezus,
Tough to keep your tongue in it, then, under the circumstances.
At night the stars reveal themselves, yet don’t look to the skies,
Dead super novas are never seen through pollution and stagnation,
Diaz, Hanks, Di-Caprio hold heaven’s wonder in cash cow eyes,
Down here that just about outshines every thing in God’s creation.

Multinational, mega-corporate, Hollywood moguls kick sorry ass,
Bedroom or boardroom these bondage freaks wield Olympian power,
Snorting lines of purest coke, feeding teenage pussy a champagne glass,
A minute on the screen, her life destroyed within an hour.
Gordon Gecko got it wrong, for greed is far from good you see,
Ray Chandler’s quip about this place a compliment and a half - 
You know, the one where he gave this town a paper-cup personality -
Still you’ve gotta laugh, don’t you? Well, don’t you gotta laugh…?
© Tony Bush  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Verse

Grace Harbour

Grace Harbour
First into Grace Harbour
Me in classic sailboat
At anchor alone
In Desolation Sound
Where silence reveals the place
And the world is bigger
Because I can hear its’ vastness
It’s Bioacoustic diversity
Seals surface, gulls dive, water ripples.
A breeze in a cedar whispers
The buzz of a bumblebee.
The distant whistle of an eagle trembles in air
And falling droplets of rain taste of spruce.
The very place sparkles in silent sound and my soul is still
No need to block out
The combat zone of flashing messages.
From CNN and Fox.
But stillness of silence
Is reflected in blue water
and framed by oyster encrusted rocks,
While green and orange algae talk
Tidal pools and purple sea stars walk
And I can hear the world as music.
--------------------------------------------
War, bombs and shrapnel.
Roaring yachts arrive like Hummers or tanks from Kandahar
Stacked high with gadgets, guns hanged,
Travelling as a pack of waking house-mobiles
To conquer wilderness with bars, showers, propane barbecues
Gas generators, deep freezers, and boom-boxes
All sorts of folks; models in bikinis with pedigree dogs.
Fashion ladies in silk that launch revving zodiacs
To carry standard poodles for an urgent pee.
Then ‘A Tea Cup Yorkshire terrier’ yelps
At a Jack Russell that barks at a Chihuahua
As a Dachshund and Afghan Hound take offense
In frenzied jealousy.
Big hipped humans scream ashore in tenders.
Acoustic awareness numbed
The get-away-from-it-allers that bring it all always, partied.
As night fell they turned the generators off
“I haven’t seen any wildlife”, said one,
“There was more to feed at the zoo”
Said the other boomer
“Yea, where’s the loon.”
Fixed ideas of progress consume.
Then our mother moon
In full dress exposed an array of limpets
Of many sizes and shapes all clinging to obvious rocks
Exchanging freedom for the security
Of a defensive shell of fixed ideas
And automated reflexes.
It is useless to talk kindly to a limpet
One must detach it by main force.

What If...

What if trees never got old?
What if Doritos weren't extremely bold?
What if my mom was my dad's uncle's cousin?
What if bees chirped and birds were buzzin?
What if every house had a drawbridge and moat?
What if the Cubs hadn't bothered the Billy Goat?
What if girls changed bodies with boys?
What if there was no such color as turquoise?
What if black turned into white?
What if day turned into night?
What if a freezer made things hot?
What if I had a personal robot?
What if the Little Engine never did try?
What if Pinnochio never told a lie?
What if they just gave the poor rabbit Trix?
What if after one, two you didn't pick up sticks?
If all of these what ifs were actually true,
The world would be wonderful for me and you.


Then I Would...

