Long Ledgers Poems
Long Ledgers Poems. Below are the most popular long Ledgers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ledgers poems by poem length and keyword.
In this republic of ledgers and silence,
Nigeria breeds a curious alliance;
bank and state,
two wrestlers in one ring,
tag-teaming the trembling customer.
Here, money travels a punished road.
It pays to arrive,
it pays to depart,
it even pays rent
for merely breathing in the vault.
An account;
not a shelter,
but a toll gate
where every passing kobo
must bow.
Yesterday a friend spoke:
three hundred dollars a quiet seed
planted in a domiciliary field.
Years ripened.
He returned with the calm of ownership.
But the bank replied with a bureaucratic smile:
“Your money has been
faithfully used for maintenance.”
Maintenance?
Tell me;
did they polish the silence
around the digits?
Did they dust the air
that guarded the balance?
Did they feed the ghosts
that watch over accounts at night?
Had a stranger done this
we would sharpen the word theft.
Sirens of outrage
would rise like storm birds.
But when the bank performs
this arithmetic magic,
we rename the wound
banking and clap politely
when profit climbs
into billions.
The saddest Mathematics remains:
a nation so accustomed
to daylight pickpockets in suits
that even the robbed
nod in agreement,
and call it normal.
Barbara the Farmer
By Franklin Price
4/10/2017
Barbara the Farmer works hard every day
You may think that Farmville is a funny place to play
Started farming, on line, about ten years ago
Now a mega farmer with too many farms to know
There's so much accounting for all that happens there
Without spread sheets and ledgers would no longer even dare
With hard work and planning she's a multi-millionaire
I'm so proud of what she's done with diligence and care
You should know that Barbara is the true love of my life
I am so ecstatic she's my loving caring wife
She's the only one that's working by farming all she can
I write some poetry for free, cause I'm a cared for man
Inside a desk drawer I found an old sheet of paper.
On it was inscribed an unfinished poetic caper:
A wondrous treasure trove I have found right here.
So many people far away, yet they are near.
I like all of them, and I have nothing to fear.
Do you know what I’m talking about? It’s quite clear.
This is all about each poetry soup member.
They are found on this site from January to December.
There are no journals or ledgers to keep an amount.
There are many here than I can never count.
I can reach them by accessing my computer
That is what I consider my most wondrous treasure.
Robert Pettit for Linda Marie’s Treasure Trove contest
10/17/16
Year round January through December
The weather
Taking turns for the worse or better
More or lesser
Among ancient and modern architecture
Made of similar and different textures
Near or far away from plants that do or don't have nectar
As well as abandoned or highly secured sectors
Secrets in letters, locked ledgers or found with a hidden lever
Left there by either gender
Realize, it didn't always lead to treasure and other splendors
Sometimes it was something else, unexpected yet clever
Earthquakes being monitored and traced to the epicenter
Ranging in different magnitudes of power and tremors
Always great to cook with ingredients that are fresher
At times fat being rendered
And other components put in a blender
Mild to dangerously hot peppers
Grown for personal consumption or to be sold as a vendor or peddler
Hostile and friendly gestures
All over the globe wherever and whenever
Pull yourself together
Never
Give up on the adventure
Or fold from the pressure
Remember nothing lasts forever
Keep your head up and try to do better
With your endeavors
Always great to cook with ingredients that are fresher
At times fat being rendered
And other components put in a blender
By: Dalton Ogletree
Love is no economics
To find the demand for emotions
and supply of attitude
there are no theories with many assumptions.
Love is neither commerce
With ledgers to tally
Trail balances to make
And results to publish.
Love is no mathematics either
With equations to solve
Add, subtract and multiply emotions
and write answers as abstract.
Love is no philosophy
To do rational investigations of the truths
Based on principle, knowledge, or conduct
And critically evaluate
Love is a feeling undefined
Love is in action neither practiced nor performed.
Love is patient, love is kind.
It has no envy, nor it boasts itself and it is never proud
Hallway
Things the upstairs hallway desperately needs to
make her feel like a
hallway include:
jugs of
water with a
hint of
lemon and
sarsaparilla (yuk!), heads of
asparagus, afros, viruses (non-
life-threatening
only), accounting ledgers, human
toenails, frog
farts, TV static, nautical
caps, half
rainbows, a
cat – any breed will
do – meows, stamps (blank), bucket of
courage, two hand size steel
blocks, Ag chemical silver shavings, hair strings (chimp
only), dice x
10, white feathers of
any white-feathered bird, angel
pubic hair (men’s only), Chinese buttons, and
fly eyes.
A Kingdom Built on Ash and Sin
For eighteen years, I was reared for the blade,
A lamb in a house where the monsters played.
They hid their sins in the floorboard cracks,
And led me home on my own bloody tracks.
A welcome-back trap, a dark, hollow room,
Where chants in the shadows sealed my doom.
They tore open hell and flung me right in,
Trading my flesh for a ledger of sin.
