Long Litigation Poems
Long Litigation Poems. Below are the most popular long Litigation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Litigation poems by poem length and keyword.
When Mortimer Manders collapsed in the street,
his daughter, Muriel, was with him.
Though now seventy-five,
he’d continued to thrive,
in spite of the irregular rhythm
his heart was now keeping. But this was quite grave.
He hit the hard sidewalk real sudden.
When Muriel knelt
beside him, and felt
to locate where his pulse was, she couldn’t.
Soon, passers-by stopped and gathered around,
but no-one had medical knowledge.
“It’s good, I suppose,
If you loosen his clothes:
I think that’s what they told us in college …”
She looked wildly around, and thought that she’d found
a willing and capable saviour.
A red firehouse lay
thirty metres away –
(might as well have been Outer Moravia!)
When Muriel pounded the firehouse door,
a voice answered back through the panels,
“You make think it inept,
but we’ll only accept
an approach through appropriate channels.”
“But he pays your wages,” she argued with force:
and, pointing to where he was lying,
“You’ve got to come quick –
he’s collapsed on the bricks –
my father is probably dying!”
“You don’t understand how these things are arranged,”
said the voice, from the depths of the station:
“You just call nine-one-one.
If we try to respond,
we are risking adverse litigation.”
Running into the roadway, she flagged down a car,
and the driver agreeably shocked her:
with a white coat and bag
and a hospital tag,
he said, “Yes, you are right, I’m a doctor.”
As the quack pulled away, he turned briefly to say,
in a voice that was suitably gloomy,
“I will not touch that man,
for if I lend a hand
and he happens to die, you can sue me.”
The ambulance came, but things got more lame,
as Mortimer started to weaken:
though the ambulance crew
looked resplendent in blue,
the responders were all Costa Rican.
“We’ve lived here some time and our English is fine,
but we can’t touch our defibrillator.
To avoid getting screwed,
we must talk to him through
an officially-sanctioned translator.”
“But you sound good to me, and it’s peachy, you see,
for my father speaks German and Spanish.”
“But your ganso is cooked.
No interpreter’s booked.”
And the ambulance packed up and vanished.
So the moral is clear. Clear of medics please steer.
Your best course, if you’re feeling nervous, is
lay on linguists each day
in Magyar and Malay
– and don’t call emergency services.
Conceited clericalism is encroaching scientific study and educational exploration, obdurate obscurantism engulfing people's normal mentality and judgment, ramrod racism routing ethnic equality and melting harmony~~~~~~
After 4 years of punk-sunk domestic complexion and skunk-drunk diplomatic stance under that frustrating and even facetious leadership, nothing meritorious had been left except for an unprecedentedly nationwide antagonistic atmosphere, an utterly disaffected alliance climate, a half-botched eyesore slouchy at the southern border flaunting its segregating strength on a derisorily slipshod base and a Covid death toll higher than that caused by world war 2.
Whatever disorder, discomfiture, disgrace and disruption he had brought, it was up to none other than the belated ballot to bring him down for want of any other alternatives effectual enough to invoke. It had certainly been shameful enough to etch the annals to have that pus-grubber holding a full 4-year term who had been out-and-out treasonable, unscrupulous, narcissistic and almost every moment fixated on a peculiar sense of holding court rather than holding duty. But even as he was about to step down perforce, the mind-boggling moxie of his moribund melodrama was still stepping up. Seeing an election result rolling out against him, he started to roar, roll and rattle all around together with his minions, inundating quite some states' litigation offices with dozens of sloppy suits only to be drained up by one identical whitewash from go to whoa in their totally failed attempts to turn the table. After the electoral college's confirmation in Dec.14, his nearest followers gradually got to rest disheartened, that doom-diver still remained restless in his mug's game, without the least care or concern over state affaires, day and night phoning and wiring to different executive departments, law enforcements and gubernatorial offices his pissing and moaning about so-called his opponent's cheating evidences and his stolen scores as if nothing but an immediate reversal of the result could meet the real justice. As the whole world stopped to watch how the dead cat bounce during his remnant continuance, a big deal did be bounced out.
