Long Interns Poems
Long Interns Poems. Below are the most popular long Interns by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Interns poems by poem length and keyword.
It was never about the suit,
the charcoal stitching,
the pocket square that folds itself,
the red tie I swore was alive.
At first, it just stood there—
hooves crossed, ears like knives
stabbing into the conference room light.
It never spoke, but no one dared speak over it.
The org charts bent to its gaze.
Quarterly losses shrunk like timothy hay
waiting too long for sun.
I kept my hungry eyes on the llama,
after all, its black-marble stare could polish
a version of the best vision of myself, if I let it:
animal energy tugging at my own red tie,
my voice cracking like a glass ceiling
when I pitched the last idea I was proud of.
Now the llama knows my name.
It signs my emails
and leaves fur in my throat
when I try to say no.
On Tuesdays,
it stands too close
to the mirror in the breakroom,
straightening its tie with my hands,
licking the salt from neck—
its muzzle smelling like a ferment
of wet grass and my sweat.
The interns whisper that it’s a myth,
but they’ve all stopped wearing red.
I now sit at the head of the table,
rubbing my hindquarters with two toes
on the scale, protecting my own
wall-eyed stare. The suit fits better
than I thought.
You can see everyone from here—
their necks, their ties,
the slow nodding of skulls.
The llama was never absurd.
It’s they who look strange now.
This autumn morning with the birds waking up
and the leaves changing is Election Day. I meet
Jane Trichter on the downtown train and discuss
Henry's upset. Her skin is soft especially her cheeks
and she is intelligent and sensitive. The subway riders
do not recognize their representative.
All week, at the office, I accomplish nothing substantive
but keep the aides and interns working
and cheerful. On Tuesdays there is always a wave
of constituent complaints, by telephone. One woman's
Volkswagon is towed and the police break in
to get it out of gear. Do they have that right,
can they tow even though no sign said Tow Away Zone?
It is an interesting question but I try to avoid
answering it. The woman persists and succeeds
in committing me.
The people at the office want to bomb Iran. A few Americans
held hostage and therefore many innocent women and children
pay the postage. It may be good classical logic to hold responsible
the whole society for the acts of a few, however, then
I must begin to expect the bomb and the white cloud that waits.
Apocalyptic visions are popular again
but we are more likely to thrash the earth to within an inch of its life
than scorch it to charred rock.
Corner of Church and Chambers,
German tourist's language, accent repels me
although I wasn't alive 45 years ago
and many sweet, great Germans opposed the crazy Nazis
but lately I've read Primo Levi's If Not Now, When?,
seen William Holden in "The Counterfeit Traitor",
have followed the argument started by revisionists
who say the Nazi atrocities never happened.
War brought many shopkeepers, bookkeepers close to their earth,
weather, seasons, death.
I see daily life as low-intensity warfare
as my father, the World War II vet, did.
Off to work we go. What is war?
Population control, mother of invention, diversion
from the work of making life permanent.
Today is Election Day and because it's a day off
for most municipal employees, the City Hall area
has been quiet and easy to work in. Henry and Jane
hold a press conference on teenage alcoholism.
Leslie, the other aide, who I'd like to draw
the stockings and clothes off of and feel her whole body
with mine, goes home with her mother, leaving me
standing by my desk with my briefcase at the end
of Election Day.
FORGOT HOW MUCH I LOVED SCRUBS
tears roll in big drops, as the credits roll.
dressed up in tailored suits, friends
comfort a doctor dealing with death.
~
first act, he insults, doesn’t care,
drops sarcasm like a sarcophagus.
stabs interns with his relentless words.
but they wear their comradery-uniform,
bordering him left to right and behind.
one hand on each shoulder.
and he lets them take care of him,
allows his sarcasm a reprieve,
wholly-enveloped in tears for
his sidekick-brother,
a chapter forever closed
in a flowering coffin -
an uncle his child would never meet.
~
tears roll in big drops, as the credits roll.
dressed up in tailored suits, friends
comfort a doctor dealing with death.
10/21/2017
III.
Enrique believed in the candidate Jones,
who championed causes he favored.
He signed up to help the man’s campaign,
for a new tomorrow he labored.