I woke to the cold, completely alone,
Stripped of my youth, my blood, and my bone.
Now they sit high on a mountain of gold
Built on the back of the child they sold.
Then came the husband, a beast of a man,
Who traded my flesh for a new wicked plan.
Deeply in debt to the legions below,
He threw me to hell for a cash-out show.
But the pit gave him nothing; his gamble fell through,
So he fled like a coward when the cold wind blew.
Now a collector from hell has crawled to the light,
Searching for souls in the dead of the night.
The ledgers are empty, the debtors have run,
But the hunt for their blood has only begun.
The demon is tracking the scent of their fear
To seal every fate as the reckoning draws near.
THE MYTH OF THE OTHER
I open a foreign myth like a window cut into my temple,
for the gods of my own house smell of fact, of cold stone,
and the symbol, when I do not possess it, walks in my blood like a lamp
carried by a child through the attic, and the attic is my own flesh —
read the others; only then do you hear yourself speaking.
Half the world chews metaphor like bread
and calls it the bone of truth; the rest spit it out as a lie,
and so the sky is split into two accountants' ledgers,
some believing with an abacus in hand, others denying with a ruler,
while the poem, a snail without a shell, passes between them unseen.
My devil is a god I never called by name,
a pyre I carried down to the cellar and sealed with a lid of clay,
and now it ferments in the dark and splits the staves of the night;
everything I refuse to inhabit becomes a tenant with fangs,
everything I push behind me grows on my back, a wing with claws.
Eternity is not tomorrow, nor snow that lasts for years,
it is the dimension right here, the one that thought cuts through,
it is the tea steaming, it is the moment with a scalded lip,
and if I do not catch it in the kitchen with the flies and the rain,
I will not catch it in any paradise with a doorman and a register.
The apocalypse is not a blaze but the mist that lifts
from your neighbor's face and shows him suddenly holy,
it is the end of the one road, of the padlock set on truth,
and the kingdom is the moment you see your enemy shining
like a glass of water held up in a June window.
They told me: at the edge of life you will come to a chasm. Jump.
It is not as wide as fear believes; the old skin
has to be shed, or else it rots on you —
hell is the dried-out life, the snake that refuses its own tail;
and still, torn into being, I whisper "Ah" — and it is spectacular.
The Servant’s Progress
In the hallowed halls of the Lord’s sanctuary,
The believer stands, a beacon in the race,
A transparent vessel, a gentle candle lit,
Serving others through the of selfless acts
Of strength and grace
This journey is not marked,
Not laden with grand accolades,
But by quiet acts, in humble parades,
Grace and gratitude-
Like doves taking flight
Within the hearts of those touched
By their gentle light
Their days become a tapestry,
Unseen, unsung, yet woven with care,
Offering solace where sorrow and illness cling,
To broke hearts, their wings provide
A refuge where troubled souls
And restless spirit confide
Each act, though small, a lion’s roar,
In the kingdom of the Good Shepherd, filled in,
True service springs from selfless springs,
Where the needs of others, the songbird
sings
Each acts, though small, becomes a lion’s roar
Within the kingdom of the Good Shepherd;
For true service springs from selfless springs,
Where the needs of others
Become the song that the songbird sings
The servant’s progress is chronicled not
In the pages of earthly ledgers,
But in quiet prose,
Where love grows within the hearts of many-
A symphony of grace,
Where unpretentious sincerity
Is found
The curtain rises. Steve Merkin, the unscrupulous accountant, and John Travailleur, Esq. just another John, are seated at a bar in a seedy looking inn. Mitchell Hollywood, the adulterous innkeeper, is behind the bar. He is wearing a shabby mauve tuxedo with a green ascot. A cigarette holder is clenched between his teeth. He is wiping a dirty glass with a greasy rag. The juke box is playing a raunchy twelve bar blues number:
"Baby said she brought a camera and we’d both enjoy the game.
Said the naughty shots excite her; not to play would be a shame.
By the time I got the picture, it turned out to be a frame..."
The juke box music fades.
Steve: I’ll have another Spünkmeyer Mössbeck and a refill on this peanut bowl.
John: And one more double-dry martini as a comfort to my soul.
Mitchell: Both those ships are coming in on the tide. And since you’re taking your leisure, let me serve as your guide.
John: What entertainment do you aim to provide?
Mitchell: The choice of diversions is yours to decide.
Steve: Would foxy delights be found on the tour?
Mitchell: If that’s your intention, then sure.
Steve: As a frugal accountant with ledgers to keep, I will enter my interest, so long as she’s cheap.
John: …also suitably handsome.
Steve: …shouldn’t cost me a ransom.
John: Describe what affair would be quick to arrange.
Steve: And avail us your rate of exchange.
Mitchell: Since you’re here to talk business, I’ll get right to the point. Most plans are obsolete as soon as they’re approved. Pimping may require a fair degree of artistry, but I have it down to a science. You could call it an algorithm. The cost of the date is determined by the grade of the girl you select.
Steve: Explain yourself, sir.