Long Lunch Poems
Long Lunch Poems. Below are the most popular long Lunch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lunch poems by poem length and keyword.
Dreaming shows you many hidden things in your mind; it opens you to alternative thinking…
What are friends? Are friends someone you can trust? What is trust? What is trusting? I've always asked myself this, but never really answered it... Friends are always something I have struggled with.
How does someone become your friend? Is it an unspoken thing? A mutual agreement? A strive to be popular? Or is it a feeling that everyone has?
Throughout my elementary years I had 6 friends. Brandon, Mattia, Isaac, Matthew, and 2 girls, Emily and Sydney. When I hit 5th grade, Isaac, who was my best friend, moved away.
I had one big problem, people who I saw as friends, weren't really friends. There were a lot of things said behind my back and people would use me as a fall guy.
Onto my dream...
My dreams as a kid, before I trained myself to lucidly dream, were, as far as I knew, real. And to be honest, for the most part I don't know what was a dream and what wasn't...
I remember the new "cool" game to play was ZAP... If you don't know what zap is it is pretty much you put a name on a hand and a time and they can't look at it until that time or they must ask them out. This also happened to be the time the term "gay" had hit my school, so I had a guys name written on my hand. So once I found out what it was I went and washed it all off. so as we went back in class everyone who fell to peer pressure which was pretty much everyone but me got in trouble.
Now I told the teacher I had it at one time but I washed it off at lunch because Iw anted to be honest.... She just said that was the right thing to do.... But everyone started laughing at my calling me gay and such because it was a guys name... So when asked who satarted it someone said ask the gay kid.... Well of course I got blamed with it so I was sent to the principal with not one, but two reasons to be in trouble... I woke... got ready for school, and as I was getting to school guess what I saw? A new friend, and its name was Zap.....
What is a true friend? Is it someone who will stand for you? Someone who is always there? Do you have a true friend? Do you trust that person? Now answer that again, do you really? Ask yourself a third time, how do you really know they are your friend?
P.S. Thank you all for all the support, I have really appreciated all the positive feedback on my work... Jarrod D.~
Iambic pentameter is all about the syllables, which ones are loud, and which ones are soft.
Baboon has two sounds – ba, and boon, a soft sound, and then a loud sound. High school also has two syllables, or two sounds. High and School also has two sounds, but the rhythm is loud sound, soft sound. The phrase: A baboon teaches at the high school has how many syllables? If you do not know, you can easily clap it out. With each sound, do one clap. A (one clap or one sound) baboon (two claps or two sounds), teaches (2 claps or two sounds) at (one clap or one syllable or one sound), the (one clap or one syllable or one sound), high (one clap or one syllable) school (one clap or one syllable or one sound).
The phrase A baboon teaches at the high school has a total of 10 sounds or 10 syllables or 10 claps.
Let us look at the word baboon again. Baboon - a soft sound, then a loud sound, or a soft syllable, and then a loud syllable, right? What about the word high school? Which syllable is soft? Which syllable is loud? The loud syllable is the first one, because that is the one your voice puts the most emphasis on.
Consequently, the word high school has a loud syllable, soft syllable rhythm.
When poets speak of iambic pentameter they are speaking of a five-in-a-row rhythm of soft loud, soft loud, soft loud, soft loud, soft loud sounds. It is important to remember there are five of them, and they must be soft loud, not loud soft sounds. Would high school work in this rhythm? Not well as it is a loud soft sound. What about the word baboon would it work in iambic pentameter – soft loud, soft loud, soft loud, soft loud, soft loud? Five in a row? Yes, it would because baboon is a soft loud word. Baboon, baboon, baboon, baboon, baboon. It might be possible to instill the word baboon in your mind now, so when you are writing iambic pentameter you can remember that baboon would work and the cadence is soft, loud. Also please remember to write iambic pentameter it must be five in a row.
A baboon teaches at the high school.
She has never heard of the golden rule.
Her students make fun of her behind her back.
Her lunch they have blown up in a paper sack.
We were supposed to go on a field trip today,
But the only one who signed up was that suck up, Mae.