If the sky switched places with the ground,
Then I'd be forced to walk upside down.
And if there were no age to a tree,
there'd be plenty of oxygen for everyone to breathe.
If every house had a drawbridge and moat,
When I went to my neighbor's, I'd need a boat.
If the Cub's Billy Goat curse wasn't severe,
Then they could win a World Series this year.
If the boys switched place with girls,
Then a muscular man would wear a necklace with pearls.
If the day happened to turn into night, 
Then the sun wouldn't be nearly as bright.  
If the freezers were used to heat everything, 
I'd use a microwave to cool my ice cream.
If I had a personal robot whose name was Gabe,
Then I'd never get up except to bathe.
If Pinnochio admitted that he was a doll,
Then perhaps his nose would be rather small.
And if the little steam engine didn't think he could, 
He'd be stuck on the tracks, and that'd be no good.
If the kids gave the rabbit Trix and answered his cries,
The he wouldn't have to dress up in disguise.
If all of these things happened just as I hope,
Then everyone would be happy, and no one would mope.
Form:


Mrs Grundy and the Butcher

Ted Cogger is our local butcher and he’s been here seven years;
full forward for the footy team and drinks a nightly seven beers.
He played one season for the cricket club, but he was just a slugger,
and Ted’s become a mate of mine, but he’s a pretty sleazy bugger.

I have suspicions ‘bout fidelity but of course there is no proof,
and if Pat his wife did get the bell she’d probably hit the roof!
All in all Ted’s just a bloke who loves his beer and sport,
but if other rumours are all true then one day he’ll get caught.

And caught he got, in front of me; there in his butchers shop.
I was wandering home near five o’clock, so I thought I would stop
and have a chat with Ted before he shuts up for the night,
when in walks Mrs. Grundy much to Ted’s chagrin delight.  

I sat back and listened to their conversation taking place.
Mrs. Grundy mentioned she hoped Ted would be her saving grace,
but being Friday Ted’s not sure, for he’s let his stocks run low,
therefore his freezers full of empty space with nothing much to show.

She ordered sausages and corn beef, but Ted just shook his head,
so Mrs. Grundy scratched beneath her chin, then she finally said,
“Would you have a chicken I could buy” and one Ted duly found,
then plonked it down upon the scales and weighed it as three pound.  

“Oh goodness me that’s not enough” Mrs. Grundy made another plea,
“My son is coming for the weekend and that won’t feed his family,
would you have a bigger chicken?” Ted went back for another look.
I saw him bring back from the cool room - the very same old chook.

He plonked it down upon the scales but Mrs. Grundy couldn’t tell,
even though the chook is on the scales - Ted’s finger is as well.
Ted mentioned that the weight’s four pound, thinking this would do …
“That’s marvellous” said Mrs. Grundy - “Now can you wrap up the two?”
Form: Rhyme

What If Thanksgiving Celebrated 365 Days a Year Part I

an earlier draft of this barely satisfactory missive ex post facto, i chomped asper with upper dentures upon evincing a couple of typographical errors, in up rye or draft, and did not wanna dodge being a spell bound stickler for typing words correctly. 

though no obligation to trot out this fixation sans zero misspelling tolerance, a compulsion with any concomitant obsession found me reposting before a repast of dessert - so there Ghost of Marie Antoinette, wherever you might be hiding - i can have my cake and eat it too!

Minus trimmings and over stuffed ego freezers, 
but altruism, civility, Dharma bum ethnocentrism, 
gratuitous homogeneous internationalism, 
karma mosaic opportunism, quitessential righteousness, 
unpretentious vivacious wide world yipping,

brouhaha dutifully emphasizing friendliness, 
antithetically booing critical, popularly pugnacious 
spoiled trump petting uber western yikyak, 
zealous antipathy craving everything. 
---------------------------------------------------------
a hypothetical, mental, rhetorical thought question 
   occurred to me just moments ago
sans, milk of human kindness bubbles frothily 
   upon major American holiday, 

   whereat figurative bro
   thar and sisters exhibit philanthropic 
   good-samaritan charitable ambitions 
   especially, towards indigent that crow
for bare necessities

   other than 
   when Thanksgiving rolls around, and dough
nuts to dollars even most frugal misanthropes 
   play feigned charitable card egoistically glow
with ambient benevolence, civility, 
   diligent energy, and friendly hello

and sundry pleasant greetings 
   hook hood be some 
   soon tubby rich entrepreneurial stranger 
   ready to make shares available vis a vis  IPO
Form: Epic