God Is
God is not confused
God is not amused
God is not impressed
God does not watch commercials
God is not the target demographic
God does not buy name brand clothes or slave labor labels
God is not stylish
God is not popular
spoken of often but
God is not popular
God
Currently has multiple copyright infringement and slander cases in litigation
‘cause people keep on placing his name in the middle of nonsense
God is often imitated and killed daily
God finds your insanity boring
God laughs at what you think you know
God know you don’t know her
God ignores posers
Your ego slashed God’s tires
God is all dressed up with nowhere to go
God is the greatest dancer you’ve never seen
God is a beautiful wallflower
Waiting on your call
Dios no hablo ingles
God is against comprehensive immigration reform
God is also against borders
and inequitable sociopolitical and socioeconomic policies
God is not capitalistic
God is not patriotic
God is not contemporary
God is not cosmopolitan
God is a Sunda(zed) effigy
the Author rendered understudy by impostors
Perfection red lined and compartmentalized
Prepackaged for your comfort and their control
God is not a GMO
God is not a seedless watermelon
or a perfectly yellow and uniform bunch of bananas
God is not a Li-ger
God is not a Kentucky Fried Chicken wing
God is not at Chick Fil-A or Church’s chicken either
God is not a contradiction or a fictional promise
God is waiting at the end of our grey wavering
God is not one of us
God is the true and living absolute
God is love unequivocal
the binary promise
the timeless omni-dimensional logic appearing illogical to the finite senses
God is exact and infinite
the mystery in which there is no intrigue
the balance in deed rendering speech meaningless
God is beyond question or renegotiation
God never whatever
God ever forever
The bearer of the standard that I strive to stand upon
The principle to which I wish to nearer draw
The here to there
The this to that
The then now and ever in an instant
The all in all in which it all makes sense
the destination
the road itself
and the motivation to keep on walking
Posted on Christmas Eve, happy cuz Trump soon leaves
America finally gets a reprieve from the lies he weaves
Well, pardon ME if you disagree, but he's one and done
He's been pardoning crooks, murderers, daughter & son
giving the phrase, "Who let the dogs out?" the answer
It's the narcissist who infected the country with cancer
It's time for a celebration and Happy New Year to cheer
A new President will reside in the White House next year
Trump will have to vacate his throne. It's been conferred.
No fraud took place or election rigging. That was absurd!
Joe Biden will be moving into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Uniting our country without Trump's drama and ballyhoo
What a poor example he's been as a leader; head of state
America was better off before he said he'd make it great.
Move along with your counterfeit tan and puckered mouth
Take your cocky kids with you as you putt your way South.
Let's hope once he's gone, out great nation will soon heal
with a commander who can keep our ship on an even keel
"Trump's descended into madness," "He's lost his mind"
Recent headlines that his supporters will claim are unkind
but considering the mess he's made of many vital issues,
the only sympathy I can offer them is a box of tissues
The oval office will need steam cleaning and fumigation
No portrait of him to hang. Let him take that to litigation!
It's reported Trump is headed South, to his Florida estate
His new slogan, just released: "Trump 2024 ~ DONATE!"
He's spent more time golfing than acting like a President
His Mar-a-Lago neighbors don't want him as a resident!
The worst possible fraud committed in the last four years
is the fake role he played, condoned by Republican peers
It won't be smooth waters for a while because of the scum
he's left behind; that shameful man, that do-nothing bum
America has been stumbled from each inept Trump blunder
pitting brother against brother; he's ravaged us all asunder
He once said the world was laughing at our great nation
The truth is they laugh at him; a presidential abomination
You refuse, refusing the salvant call,
laying there in fetal position,
enthralled by my hex of vinegar and scrawl of liquids release that just seem to pour out of me organically.
Hissing in Wormwood's frequency dwelling, Hollywood "your signature home" learning-annex-auxilliary.
My park and recreation facility.
Reserved, this space taken.
A dump, next to unopened salve
and not knowing your own, side-bar-by-law$.
An unlived, contrived existence, of litigation before dawn.
So shine on, shine on,
Dear: ) (Newton Star blink out before the gravity of
persistence, taken aside, the watchtower of your keen eyed media straddle, beacons a distress
call, to your final hour.
The time your nightwatch is voyeur
procured.
Humpty Dumpty asses with sulphur in their saltwatering laffy Taffy maws, fixed, agape, ajar."Give me some sugar baby."
Jezebellians, you shunned, the truth, when it was audio visually- bore.
Gored yourself on the posts of a grinding of mandibles and dripping blood upon the crucible stone and forbidden bindings.
No white night when a guiding light
doth shine on dead eyes.
No silver linings filling those cavities.
Only self, depravity.
Will be mouthed from the still-shine forever moored.
Uttered where windmills churn electro
Codes of algo-executionary tables
to turn.
Churning the butter of temptation
with pouting maid determination.
Mitigated, my starlings it is for,
the ungrateful scored.