Written July 16, 2018
Entered Line Gauthier’s Poetry Contest
Contest: Reads Like Music
I am fascinated by space science because it is so divine. I am fascinated by space science because everything it entails is sublime. Human operates machine and machine work for human; human input the information but the machine regurgitates it.
Its AI and automation against human invention, e-commerce and job outsourcing in reverse. If you cannot pay me let me go to those who are willing to hire me, but please don’t use me and then you discard me. You lurk behind the screen saying that you have run out of money and you cannot bring me back to fulfill my dreams.
I don’t join games because I don’t know to play them, I don’t play games because am not good at winning them. I don’t play games because I don’t know the rules and sometimes it leaves you confused. I approach everything in life in a pragmatic and realistic manner.
You place the burden on the commuter saying that it is giving the order; computer is not human and someone must operate it to transfer the information to you, oh what silly deprivation. You are trying to elude reality and not living up to your responsibility, the ship will be at the surface on time and you must give me what is mine.
You have built more than a dozen space ship with words dripping from my lips; you have sent missions to the moon with words burning from my finger tips and vinegar is draining in my lungs; with swollen fingers and broken palm words flow from my heart into the computer gut before dawn, and then you slice it up and serve it for breakfast dinner and lunch and disrespect my painful sacrifice, and you call it AI.
I work day and night and because I don’t know how to fight I continue to stretch myself to fulfill a mandate for the moon. You send me into the space to explore the galaxy and look into the black hole to see where gravity is bold and the space around the corner lit up with billions of stars flickering in the night, oh what a wonderful sight.
Will machine eventually take over human lives after decades of painful sacrifice? Will machine takes over our lives and leave us without a dime? Nights upon nights the human brain toil to fill the machine sitting on the throne but sometimes the gripe is so strong it vomits out on the land and my eyeball spread the words all over the human race and squeeze matter into tiny space. It man against woman and one woman working with computer.
On the Twenty Fifth, December Night,
Black Skies Sparkle with bright light!
Church Bells ring,Ding!Dong!Ding!
Chores of angels ,start to sing!
Merry Christmas!Everyone!
Happy Birthday,Jesus Son.
We rejoice in prayer and joy,
as We thank this New Born Boy,
He is Born for You and Me,
from Our darkness ,sets us free.
Christmas time,a time for Friends,
Tender Hugs and shaking Hands.
Red Holllies in Window Sills,
Deers and sleighs,Over the Hills.
Cheery music in the streets,
Christmas time,a time for peace,
Neighbours sharing Merry greets,
robin's nest, safely in trees..
Its a time we give Our best,
thinking more about the rest,
Christmas Cards,a Christmas Gift,
Its Our time,to give and give!!
Christmas Spirit,Home sweet Home,
A star twinkling ,on each Dome.
Lots of toys, For Homeless Kids,
Stories told and ancient myths.
Brindisi ! a toast! Saluting with a kiss,
Warm mulled wine,We never miss..
French Beres,Red coats to dress,
in their tails,Men, look their best.
Decorating Christmas trees,
altogether,Families!
Phone calls ,far across the miles,
Happy Cries and lovely smiles.
Stocking with little surprise,
Before New Dawn,wake and rise.
Five course lunch, For Everyone,
Turkey roasted,just well done.
Aunties,Cousins ,join together,
On this Christmas ,Winter Weather.
At four tea,a Christmas Bun!
Crowd in Chit Chat,having Fun.
Grandma ,bakes ,a Christmas Cake
Snowballs,Mince Pies and Fig Dates.
I prepare ten christmas logs,
Cherries,Nuts,Whisky and Chocs,
Yummie Candies,so delicious,
Forget all which is nutritiuos..
Little Crib in every House,
Grandpa dress as Santa Clause,
Presents,granting many wishes,
Christmas Day, so very precious.
Missletoe and Gleaming eyes,
Christmas Carols,Christma Rhymes.
Cosy Eve,Burning Flames of Fire place,
Spicy wood and Indoor games.
Long Processions in the Streets,
all the Door Knobs Hold Gold Wreaths.
Candle lights in Children's hands,
Miss Christmas and Snow men Dance!
