Long Manuals Poems
Long Manuals Poems. Below are the most popular long Manuals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Manuals poems by poem length and keyword.
i guess the thought has really never occurred to you?
i could cry,
i could scream,
i can lay it all out, plain and simple.
the idea wouldn't even cross your mind.
maybe, just maybe
love is more than condition
it's more than orders to follow
or instruction manuals to read.
love is survival
it's sacrifice
it's standing between heaven and hell
always knowing where you are.
love is life
it's breath
it's the ground beneath your feet
the air in my lungs
the look in my eyes.
i often wonder
did you ever really know what love felt like?
it's indescribable to be loved without restriction.
with conviction.
i'm almost sure
i've never been able to receive that from you.
there's always a catch
or a "gotcha!!"
and you could say all the words you want
they're meaningless
you don't back them up.
get on your soapbox and shout it to the world
that's fine.
if i asked you for just a second to take a step back
breathe
be here
in the this moment with me
could you do it?
take responsibility?
apologize.
not make me feel guilty?
i'm always the villain
or i always come second
for you this is a competition
i'm an unwilling contestant.
i love you.
with everything i have.
you can't love me unconditionally.
honestly
i feel sorry for you dad.
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get OJT?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all the mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been more than enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
Long has I danced on these floors of lovers, my dancing routines lil rusted and outdated, yesterday was the day I fell off and broke my ankle, and sworn to return no more but here I am today, obliged to follow into my human nature, it was weeks ago when my recovering ankle led me to this scene, now my play run unscripted, this time around met the unexpected, believe that's what coincidence refers to
So off guard, my expectations caught, I speak philosophical jargons now, with my vocab out of context, my Inquisition drops me continuously, hope to find stand to fit my feet, my sweet struggle commence, I smile in my heart plight, so long had I pondered of such, now this is my jungle to cross, my adventure steady, hope she meet me halfway, for so long had I tried, this mile I soldier to travel,
So many controversial complexities, I fail to follow, even to some little acts, I strain my antics, so empty handed I forever return, she keeps her cards to her chest, this blind fold on my expectations exhaust my patients, so much had I put in place to work this garden of her heart but still she remains unimpressed, sigh in my endurance, what ingredients should my mental chef try?
My quest, still a mystery, how without I'm of her calibre, wish God leaks to me her heart manuals, my request is simple; just wanna learn to love her her way, for I have failed my way. Her name means happiness, so dry has it been in my heart for such, I too just wanna have a stake in her name, hope she heed my quest and grant me justice.
#Poetic_Ink
Written: January 20, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Quote: “There is no sickness worse for me than words that to be kind must lie.” Aeschylus,
Line of inquiry:
truth imbibed
awaits assimilation
we feel it in our bones
in time dissolved meditation
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It lies so wisely in silence—a truth as vast as the sky,
Heart bonds are loud, and time is where secrets fly.
Another guidance from the soul is to meditate,
The benthic abyss of existence—may not captivate.
In the timeless Prometheus, ketamine never ends,
Words assail when sacrilegious with a weight of trends.
Wrapped by laceration, shadows murmur the truth,
We weave hedonistic worlds, crafted with airy youth.
No signs or manuals molded on musty scrolls,
But a heartbeat harmonious hum—echoing halls.
It mutters in muted times louder than any voice,
A celestial cadence that connects us in cool poise.
Meditation serves as a serenata for truth gems,
Sorting through shadows—to watch which hems.
In silence, we design stories woven from threads,
Into our depths, where gossamer rule treads.
In the mirror of prayer, truth makes its colors clear,
Every stroke is an enlightenment that destroys fear.
It's deemed with every heart, gavotte, and breath,
Until skills emerge from life's mellifluous wreath.
We do not grasp truth, but we acquire it with grace,
A rhapsody careens that falls into place.
It is a layer of us, shaped by the hand of time,
An idiosyncratic memorial in this changing grime.
Time to look
Look closely
at the backward
forward thinking me
Consumed
by my own consumption
Hybrid driving wanabe
Thinking I'm thinking of others
when it's all about me
Big house
with some solar panels
Seventy two inch plazma TV
with over Two Hundred Channels
All the latest gadgets and owners manuals
On earth day I feel good
because I light some candles
Sure I recycle
trying my best
Yet in the end I don't consume any less
Attracted to labels
I like my "Three Leaves" and "Guess"
I have the right lingo
and know how to dress
You'll see me riding my bike
just about every where I go
Five grand of carbon fibre
all part of the show
I expound on the enviroment
so you will know what I know
I talk about gardening but I don't own a hoe
It's all about the illusion
I like the idea of green
drinking ethical coffee at the bean scene
I like the attention
all the conversations
I use inuendo and insinuations
Yet travel on a big
fuel guzzling plane
to fabulous
soon to be spoiled
destinations!
I have reached you
But still, I don’t feel safe
For they know I am with you
Persistent with their knocking
On the grate on the back door
On the steep slope of lawn
At the end of a long cone of light
They demand to know, to enter
Without understanding.