4 Am Dream

Loss in indigo darkness
	distress coursing through my being
shattered images flowing changing
	confusion not understanding what was seen

blueberry muffins sticky and hot
	one dozen found and one dozen lost
seeking in freezers cluttered and cold
	perpetrator missing unable to find

Angels are watching with distressing concern
	some trying to save and some trying to condemn
sharp points of doctrine tempered by love
	intervention desired seeking to save

opening my eyes into gray gloom
	smart clock has no answers only the time
not understanding laying awake
	dawn is long coming wanting to sleep

memories disturbing keeping sleep at bay
	guilty parties known becoming unknown
somehow are morphing in flowing change
	the guilty are changing in monstrous ways

closing my eyes and seeking relief
	wishing the dream would just fade away
accusing accusations of violating innocence
	abusing another to seek personal gain

oh what is it that lurks in dark of night
	twisting the darkness into half remembered dreams
is it external or part of me
	feasting on fears in dark of night

opening drawers and within them searching
	for missing muffins somehow astray
wondering why who stole them away
	perhaps already consuming forever lost away

time slowly passing and staring at the walls
	clock has no answers but I have not sought
perhaps there is wisdom in its artificial ways
	casting aside all hope of the night

rising up in dark of night
	running away from dreams that I had
seeking the light to be found elsewhere
	as dreams shatter and then fade away

Premium Member Seafood Sundays

*Been posting some heavy stuff lately. Time for a bit of levity.

"Hey babe, you're never gonna believe this. Crab fishing in Alaska has been cancelled for 2023." 
"I don't understand, dear."
"Well, according to the paper, all the crabs have 'left the building.' It's crabs no mo." 
"But where did they go?"
"Ahh, that's the mystery, indeed. Some are blaming sockeye salmon, whatever the flip that is. But I have my own theories."
"Sigh. here we go..."
"Yeah, I figure the little buggers finally figured out that not getting out of the way of the sweeping net is really sucky. Or maybe they all went on strike and decided that ending up on dinner plates was a crappy way to go. Then again, it's possible that alien visitors sampled the tasty crustaceans and transported the lot of them to their home world. Of course, the prevailing conspiracy theory has it that a certain former president with a craving for crab monopolized the fishing industry in Alaska and hoarded them all in ginormous freezers at his Florida resort. All I know is, I'm gonna miss our seafood Sundays. Shrimp and lobster just ain't the same without a complementary pound or two of crab legs. I really believe the end of the world is here."
"Poor, poor baby. By the way, seafood Sunday is on this weekend. I was able to snatch up a few dozen pounds before they all did the Elvis thing."
"Seriously? Kewl. Crab Armageddon will have to wait. Hey, have you noticed the price of beef lately? There goes my Saturday steaks on the grill. I've got some theories on the present crisis..."
"Yes, dear."
© Tom Woody  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Narrative

Little Green People's Work Is Never Done

Little Green People’s Work Is Never Done

Life calls on little green people, to work, to continue
As everyone else sleeps in
Hiding from the corporate comatose leader 
Normal people rise, at a later date, from beds dead tired
Smiles crack on faces; lines move along the traces of old age 
And breaks the new dawned day wide open
You can’t count on little green people for anything
They work for nothing.  They work for free
They cut trees down in forest with their teeth 
Place them into piles for safe keeping
And by the way
Arrive from outer space from other planets to take our place
Little green people take our jobs
I know this can’t be done
They have no work permits
Their visas have expired 
They must line up to be deported as per orders
You can’t count on little green people 
Without proper documents
It is illegal 
They never sleep but hang out inside of freezers
Or cold, in wooden boxes, toxic beyond their borders
Catch colds, catch fire with the trees
To burn the forest down
Pretend to weep, pretend they don’t have matches
Call it an accident as they move from house to house
No one keeps the peace and secrets like little green people
You can count on that
They press their little green suits with tiny irons
And eat their greens.  They even kiss your feet
Some pray for peace in churches
Just like the rest of us
Little green people will never move back home 
Work is finished there
Their suns burnt out
But other work still needs to be completed
It continues on the foreign dawn

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