All the Nations holding Hands,
War Is Over,Still a Chance!
Many Blessings On Our Lands,
Merry Christmas Super Friends..
Merry Christmas Everyone,
Welcome Home,Enjoy the Fun! :)
(Inspired by Caroline Devonshire)
(Welcome in my picture of Christmas Landia)
Charma
The young boy was pale,
He walked slowly in the alley
No. 41.His skeleton hand hold a rusted tin can.
He was in business,for him it was.
On his innocent face,
In a modern world,who really forgotten
Kids like him was also human too.His eyes
Pasted on a piece of bread on the dirty pavement.
On his side was tall buildings,on the other was a busy EDSA.
A dove whose feather blacken by the third world metropolis,
Peeped down from the lamp post,
Measuring the distance of the bread on the ground
Look at the child,inclining its head side ward,
Then,their eyes meet,resting on each other stare
Like eternity,
And it flew toward the blinding sun.
The boy saw a man approached,
Polished shoes landed on his lunch
The gold Rolex,tailored clothes,big ring,
A heavy necklace hung loosely on beefy neck.
Surprised on a sudden hand that raised on his way,
"Move out!" bellowed angrily,then scurried quickly on a green traffic
light. "Fool..."the boy sighed.
Business is business,he thought,as he reached out the crushed bread
Uttered a little prayer,ate it religiously with tears on his eyes.
Every bite he remembered his little brother he left this morning
on their cartoon box house
At Smokey Mountain outside Manila,its smoke ascend forever
Till the end of time,because of the corrupt lordship in kings palace
His little brother burned at stake alive waiting for his pancit.
His father was an inmate at Bilibid prison selda katorse (14)
His mother was a girl in the street.
Then an old woman came out at the Binondo Church.
Walked briskly as the wind swept the dusk on summer days.
Stopped,a discolored dirt hand spread for an alms.
Irritated,she rummaged her purse,and gently place the one peso
on the boys hand,made sure to slow her movement,maybe the rest
Were looking at her, she raised her brow and smile
"Of course.", she said sweetly
Father hope will see this act she thought that
Might mention her name in homily,Mrs. Cerbo was kind to the poor.
He spit the coin and swipe it on his dirty torn shirt
And say..."God Blessed Maddame."
Then he ran at the little Sari-sari store
Brought a piece of bread,break it into halves
He hid his share on his pocket
Then tossed the half on the side walk
When the boy had gone, blue wing landed
Ate with pride and thinking, "stupid boy..stupid boy..".
The dark rooms of my mind take me to a new place every night,
This place beams of sunshine, with beautiful sight.
This feeling is indeed real, but far from reality,
Still, this place thrives my personality.
This is a dream, but I did not choose it, it chose me,
It is a new era in a different country,
Where it is normal to be a 'she.'
I can't recall the year, but maybe it is 1976 or 1983.
This era, back in 1976, History ribs were still not broken,
The pages of humanity were still not blood-soaken.
That time, mothers worried about her girl,
About what she'll have for lunch or in which dress she will twirl.
The time where footsteps don't dissolve in dust,
When pedophilia, child marriage was considered a crime of inhumane lust.
The time when ambitions were praised,
And healthy children within healthy families were raised.
The time where father, husbands, and men were true protectors,
And not Satan, whose role was of autonomy and tormentor.
The time where women like me and you had power in their ink and voice,
And the institution of marriage was a choice.
The time when daughters were not restricted to breathe fresh air,
And mothers did not gulp in guilt of having a girl as an heir.
This city was none other than the city of Kabul,
Back in the day, in the year 1976, back when the city was a fable.
Convince me all you want,
Tell me I am a wannabe,
But I know a gender apartheid and genocide when I see.
Every day where massacres are happening in shadows,
Still, everyone except people in power can hear the echoes.
Why did I choose this timeline, you ask?
Because this is clearly an injustice, which you call culture as a mask.
I may not live in that land, but those screams drag themselves to my city,
Begging for freedom and asking for our pity.
Why did I choose this era, you ask?
Maybe, because even in my own land being a lady is a frightening task.
The way a girl measures her skirt,
Because her dignity is defined by the length of the shirt.