It was hard work, the calls and the shouts
of the other side, so coldly 'fascist.'
But Enrique kept on pushing, it had to be done,
they’d get no better chance than this.
Against all the odds, Jones won by a hair,
and the drinks were poured at his HQ.
Enrique toasted to a better world,
proclaiming ‘the fascists’ were through!
When Senator Jones moved to Washington DC
Enrique waited to see the change come.
But months went by and he heard nothing,
no spoils of the victory hard won.
He e-mailed often to learn of progress,
but form letters were all Jones returned.
Then two months in Jone’s went back on
a big promise, and Enrique felt burned.
It only got worse as the weeks went on,
Jones seemed content to walk Washington’s scene
He went to the right parties, diddled the interns,
and forgot all about strong words of dreams.
Enrique fumed, and spoke of betrayal,
but his girlfriend said,”They’re all the same.
Politicians are addicts to power and illusion,
Human nature, it just doesn’t change.”
We cured death on a Tuesday,
launched the trial on a Thursday,
by Friday, 14% of the test group
was gnawing on the janitorial staff.
Still, the press was kind.
“Remarkable resilience,” they wrote,
as Unit 42A chewed through its restraints,
and tried to bite a cameraman.
We called them SoulSavers™,
engineered for eternal youth,
a proprietary blend of nanites, CRISPR,
and just a dash of hubris.
ReVive™ hit the market with glowing ads:
"Because Forever is a Family Value."
But the legal fine print… oh, the fine print:
May cause mild memory loss, spontaneous moaning, and cannibalistic cravings.
They rose in boardrooms first,
CEOs with perfect teeth
tearing into interns
like gourmet hors d'oeuvres.
By Q3, the infection was global,
but stocks soared--
because someone monetized the mayhem,
packaged brains in biodegradable boxes.
The living now hide in Costco bunkers,
bartering soup for silence,
while ReVive™’s jingle
plays softly from every abandoned screen:
“You can’t spell ‘afterlife’ without 'life'--
Sign here, and live again!”
So yes, we cured death.
We also cured peace.
And now we walk among the ruins,
clawing for comfort,
with half a heart and half a face,
still under warranty.
Author's Note:
This poem is what happens when you read Tom Woody’s contest prompt and accidentally engage the undead half of your brain. It’s a free verse romp through biotech gone wrong, corporate chaos, and a sprinkle of satire. No contest entry--just undead fun.
The silence can seem cold and detached,
like a balloon or bubble in space.
An Avatar with no face.
But also can be warm and safe, attached,
if you are impending intently your confidence
in expecting wisdom, grace.
Because you can be instructed.
You can be reformed and formed again.
But is it the calm before the storm?
The aligning before the dividing,
for an Armageddon.
Haven't you all been warned?
What is to come.
What has been released
for its season to be airborne.
Circling directional winds
in your media go round-rooms
of advert admin, AdMen.
KY a healing balm of direlect dialect masokist-palm, I dream of, Djin e/bin hellogram.
Sting yourself, in from fires surround Town mounts,
Sun Tzu-interns of hatred's pathogen of Abaddon's nadirNado dervishes of stooge
N.O.W. playing at megaphone2,
SoundCloud of Leviathan Tidal
signatures turned blue.
Bodycounts, tik tok views, news,
pandelodeon dGorno bentai tentacled cartoons,
escape rooms
with features of Blue Lagoon.
The Moon indeed thinks it is perma-stationed
in Scorpio.
Aspected by Pluto and Mars- conjunct
American Psycho,
CSI, surgical- squares,
transitionals Saturn mapping,
tapping pixels at CERN, squared to everybody else, especially Family Matters
and all the Moore'n to mourn.
The Moon in the Eighth House,
binary twin at the door to reboot.
Nowhere to hide no place to run.
Dare I say it.
The Age of Aquarius, an epic fail,
a replacement Theology, as sirens wail from.
Who's buying what their peace sells, sails on.
~ I thought that they were angels
But to my surprise
We climbed aboard their starship...
~ Styx
I am staring at a three foot bag full of brand new baby stuff, put together for a baby boy, who has most probably outgrown all the clothing in that shiny blue bag.
