Long Interjects Poems
Long Interjects Poems. Below are the most popular long Interjects by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Interjects poems by poem length and keyword.
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is a date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
I'm a doppelganger of myself.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you,
she says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
Is that your Buick?
Before I can answer, she asks:
Is that your hat on a rack at the back?
Before I can answer, she asks:
is this a crossroads movie?
I think it's a date,
Only this time you're the pitiful figure, she interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
This is it! I exclaim.
Our second chance.
A withering look.
In my story, you die young on the highway,
in a ball of fire.
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.
Opposing standards is one of Tim’s favourite past times
Not for the sake of difference but to cherish critique
to brush away his take on ignorance searching for his truth
Internalized self-evident and for the sake of future revelation
Creating creativity is far too laborious its
stifling not impulsive enough and stale for it
resembles conscious attempts of spontaneity
Contorting to conformity defeats Tim’s objective
togetherness is fine and so is shaping the world
but pluralism beats boredom and to follow a crowd
Oxymorons in tautological proportions repeated again and
once more affirm vulnerable souls who never put a wrong step in
front of the other as they move happily backward just the same
Conforming consecrating concreting confirming the evens
win far too often when odds are on blowing the norm
Cremating corrupt cretinous crap creates cohesive credentials
Timessa interjects that once every one shapes novel ideas and
follows a different tune in perfect synchronous ‘harmony’ what then
and thereafter but paradigms shift and diversions re-enter the stage
Archetypes polar opposites contradictions disagreements
compliment complementation fashion intricate concoctions
inaugurate new designs and refuse to create devious disarray
Tim decides that Timessa has a linear point yet would rather be a
lonely clairvoyant in the desert than to drown in quick-sands of time
Still he asks his feminine namesake to take a holy vow of communion
Two lovers with their own points of convictions are a miraculous convention
When they come together its everyone’s guess what circumstance and their
genes may result in with the magic flow of a near perfect union bubbling with joy
29th October 2016
Old man Moses’ sits upon his rock, contemplating his woes
Moses ails but a vision of a land for his sons and daughters
Brought here to settle, where their history then transposes
Exiled from Israel, then travelled by shore as sailed waters
Moses ails but a vision of a land for his sons and daughters
With his resolve to his people of Israel, remained unbroken
Exiled from Israel, then travelled by shore as sailed waters
North, South, West, and East, expelled by others unspoken
With his resolve to his people of Israel, remained unbroken
His sons, and daughters, arrive on a new shore as refugees
North, South, West, and East, expelled by others unspoken
Arrived on Scottish soil, where they as became its deputies
His sons, and daughters arrive on a new shore as refugees
Passing through other nations, either as free, or by slavery
Arrived on Scottish soil, where they as became its deputies
Thus, looked upon by Scotland, as the travellers of bravery
Passing through other nations, either as free or, by slavery
Old man Moses’ sons, and daughters their history was told
Thus, looked upon by Scotland, as the travellers of bravery
Now residing, in no such fairer country of beauty to behold
Old man Moses’ sons and daughters, their history was told
Fought nay' on blood, but peaceful endeavours of intellects
Now residing, in no such fairer country of beauty to behold
With Israel’s blood on Scottish land, that so truly interjects
Fought nay' on blood, but peaceful endeavours of intellects
Yea' old man Moses as dreams carried from a land of strife
With Israel’s blood on Scottish land, that so truly interjects
To become as one, with the Scottish soil as a part of its life
Yea' old man Moses as dreams carried from a land of strife
No fairer land is less worthy of our blood, as Scotland rises
To become as one with the Scottish soil, as a part of its life
With your movement to Scotland’s land amongst the wises
No fairer land, is less worthy of our blood as Scotland rises
Brought here to settle, where their history then transposes
With your movement to Scotland’s land amongst the wises
Old man Moses’; sits upon his rock contemplating his woes
In the cages at the zoo they crowded around each other
A million milling from father to brother
All speaking in a babel a million languages
From clicks and keyboard clacks to switches and bandages
A group is seen on a higher levee
They understand all, the interpreters you see
While some lower below compiles the dictionary
That translates to what is used by the assembly
A little farther around a table three Gs sit
they’re a python a Ci and Jav a’ Script
Sadly they discuss an end to their spec-ial woes
And thus the weird discussion goes
We hear the Ci talking first wheezing (he’s old)
What do you think makes girls so cold
To us our relationships’ are no success
And that’s the principal source of distress
Well as for me a girl who can’t commit
(Python interjects) I can’t have here cos she’s a git
And by the way Ci you need to have some class
There are some social functions you should pass
(An argument ensues)
Well I’m not the one who treats them like objects
That’s why they hate you, the Ci interjects.
And Jav a’ Script forget all the hype
You really need to settle on a type
Jav retorts, You’re the ones behaving slack
When they leave you simply call them back
Console them too if they cry
Be prepared to catch them if they try
Ah yes the man who always rejects
The promises he promised, (Python interjects)
(A lull in the storm, they begin to examine others)
Assembly’s got to make himself understood
Most of what he says goes under the hood
Swift’s got to slow down and not dart around
and Vue needs to react to their sound
There’s a theory I’d like to test
Says Python (although it’s half in jest)
If we work together as a unit
Then maybe we’ll be able to git one init?