Cookie cutter milkmaids of
factorized words.
Music for Nations.
A union of the snake said Plato.
Fall from the night.
As an Nova of unbeknownst, essence,
implode yourself of something more,
lost in the mire of the ignorance of indifference, onloaded to fill an emptiness void of frivolous showroom and commercials shined core.
Enjoy the aftermath in my garden.
Take another bite of my lore.
Rise, a new creation, in new age culturism,
the retro- reel of Humanism, of illusionary-fusion of pride and behind the scenes thrones.
Slavery algorithms,
my Holograms of flesh and Bones.
Burning out on the Threshing floor.
IF ever I had a country : LVIII - LIX
LVIII
IF ever I had a fantasy country
And if ever I were left to choose a country existing in reality
I'd certainly opt for a country not run by one who studied philosophy
For the simple reason you can blame any other kind of dope for sheer hypocrisy
For not having studied philosophy and pretending to be very democracy savvy
Especially when the victims* of the country's secret services can hit back at the ruling party
That is, if ever I were left to choose a non-hypocritical country existing in reality
And even if I never ever had no country (not) up to my fancy
Note : * It's a published fact that a French writer and literary anchor on French TV (whom I once met, in 1974, selling his self-published book in the streets of the Latin Quarter) never slept in the same bed for fourteen months for the late President François Mitterrand had ordered the secret services to snuff this son of an Admiral out. His " crime d'Etat " happened to be a manuscript he authored on the President's daughter whose mother was his mistress while in office. The " crime " however was expunged when the author in the presence of TV cameras burnt the manuscript at the portals of the Elysée Presidential Palace.
LIX
IF ever I had a phantasmagorical country
And if ever I were left to choose a country existing in reality
I'd certainly not opt for a country where the S.S. and the Police drug gang-rape and press-gang the mother of your infant son with impugnity
Nor opt for a so-called champion human rights country which hinders your every step and plunges you into solipsistic ignominy
Keeps you embroiled in litigation instituted managed and obstructed by near-sighted authority
While it siphons and floods your tiny ground-floor apartment with the precious toilet refuse of fourteen storeys of family
That is, if ever I were left to choose a country existing in reality
And even if I never ever had no country to fancy
© T. Wignesan - Paris, August 17, 2018
Lost between Heaven and Hell, battlements of my spirit and mind, Raptures me into
the new day, but delivers me in the darkness of night. I argue within my mind, that
shall wither it blind, randomly I search for the meaning that enhances the light. I
wander through the ailment that haunts me so. Small amounts of peace keep me
driving onward, though I feel no glow. In-between both I am haunted with one
sight, Glimpse of the dream I hold so dear, with massive amounts of fear, my
menacing fantasy keeps me on my fight. Each week that passes seems as everyone
that fell before.
My soul knows my end is of a different kind, knowing the sin that I carry each night
and the penance that I must endure. My destiny is not what I see, But is what I
deeply ignore. Lost between Heaven and Hell, My soul cannot sell, this torment, I
speak is a different form I break, Not just any ordinary sin, I have no-where to begin.
No end to reach, my darkness seeks light, though there is no realization to teach. I
am haunted by the past that lonely night that seizes, though it pleases me ,but no
other can live in the desire that I speak here and now, Others have traveled this
road without any dark temptation, though I would lose all interpretation, with great
litigation. Lost now and forever my dream, forgotten almost it may seem. Distant
calls engorge my thoughts, memories chase my spirit, and lust envelops my soul,
into the realm betwixt Heaven and Hell. My dream I shall bury, my destiny, I shall
marry within my mind and spirit. These darkened nights shall grab the bright days
down into the mishap of grace. I will council each cheerful day and plant a smile on
my face. However, the agony shall drive my heart to a stainless hollowness of
discomfort my continued dream shall live on and inhabit this shell. This shell
someday shall wither away; there will be nothing left to tell.