They shoot up their electronic messages
In an endless pursuit, hunting out and
Up from the darkness of their perverted will
Attempting to arrive here with us
They demand access and control
Without passing through the fire
Without first returning home
Without replanting
In the purified ground
Rising to your world near the front garden
Without opening up the crust of the red iron earth
To till in new planting
In the furrows of the soft warm clay
Clearly described in the instructions
And dictated by the severe climatic conditions
Of the purifying new sun’s light and holy rains
Filling this new terrain and
Described in the planting manuals on the shelves
Hanging on the walls between the icons
In the conical labyrinth of rooms
Along the corridor
From the back rooms to the front garden
Soon we will close off this passageway
And take off in orbit
Into the new galaxy prepared for us
From the beginning
Planted with star-seeds
Of the Divine LOGOS
From the beginning of time.
The harvest has finally begun.
Perhaps we don’t even have to put that sign on the back door
For the fields are so ripe with the fragrance of the October vines
And the olives are so mature they are about to fall off the trees
That everyone will know we are at the harvest
And if we ever return to the world
Of the old house where the back door was
With its open grating, we will find the ground burned,
What stood, turned to ash, disintegrated,
Returning through death, re-integrated
Into the earth of the underworld, to be reborn,
As new re-connected trees,
In the garden of an old world
Re-planted and now re-visited
For one last time.
No funeral bells were ever heard
And neither were there any angels
Of Divine Annunciations carrying us off
It just happened under the guidance
Of secret voices hidden in the core of life.
Cloud Nine
It's Been Nine years,
They seem Short and Sweet,
Eyes Full of Joy Tears,
Shoes Full of Feet.
It's Been Nine Annuals,
Of Blues & Green Blossoms of Smiles,
Sans GPS or Shalom Manuals,
Our Careening Inner-Outer Space Miles.
It's Been a Team of Nine,
But Rookie Roster of Two,
On Purim, Said the Rebbetzin,
"A Remarkable Pair are You".
It's Been Nine Annums,
Date Starting Over Starbuck's Coffee,
Then Favorite Englander Kitchen Table Crumbs,
Soared Us High, to Orbits Lofty.
It's Been Nine Degrees,
Of Seeing the Plus & Flaw Blindness,
Each Listing Spouse Pedigrees,
Beginning & Ending With Kindness.
It's Been Nine Lives,
To Borrow from the Cat World,
You Inched Bravely to the High Dive,
Breathed Deep, Dove & Deserve to be Pearled.
(Now, Barbara Opens the Necklace Case)
the head of the counselors resigned the second day of school.
We are congregating for our first meeting without a leader.
They give us a room without chairs or tables.
We were instructed to bring laptops and manuals.
I brought a notebook and a pen, knowing I will write poetry.
We are counselors, we are flexible someone says as they line us up.
No worries. No problems.
I sit down and begin to write.
Someone says “don’t get comfortable, we are moving tables.”
She is new, feels like she is in charge.
I get up and find a corner chair.
The room is coming together slowly.
Gospel music is played.
Goody.
I have been in this district seventeen years.
This is a redundant yearly seminar, but mandated.
The first thing the head says is
“Don’t worry about bringing laptops or manuals.”
She is the one who had emailed us all to bring them.
I grin.
Because I had figured out that already.
Same oh same oh.
I Messed with Daylight Saving's Time
By Franklin Price
11/1//2015
I messed with daylight saving's time
Right after Trick or Treat
When the clocks were showing 9:00 PM
Made change to sleeplessness defeat
Stopped the old grandfather clock
To let the hour pass the day
Took the analogs and turned them back
In the Fall that is the way
Changed the hours on the digitals
The PM's to indicate
Microwave and stove the easiest
The numbered keys are really great
Swung the pendulum on old grandpa
When the hour passed was done
Was the last change in the house
An hour gained for sleep what fun
Cheated by five hours
The 2:00 AM directive change
I knew I would be sleeping then
Was not about to rearrange
I thought I was all finished
Now awakened by the sun
I see the cars with clocks in them
There is not only one
Each has its way of setting
The manuals could tell me how
But I'm a man can't look at them
Rather curse and have a cow
But you know today is Sunday
It's the day we praise the Lord
Guess I'll change the clocks by manual
On the Honda and the Ford
I pack the backpack
then empty it
count again what I need,
discard the unlikely,
the unnecessary accessory.
I pack the backpack
shoulder it,
adjust the straps
remember to add a useful thing,
unpack and repack,
try to balance the weight,
smooth the angular,
tighten the loose.
Once again
add another small but
just maybe item
to the survival kit in the backpack
which I have just repacked.
I open the backpack
unpack just enough
to add to the survival kit.
I forgot to pack rope,
It’s a must have necessity.
I pack the rope.
This is a metaphor poem,
possibly a cautionary tale,
or an instruction manual.
I remember just in time
that I have left the instruction manuals
for the battery operated can opener,
the outdoor fire lighter,
the camping stove,
and a sharpening tool,
they are all on a small folding chair.
I gather the manuals up,
pack them,
try to pack the small folding chair,
decide I will have to carry it separately.
The backpack is back over my shoulder,
above that a rolled up pup tent.
The camping chair is in my left hand,
in my right hand a sturdy hiking stick.
Climbing boots and cleats affixed.
I go to the door to leave.
I can’t open the door
too much gear to go through
I may have to squeeze out sideways,
But now I can’t turn the door handle or lock,
too much in my hands.
I will have to unpack.
Metaphors are a heavy lift.