Long Fridges Poems
Long Fridges Poems. Below are the most popular long Fridges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fridges poems by poem length and keyword.
We don’t like it when you talk back.
We’re in power, so we’ll have less of that.
Protest because of our lies and fascist policies.
Well, I don’t know if you plebs understand where the power is!
You see if you talk back it means you’re standing up to all our lies and our crap.
If you create a scene by standing up together, well that means that you could eventually control the power!!!
Because we’re Tories and we lie for a living. We just want you to keep on giving. So we’ll screw you hard and tax everything. We’ll make you plebs suffer with this ‘cost of living’
But if you stand up in mass and numbers. We’ll get really scared and hide in our fridges. Because the only thing that can stop the flow is the vehement look in your eyes when you plebs act in crowds. A general action will bring us to our knees because our billionaire backers will lose money.
Formula Fe2 O3
Iron is just awesome – let’s see!
First it was prehistoric man
Who was always an iron fan
Iron is a third of the earth
Industry is iron by birth
Pritchard designed and Darby made
Iconic Iron Bridge won’t fade
Smelt pig iron from iron ore
Produces cast iron galore
Backbone of skyscrapers, bridges
Organs of cars, washers, fridges
Clever Bessemer carbon gone
Heralded steel for everyone
Mankind’s most ingenious feat
Turning raw earth to steel – so neat!
Iron’s compounds are versatile
No wonder it’s used all the while
Inks, fertilisers, pesticides
Paints, enamels and more besides
Many iron phrases pervade
Each as an English language aid
There’s ironclad, iron curtain
Iron grip and more for certain
We need it in a small amount
For on haemoglobin we count
Open your eyes and look around
Everywhere an iron surround
Iron has magnetic appeal
First place must be iron with steel
The kids are in bed - there are dishes to do
Some washing, ironing, paperwork too
Children, office, housework, sometimes I think life’s hard
But it isn’t really, not when it’s compared
To my mums, who rose up early and who was never late
Lighting the coal fire, sitting in the grate
She then cooked breakfast on a range,
Haven’t things for me, now changed?
Over the range for hours mum would slave
Cooking meals, whereas I have a microwave
And a vacuum, to clean this house of mine
Mum used to beat rugs on her washing line,
I have gas central heating, to keep the house warm
For my waking up to electric alarm
Then straight into the bathroom to have a shower
With instant hot water, mum had to wait hours
For the water to boil in her dolly tub
With its mangle, her weeks washing to scrub
A washing machine, daily, washes my clothes
What I’d do without it, heavens knows
And only a larder and pantry had mum,
No fridges or freezers, with meals ready done;
Between rudding steps and the range black leading,
She always had time for games and for reading,
My children don’t bother to go out to play
They stay in their rooms, on computers all day,
I guess each generation, has its ‘hard times’
I suppose at the moment, I feel this is mine
But, on reflection, of the life my mum had
I consider myself lucky; my ‘hard time’ is not so bad.
© Janette Fisher – June 1995
I wrote this poem about 15 years ago when I was a bank manager and my girls were about 12 and 10
Monday
It has come to my attention, that someone has been stealing from
the communal fridge. I notice that my own personal milk with my
name on the bottle is half empty, also three fingers of my KitKat
are missing. Please refrain, or action will be taken.
Tuesday
It has come to my attention, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see
my milk has been topped up, though, why two fingers of my
kitkat in a V sign just beggars belief. Just tasted my milk, you
dirty bastard. I will now be monitoring the fridge from my office.
You will be caught.
Wednesday
It has come to my attention, the camera monitoring the fridge
is now monitoring the ladies toilet. This is intolerable, you are
usurping my authority. Heads will roll. I will now be moving the
fridge into my office until further notice.
Thursday
It has come to my attention, my office has been penetrated,
the fridge is missing, and I find a ransom note on my desk.
I don’t know who you people think you're dealing with, but
let me leave you in no doubt, I will find out who you are, and
you will be dismissed.
Friday
It has come to my attention, a delivery of fifty fridges is
cluttering up the whole building, management is going
ballistic. I concede to your demands, please get rid of
them. Let us get back to you taking my milk and my biscuits,
my job, my life. Just leave me alone.
Thankyou.
At midnight, deep beneath D.C.'s pride,
A tunnel breathed secrets the daylight hides.
Pennsylvania Avenue—so clean, so grand—
But under its bones lies a cursed land.
Dark suits walk halls soaked in red,
A velvet silence where the truth lies dead.
The walls pulse with symbols from ages old,
Carved by hands both cruel and cold.
Fridges hum like funeral songs,
Storing innocence stolen wrong.
A sip from goblets—ritual grace—
Drinking what once had a name, a face.
Chants rise low, in voices torn,
As one calls out to the south, forlorn:
“Oh Lucifer, bless this sacred feast,
Let hunger grow, and hope decrease.”
A screen glows bright with human pain—
War, rape, hunger—all for gain.
To them, each scream a golden prize,
Each tear a ladder toward the skies.
They laugh where others starve and die,
Feeding greed with every lie.
Their power grows from broken lives,
While justice sleeps, and truth survives.
But not all is lost in the dark and deep,
For even shadows cannot keep
The whispered hope of one brave child,
A single spark—gentle, wild.
That whisper stirs, that ember cries,
And ghosts of justice start to rise.
The stars above no longer rest—
A reckoning moves from east to west.
So when the winds begin to scream,
And nightmares flood the halls of dreams—
They’ll ask who knew, who dared believe,
What horrors bloomed beneath the feast.