Written for
Sponsor Catie Lindsey
Contest Name Dark Prose
educated by the ancient twin mystics
right eye and left eye
to nurture nature a desire for beauty
and sweet self astonishment
can't perceive without perceiving
music of the spheres for dummies
the elderly should be smarter than they are
being close to death and all
instead the investigator discovers
a massive construction of leashes
not even the angry wish monsters
can cut them loose and free
being elderly in form I have but one wish
women throw your bodies on me
Fallopia Prestwich was all over me
like cat fur on a velvet couch
purring a tune in the laps of
generals statesmen and priests
during the war of the hormones
it looks like my cheap suit cologne
apparently got between her legs
but I was done with her abstract threats
of revenge litigation and outright damnation
but she was a circus muse who untrained horses
she could pitch a dime up a hopping toad's ass
her beauty left me speechless
fortunately for my many invisible readers
I was not also left writeless
the assignment was simple and brilliant
to assess the capacity of all humanity
to put therapeutic levels of intelligence
into their daily thrill ride
yah but what is it really other than
a figure 8 demolition derby
all the pedals to the metal
and the animator of all that there is
rolls up and gives me a bumper push
to the Brickpile checkered flag
even though I refuse to believe
his dimwit tale of redemption for a price
do this do that don't think just do it
bring me the head of Calliope
and we'll open her blessed plenum
well I rebelled and continue to do so
consequently here's a big kiss on the lips
for all the young Pioneers of the Soviet Union
anything named pioneer can't be all bad
and here's a big dog lick in the ear
for every Rabbi Mufti Priest and Magus
who thought they had the truth in a cage
stick this target over your ass
simple rational practical elegant
now send me some ding dong missionary money
Life on earth is a large platform where people show the highness or lowness of spirits of their lives. A queue in time bargaining for the much-awaited satisfaction in life. Just like in litigation, we all undergone proceedings in order to determine our unalienable rights --from conception to birth--judgment has been made whether to preserve or to abandon a life. Is it the longest day of waiting to be born on this earth? Not until we begin to crawl and cry weakly; run and stumble many times; stutter while trying to express the feelings, and get the needed fostering from parents that we realize all these as part of the stages of life. Is it the longest day of molding life inside the house? Not until we are brought up learning under the doctrine of the school to get further knowledge that we see a brighter future. We struggled hard to the academic discussion--from shapes, numbers, reading and into writing, we learned and been guided coherently. Is it the longest day of waiting for commendation? Not until we stepped out from our alma mater and into the challenging workforce that we feel the test of life. We faced many setbacks and blows but determination made us choose to get on it until we gradually climb into the targeted rank. Is it the longest day of the tiring effort to make a living? Not until we retired from work and have seen the fruits of our effort that we begin to feel good enough. As growing old is inevitable, it is about changes in yourself and life. Eyesight begins to dim and hearing fails, agility has turned into weakness, and health deteriorated until you sigh, “It is time to lay all worries to rest and maneuver myself into an open fluorescent green field.”
For all we know, it is still not the end of waiting until we see our next generation coming into being and deserving to be treated as such.
Noel N. Villarosa
12 February 2013
I chose
I could’ve been
A homebound hermit,
Hypnotized by the hum
And hue,
Of a high-tech
HD computer screen.
A slave
To the
Rhythmic rap
Of
Clicking keys;
Depriving me
Of much
Needed rest.
I’d Search
For Love
And friendship
In a network
Of strangers,
Oblivious to
The world
Outside.
I would’ve
Made a great
Defense lawyer.
With my
Appetite to argue.
I’d rescue
Common crooks,
Convicted of crimes;
From the
Confinements
Of a cell.
I’d lobby
For leniency
With lavish
Litigation laws.
Dedicating myself
To Dissembling
The Death penalty
I should’ve
Joined
The army,
A proud patriot,
Surpassing
My peers
Through promotion;
From a potato peeling private,
To a more
Prominent position.
Pushing my
Paratroopers out
Of a plane.
Parading my men
On the field
Of battle.
I’d receive
A war
Winning wound,
Perhaps a
Purple Heart.
I could’ve
Been a detective.
Cleverly cracking
Cold cases-
CSI style,
Coercing confessions
From criminals
And Con-men.
Collecting a
Cheap watch,
As compensation
For my commitment
To the precinct.
I should’ve
Been a doctor.
Devoting my life
To curing
The incurable,
Letting long hours
Deprive me
From family.
Always
At the
Beckon call,
Of work
Provided beeper.
Carrying out
Curative procedures,
On clients
That are
Scarcely clinging
To life.
I would’ve
Made a
Terrific teacher.
Choosing to
Live my life
Through the
Youthfulness of
My students.
Teaching them
To take on
The world
With caution
And Confidence.
Lecturing them
With lessons
Of longevity.
Disguising
My desire-
Jealous of
Their youth.
My choice,
Was not to
Focus on
One aspect
Of life,
But to
Experience
Them all.
With the stroke
Of a pen,
I walk
All paths.
I chose
All destinies.
I could’ve
Been this,
Or been that…
I should’ve
Done this,
Or done that…
I would’ve
Made this
Or made that…
Instead,
I chose to write.