And have mocha babies like Sinon no thanks
I’d rather throw myself on the express
Outside the cage the label reads
An endangered species with special feeds
Only pizza and soda strictly junk
For the whacky programmers inside this hunk
Sorry to say but you may regret it
Cause only programmers will read this and get it
#Conversations_in_the_corridors
Listen with caution, these corridors have deep explicit voices whispering some mind boggling conversations, erruptive spine chilly giving conversations, lies of good nothings, if these corridors could speak and show screenshots, world war 3 of nothing but hatred and anger, would commence, marriages would end, careers would end, friendships would end
but not all negativity roams these corridors, within these corridors words of encouragement are shared, love is explored, hugs are shared, laughters are shared, even tears are wiped
Within these corridors, today mersmerization hooked me, felt a hole in my brain, my joints stagnant, tongue stuck to my palatals, hypnotized for some seconds if not minutes, felt like a toddler bubbling up, instead of speaking meaningful words, caught in the tongues foreign to that very moment
Voices mirrored in the corridors, whispered stater for conversation, nothing not common to them, a simple good morning, almost crippled my sanity for a moment, even words ran low as meaning making one's got stuck in my mouth
Adding stats to the already burdened corridors, these lingering conversations interjects and keeps giving detours to innocent conversations, hoped to leave a smile to the pool of the corridors conversation, an engrave of nothing but mind easing memory
These corridors keep evoking conversations in me, every time I walk by, maybe these conversation have enough amplitude and becomes contagious, catching everyone who walks by. Blame me not, for being vulnerable, maybe it's a human thing, to create convesations in these corridors
Today, I too laid my brick to the stack, and maybe soil to the grave, hope I build something worthwhile not buried before birth, for the tongue can either abort before birth or erect a tomb for memories to visit not matter how long it's was erected, but mine lasted seconds if not minutes
Conversations in these corridors, got to me today, hope tomorrow they treat me better
#Poetic_Ink
You perforate my normality
with snap-shots of the past.
Images of yesteryear form
a slide show which interjects,
dove-tailing, sneaking in to
the now with the stealth of
the stealthiest fox.
Distracted from the present
my mind meanders down-stream,
pausing at a bridge arched over now
and then. Remembering when I was younger,
carefree, flitting between hearts,
scattering the lovelorn in my wake
like sown seeds, lost, never harvested.
Then flippancy of youth. The transience.
Easy come easy go -
before the burden of emotion takes its toll.
My fickle fingers touched your heart -
then dropped it, hot potato-like;
craved for then petulantly discarded,
out of fashion, gone, onto the next .....
Yet here you are merging then with now.
You found me somehow, and I you.
Back to the future. Time travelled
and catapulted into familiarity.
The perforation of normality.
Present in the present with the steel
of the steeliest fox.
I came to see you at the remodeled hospital
there were bright tiles, statuary Marys, and assorted saints
"full code" was on the door.
We talked about your eventual escape and some summer plans
Now ,I am informed by curt text that there is a DNR with "comfort care,"
and no further attempts at treatment.
Too much oxygen for home or nursing home, a quick move to hospice across the road.
I kind of knew when the nurse's eyes slid over you and
the live plant I brought in the optimism of the early part of the week
was jammed in a light-less corner- I set it back on your tray.
You showed me that the nurses no longer came running when you took off your mask- the machine readout was dimmed and the alarms no longer blared.
You want to be sure that I plant hazelnuts,
and build a bomb or storm shelter, you know someone with a backhoe...
"Jesus lives on the 4th plane, you know", you tossed out to engage me
"...but there are other planes..." a gasp and the mask back on.
Your sister quickly interjects that I need to find "someone" to talk to you about this, someone who is interested.
I will talk to you about Jesus, and argue for his placement in the 6th plane
to see those blue eyes twinkle over the mask.
I will plant hazelnuts, I affirm, and look into the backhoe.
I see you, and I will see you around, my friend.
For Mike M.
There's a story,
As old as time,
Cute little girl skipping thru the woods,
A big bad wolf who follows behind,
She's Carrying goodies for her Grammy,
She does it with love and because she's kind,
The wolf trots ahead,
He's a mastermind,
He eats her Grammy,
Wolfing her down with a glass of red wine,
Then making himself comfy in her big bed,
He Does this all in the nick of time,
The little girl knocks at the door,
"Come in sweet child of mine,"
The wolf yells with delight,
"What did you bring for your Grammy tonight?"
The little girl in her red hood,
Whispers, "something just doesn't seem right,"
Come closer my dear I could not hear,
Red yells,"Grammy your ears are outta sight!"
The wolf so cunning and clever replies,
"All the better for listening at night,"
"But Grammy I've never seen,
Such a glow in your eyes,"
"My child it's the reflection from the moon,
It lighted the way for you tonight,"
"Oh my Grammy, you have such big teeth!"
The wolf decided on a rhyme,
"Well if you haven't figured it out by now,
I'm not your dear Grammy,
You silly child,
I followed you in from the woods,
You came straight away,
As a good girl should,
Carrying your basket full of food,
In your bright red cape,
Under your little red hood,
I ate your Grammy,
I'm gonna eat you, too,"
"Hold it mister!"
Red interjects in time,
"I know the rest of this nursery rhyme,
You can't eat me because I packed,
A weapon in my little basket,
To handle big bad wolves like you,
So up against the wall,
And spread em mister,
Today's not your day at all!"
The moral of this story is tried and true,
Never take for granted,
A girls power,
Or intuition,
You bad, bad, wolf, you!
~Vickie Thayer~
I had been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks
as I enter,
green tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my fedora,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and
yet lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is our date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I had treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
I imagine my black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel
as may horn honks impatiently.
Green tomatoes sizzle
as I disappear.