Oh, Nothing! You sly, elusive spud,
You’re the star of this poem (though technically dud).
You haunt empty fridges, blank quizzes, and minds,
The gap where my keys hide and my weekend plans wind.
You’re the punchline of vacuums, the muse of bare shelves,
The reason I’m talking to lamps by myself.
You’re the “E” in my bank account, crisp and austere,
The punch I forgot in my joke over here.
Some say you’re profound—philosophers swoon,
But let’s be real: you’re a nap’s favorite tune.
You’re the silence between a bad pun and “Huh?”,
The plot of a mime’s TED Talk—oh, brother, enough!
You wear pajamas daily, yet still blend right in,
A champion of naps, but you never quite win.
You’re the cloudless blue sky with no bird, plane, or flair,
The “U up?” text sent to a cactus. Bold. Rare.
So here’s to you, Nothing, you cheeky old void,
The world’s quietest meme, forever deployed.
Though poets may weep for your depth, I insist:
You’re the *something* I missed… wait. Dang. Plot twist!
---
P.S. If you liked this poem, pay me in air.
(It’s fitting, since Nothing and I split despair.)
The kids are in bed, there's dishes to do
Washing, ironing, paperwork too,
Children, office, housework, sometimes I find life hard
But it isn't really, not when it's compared
To my mum's, who rose up early and was never late
Lighting the coal fire that was sitting in the grate,
She then cooked breakfast on a range,
Haaven't things for me now changed.
Over the range for hours mum would slave
Cooking meals, wheras I have a microwave
And a vacuum to clean this house of mine
Mum used to beat rugs on her washing line.
I have central heating to keep the house warm
For my waking up by electric alarm
Straight into the bathroom to have a shower
With instant hot water, mum had to wait hours
For the water to boil, for her dolly tub
With its mangle, her weeks washing to scrub,
A washing machine daily, washes my clothes
What I'd do without it, heaven knows.
And only a larder and pantry had mum
No fridges, or freezers with meals ready done
Between rudding steps and range black leading,
She would always make time, for games and for reading,
My children son't bother to go out to play
They stay in their rooms, on computers all day,
I guess each generation has its 'hard times'
I suppose at the moment, this must be mine,
But, on reflection of the life my mum had
I call myself lucky, my 'hard time's' not so bad!
HUNGER DOES NOT KNOCK: THE BLIND SILENCE OF LIFE WE SHARE
The raga muffins,
invisibly stood there;
lone tears wrapping
themselves around
his frail heart:-
Blue skies had lost
their luster—gone dark—
like clothes of those who
who had to mourn the blessed
children they had borne and lost:-
You see, hunger does not knock—
just bellies in—whirling through empty spaces
like winds leaching cracks in an abandoned barn
of rotting crops from barren fields no lower sown:-
Yes, many try to imprison themselves in sleep
to delay the storming hunger pangs—
seeing that dark abysmal realm—to fill
their vacuous, abdominal-plowed rows:-
No, old hunger does not knock—
through the cracks of life—it seeps in
like sun rays through poorly shaded panes:-
Hey, for hunger, each day is an audacious dare;
knowing that its life grows invisible to those
who say they really care and want to help.
In awareness, hunger
does not knock;
just boldly creeps
right in, and demand
its agonistic share:-
Within its soul, life
and death still struggle;
aware that suicide
is one of the greatest sins—
Only the Master
must decide who and when:-
In this blessed, reaping land
of the plenty that God has given us,
starvation must not be treated
as if it were a sin of hungry souls:
Minds, bodies, and spirits, withering:
Many cleaning fridges of wasted food:-
I have seen Millennia in
and now its twenty fifty
I somehow made my century
rejoycing with my family.
It has passed it seems
in the mere eye blink.
Now I remeninsce
held close in loving arms
Festivity floods the senses
stores groaning with toys.
Butchers laden with meat
people scurrying hither and thither.
Shop fronts all lit up
with flashing decorations.
Children's eyes on beanstalks
wish lists growing bigger.
Fridges crammed to the brim
with tempting tasty treats.
Good will for neighbours
as carol singers carousol.
Mothers sweating over stoves
as Dad mixes up eggnog.
Presents colourfully wrapped
adorn Christmas trees feet.
At end of day, happy faces
and a few groaning bellys,
people falling into bed
T'is all done for another year
written 12/12 /2010
contest Christmas past, present or future
I look at the old testament
and the laws were harsh
an eye for and eye
and a tooth for a tooth
Yet what were they trying
to achieve
peace, punishment and revenge
in an effort to stop the crime
The old testament
was about laws
to keep the peace
the new testament
Is about attitudes
to keep the peace
If you don't do the crime
you don't need the laws
a friend of mine told me a story
about a man that got married
they decided to have roast chicken
taking out the chicken
His wife cut off the legs and wings
asking why, she said "that's, what you do,
my mother cut of the legs and wings
and I cut off he legs and wings"
catching up with the Mother he asked
"why do you cut of the legs and wings
when you cook a roast"
she replied "that's what you do,
that's what my mother did,
and that's what I do"
the grand mother was still around
catching up with her he asked
"why do you cut off the legs and wings
when you cook a roast chicken"
she said "I had a small oven
I needed to cut off the wings and legs
to cook the roast"
when the bible was written
they never had prisons
the laws were harsh to keep the peace
they never had fridges
food like pork would go off
to prevent getting poisoned
perhaps the laws were needed
but life has changed
we not longer need the same laws
we need to change with the times
we need to grow and learn
To build a greater path with love
to create attitudes not laws
to create love
not war