The way a no feels like an invitation to fight,
And the constant worry of safety is the pain we hide.
You call it culture?
You call it a tradition?
But I know a cage when I see one.
That's all the reason for my choice to stay in that utopian time,
Because as you are reading this tonight,
A little girl is going through a horror, and she can't fight.
I do it for the boys, the girls, men, the women,
plus Allah's unborn children look how I'm living
it's similar to, your situation no money making,
just chips and egg crates in front the Playstation.
Cable's late again my real friends know my struggle,
a rough 9 to 5 plus supplying studio time is my hussle.
It's just my father, Jibri, and I shacked in a shack
shackled to a broken home with no
welcome mat get back.
Everysince my mother left the building,
the feeling ain't the same pain is building
rain is killing the window pain.
Winters are harsh man, but I can take it though
as long as I'm wrapped up in these blankets
I'm a make it man.
I do it for the emcees, the djs, the b-boys, the b-girls,
hip hop is a growing culture plus it's a free world.
Free to manifest expressions,
free to rep your section focused over nice composures
flowing until the night is over.
Don't be like me just be like the music you like
use right rhyme and reason choose nice lines and preach them.
Watch the ones leeching watch who you be with frequent
cause you can end up with your dreams slowly sinking.
Only you can make it in this, it's a business,
forget the fame listen use your senses don't be senseless.
Be patient and grind hard if waiting to shine start
slanging tapes on my block & your block it don't stop.
Hit up every spot around,
it's a milion of us trying to get a milion bucks and
chill in a vila feeling the cool breeze.
I'm am who me.
the same easy dude speaking jeweles
do you I'm a do me.
I started off young with a pen and a pad lyrics I had
before that I scribbled on scraps forget about class.
Entered school thinking of rap,
grades sinking in math
twas either skip, go home, or sit in the back.
During lunch I read what I wrote
they said it was dope, within battles
no one put Bomb Threat on the ropes.
Six years later I.....left to go solo felt I was hopeless
in a group that wasn't hungry only one supplying money me.
Then the south was united, two years later divided
but Mama Glo, had the best ideas,
but I, down no man no way no how
cause if you make it in this game from the heart I'm proud.
FLA I will make this official rake up a pencil
for Jenah's sake I'm a make it
and mention you on an instrumental.
That's a promise I'm honest, show me love back
hold me down
southside is us you gotta love that.
Do not be self-conscious or anything, but I have got my big ,rotatorof an eye on you.
I know your mama and yourdad, and I’m willing to let them know if you are not being true.
I cannot tell you that it is never odd or even, but I can tell you that it’s midway, and blue.
Eve, Bob, Otto and Anna are ready to jump right in that kayak and stack cats if they have to.
Don’t pop your eyes at me, young lady. I do not care if we are at the civic center; I feel free
To do whatever I have to, to keep Evil Olive in check, and you also, my little bumble bee.
Who is looking for a nut for a jar of tuna? There is no lemon, no melon, and it’s 9:03.
The radar gun is in the van with Hannah, anyway it was at noon, so I thought that it still might be.
Someone is outside the civic center is yelling, “No garden, one dragon!” What does that mean anyway?
I brought this 6th grade level field trip with me to have an interesting, fun-filled, learning challenged day.
I don’t need some nut-bucket ruining it for me, on every level, this is totally wrong, and I don’t play!
The mirror rimis brushing against the tailgate of the bus we brought, but that is for the driver to say.
Now where in the Sam hill crazy town, is that blue nylon solokayak that was attached to the top of our bus?
I thought we could have one blasted solo-inspired field trip to the civic center without a bunch of fuss.
I realize it is noon, and people are hungry and crabby, and the blue kayak is a big fat muss.
But you have to realize that Eve, Bob, Otto, and Anna were the ones assigned to straighten this big tuss.
I always get the blame when things go wrong, as everyone blames the poor old mama.
The dad is just as much to blame, but there he goes, taking off on a fat llama.
I’m ready to pop my cork, and pitch a fit that would shock the Dad, so much.
Aha! Here he is, back to chow down his fabulous, hand-stacked pepperoni lunch.