He was born three months ago.
I had been trying to get this bag to his mother for the past eight months, but every time we were supposed to meet she would text me thirty-minutes ahead of time to say
“Not today.”
Her excuses were:
I am too sad,
Too tired,
Too distressed,
Too worried,
Too exhausted,
Too depressed,
Or too something else.
She never called me.
All cut-off communication has been text.
I have called her, but she does not answer.
She was one of my brightest counseling interns, and I was devastated when she quit counseling.
Now I am re-thinking that devastation.
But I am praying for that darling baby boy.
He is adorable.
She has not spoken to me, but she did text a photo.
Too bad both of the pregnant teachers at school this year are having girls.
Dear Mr. President,
Today,
at my Green STEAM EcoSchool--
Which Mother Gaia asked me to mention
was supported by the Environmental Protection Agency
until plundered into
your Environment Predation Agency,
an offense against health defense.
Anyway,
back to what I hoped we might talk about,
We learned about designing multicultural nurturing guilds
composed of polyculturing plants
like cooperative flowering eastern pollinators
and chickory deep soil/soul southern enrichers,
and yummy nutritional western food producers,
and north wind resilient double-boundary networks.
And how building cooperative multicultural guilds,
and feeding them
with WinWin organic compost,
democratically and resonantly yields
long-term resilient
economic and political
and polycultural
nutritional optimization outcomes.
And how building boundaries
and walls between these polypathic
potentially free WinWin cooperators
leads to emerging WinLose climate competitors
building even larger scale
ever more supremacist monoculturing wars
and mutually unbalanced
and devastating
LoseLose climate pathology terror.
That was about it
for today
as I recall.
So,
what did you learn outside today
listening to your EcoSchool root system mentors
and interns
and WiseElder matriarchal teachers?
If Mother Yin-Gaia spoke to me,
just a Green kid,
I'm sure She would speak with you.
Just another Green post-millennial kid
listening to your pre-millennial Red State,
Dear Franklin St. Four,
We have not met
but, no,
I'm not hoping to take money
or assets
away from you.
Quite the contrary.
Your rental building,
with four residential second and third floor units
above a first floor store front
is for sale--
and the seller knows nothing about this communication.
You could buy your building together
for no more
than your current rents--
probably somewhat less.
I'm hoping you will decide to buy your homes together
and repurpose your shared first floor space
for a Cooperative Dreamers Cafe
with child care during the day
and after-EcoSchool interns
for healthy cooperative evening recreation,
skill-sharing,
writing and song and dance,
ecotherapy repair and design and entertainment projects,
permaculturally designed
to share in this
your cooperative ZeroZone CoHousing Cafe.
Why would I care?
What's in this for me?
I am a retired Permaculture Designer
recently relocated to Norwich
and certified to mentor Green STEM projects.
I'm looking for ways I can help,
especially in your town center area
and especially now that I don't need to charge fees
for facilitation
of cooperatively-owned health and nutrition integrity projects.
So, if you are interested,
I would recommend
reading Permaculture Opera,
which will tell you far more
than you might truly care to know
about my family and me
and our therapeutic journey into this great transitional day
and cooperative-growing time.
If you buy it
on amazon.com
then my royalty share
will help support this project
should you all four choose
to move cooperatively forward.
But, I can also loan you a copy
or you can read all in it
and far more
for free
at www.gdill52.com.
With springtime hope
and resonant regard,
Gerald 0-Liver, PDC, MPA, MDiv
We all knew what to do, and so we told them.
They were angry and stuck their tongues out.
So we tried reverse psychology.
They saw through it, and hit us with sticks.
We thought we knew best.
After all, we have lived longer.
We have seen more stuff, right?
So we tried ordering them about.
They chased us down the street with bats.
And bully clubs, and brass knuckles.
We hid in a shed, and bragged about being old school.
They were outside, begging us to come out.
Interns, and mentees, and student teachers of today are tough.
Many already set in their ways, and they know more than us already.
They truthfully do not want our old-goat opinions. They are going to fix things their way.
We dug our tunnel as quietly as possible, hoping to slip past them in a few hours.