To look back now,?to the times when I was young,?there were so many unknowns?that the girl I was ?didn’t realize existed.?I did not know?if I could ever trust a man to care.?I did not know?if I could ever be half the woman she is.?I did not know ?if I could even make it far enough to question what wasn’t promised. ?A seven year old me,?pink streaks in her hair?and a smile,?a real one,?on her face did not yet know how the world would ?funnel into her ears one day,?trying to tell her everything?she already assumed was true.?She didn’t understand?how people ever left other people?or how sadness was an actual disorder.?She thought a smile was a cure.?I did not know ?that a father was supposed to do more then leave healing wounds?and set a dinner table.?I did not know?that love is fifty/fifty only when the other is involved?and willing to say he cared.?I did not know?what it meant to feel no hunger for anything other then a bed sheet?and voices other people could hear.?Because a seven year old me?blocked out the slaps?and believed it?when she said she was crying because?her back hurt.?I didn’t know?that some days I was worth nothing more then the price?of a punching bag?or?that feeling so alone in a room full of people?can make anyone crack.?And it wasn’t until?the only man I’ve ever come to trust ?held me after I saw a girl almost get assaulted?in my house, on my own couch, on my own lap?that I knew not all men were evil.?And it wasn’t until?she told me about the sadness in our veins?being a battle I’d never get to escape easily ?that I realized I’m as strong as she made herself.?And it wasn’t until ?the winter of no lunch and ?spring of bad habits and ?summer of broken hearts?that I came to terms with the place I was trying to get to.?I have a boy who’s like a brother.?One who built a place for me to ?watch the world before joining it.?I have a mother who lived to tell a tale.?One who now discusses with me?the poet that saved my life?and the lyric that started an epiphany.?I have a disorder that some people don’t survive.?One that, some nights, is so strong,?it escapes through fingertips or ?words of mouth or ?limbs I once dangled from the edge of the world.?I have unknowns.?So many that I did not realize needed answering.?A seven year old me once saw the world?as a place for only her,?but now,?I’m just trying to find a place to stand.
Pulled one perfect day from the heart of summer,
Went with my wife, the kids, a friend
Down to cruise the monuments
To study those menhirs we set for marking passage
Into collective memory.
We ascended the virile spire
Erected in honor of our ponytailed First Elect,
The children pleased to gaze out on a toy city below us.
We descended and walked down the long flat mirror of water
To where Lincoln, strong and sad in bronze
Sits forever troubled by his sundered nation
In his cool, dark, echoing vault.
Then lunch, and a visit to the commemoration of our most recent sorrow;
We cross over and walk the Wall.
Row on row,
Stark white upon shining black
The rollcall of the dead processes by.
It's crowded today, but no one speaks
The silence here is a crashing thing that falls all around us
As we walk and search
Some for names, some for answers,
Some for both, or neither
Ourselves for I know not what.
And in the black
Flowing past the names, and names, and names
This perfect day hangs captured in its light:
Cotton clouds on blinding blue
Grass greener than new money
The faces of children, dogs
And a parade of young couples -
It all hangs there, flowing over the terrible list,
Reminding all how they should be here too,
Those not-so-long-ago lost.
But then, in a sense, they are here
And that's why the silence crashes so.
58,000 empty chairs are here.
58,000 phantoms,
The Bad Conscience of a good nation.
58,000 Not-To-Bes are here:
Not-To-Be husbands, fathers, family, friends
Not-To-Be Victories and Not-To-Be Dreams
58,000 horrors of Loss.
In the midst of these shuddering reveries
My blissfully distracted 7 year-old son
Plucks a small, perfect feather off the lawn,
As black and glossy as the wall itself,
And carries it idly along.
Once out, we stop to talk with one of the Fallen's many advocates,
A great Viking of a man who notices the feather
Who says right away,
"Ah, a raven's feather. Odin's birds, who bring him Wisdom and Rememberance."
I saved the feather, knowing what I do of ravens:
Those sombre, croaking birds,
First on the field after battle
I stroked its silky black and wished
Odin's birds would visit the common folk more often
And croak to us of Remembrance, and Wisdom.