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.
Sheila loved reading about forensics and dinosaurs that once flew
She adored non-fiction, biographies, mysteries, UFO stories too
What kind of a mother will she be? Asked her cousin Strange Lou.
The kind who showed intelligence, a lifelong learner, tis true.
Her husband was amazed at how many books Sheila would read.
She studied manuals and cookbooks, as her family did feed.
Why does Mommy love books so? Her youngest asked, her name was May
It gives her excitement, said her oldest daughter, a reader, named Fay.
The family knew that Sheila would never go hungry for a book.
They were hidden in her cupboards, under the sink, and in a nook.
Sheila never stopped learning, she knew more than a PhD.
I know about Sheila because she is the woman who raised little ole me.
OH! Education! Why are you not reaching to all?
When everyone longs for you after all.
Governments spend tens of millions
To educate the children in billions.
Still, you make it a point
Not to reach the ultimate point,
Reaching the unreached.
Educating all is a mission for all
Educating children, adults, the old
Education for All.
Those who possess you alone know
How powerful you are.
People believe you are life's life.
And the apple of eye of that life,
Guiding the beastly men and women
To a world humane,
The Beast becomes human.
Skills and manuals become human resources.
It is you who have been and are instrumental
In breaking the unfounded beliefs,
Mindless suppressions, Totalitarianisms,
Tyrants and their tyrannies
Demagogues, parochial unfounded idiosyncratic
Democratically elected rules and their welfare beliefs.
But I have a trouble
Why do 'they' believe
You are available only in schools
So is there a chaos
between education and schooling.
As there has always been between teaching and learning.
When someone teaches
While someone tries to impose
That someone fails to understand
That Education fails
And learning becomes unlearning.
OH! Education! You are the wonder
To wonder the world.
You empower him to prove
Where common man is not very common
Ordinarily people become extraordinary.
He becomes hero of times.
When he possesses you,
The weapon of knowledge and light.
The Accoutrements of Knowledge
The accoutrements of knowledge
had crept into his life, overtaking it.
No more did he sit and think,
idly allowing nuance to shade gray
the black and white of learning’s
playful inconsistencies. Old books,
manuals, manuscripts, texts,
subscribed to journals, cluttered
his encroaching space. Old thoughts,
ideas, dreams, brainstorms and brain-farts,
waited – holding numbers – lost in
the labyrinth of slumbering genius.
The need to learn, the drive to succeed,
had seduced him, lured him into the
netherworld of concrete minds,
set in their ways, confident of
their credos. This hell of blindly
accepted dictates emanating from
a “think” tank, this babbling of banal
benediction, this forced worship
of the mindless by the thoughtless
had dimmed the beauty of the sunrise,
muted the music of the spheres,
closed the eyes of the seekers,
pulling the wool of doubt over them.
So he left the trappings of the pedagogues,
fled the archways of academia,
sought a clear and simple thought -
An endeavor not unlike the search
for an honest man. His goal was not
to think but to experience thought,
not to memorize the dance steps
but to experience dancing.
They said that he had “burnt out”,
lost his focus, succumbed to the stress.
Now free of the encumbrance of the
accoutrements of knowledge, he was
free again to seek, to follow, to be
conscious of the sound of his heartbeat,
the rhythmic surge of his pulse,
the shimmering glow of a dappled sunrise.
He would learn from all about him,
study the art of the mud daubers,
the construction of the beavers,
listen to the songs of the lark and sparrow,
answer the call of the coyotes,
taste the bliss of the bee hive honey.
He learned – no books can teach you
the scent of dew damp grass at dawn,
nor recreate the harrumphing solo
of the lead bullfrog. Nor could they
explain how the dragonflies dance
varies from the butterflies ballet.
And so he thought. How and why
had he constructed a barrier of
knowledge that frustrated his
search for anything else?
1/24/2015
submitted to – Any Poem Written in the Year 2015
sponsor – Laura Loo
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!
There are always those who say that you are wrong.
They are the ones who never stray from the herd.
They go to school and learn everything about life from manuals.
They write poems and stories like other poets and writers did.
They get good grades.
They stay out of trouble, but engage in acceptable rowdiness and fun.
They write and give great graduation speeches.
They become middle-managers, mostly.
They fold their socks and underwear.
They stay abreast of the latest trends and movies.
They quote famous quotes like they thought them up.
They attempt to belittle, passive-aggressively, anything out of orthodox thought.
They live their lives like lambs.
They buy big, beautiful things.
They wear shiny wedding-rings.
They drive down drowsy streets.
They form committees.
They bake things shaped like commercials.
They invent rules for writing and art.
And
I
Don't
Follow
Them.
From the womb it seems I birthed into a cocoon
Cant say I had known for sometime I was alive
Much learnt whilst unaware for almost four years
My memories say I'm one calendar says I'm five
Things that seemed important over sixty years ago
The latest shaped shoes or a top ten hit parade song
At fifteen peer pressure shaped how I would behave
Learning to discover where I would eventually belong
No manuals to assist a father raise three young children
Imparting to dependants the way I had been mentored
Dealing with an aggressive workplace, finances and self
At thirty overwhelmed, swearing in this poem is censored
A new century arrived grandfathering is such a blessing
Responsibilities of existence have largely been lightened
Now turned fifty still feeling some traces of distant youth
A positive outlook on life has recently become heightened
Having reached the age of seventy over eight years ago
As an alternative thinker there is a chance I am outcast
I am far removed from alignment with majority opinion
Rejecting thoughts postulating how much time I might last
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.
on crenshaw
carousing in cavernous cafes
slicing into earthen skin
the meat dancers bring it to a boil
they murder the rug
they scrounge for earth worms
the fish head girls bob like sea birds
telephoning purple mermaids for a date
they have no name tags and no flowers
they sing sad madrigals to the starfish
they know this is the last pavane
the final curtsy before night goes down
before morning arises under white sheets
loosening the brain screws
burning the instruction manuals
imbibing the nylon remonstrations
on crenshaw
a lonely woman croons
an oozing torch song to the dirt people
they sit erect in a dark morgue
chittering like insects
singing cool blues music to the meat dancers
they bring it to a boil
with burgers bullets and beef cake
genius guitar freak vivisects clawing time
he twangs his axe with a searing solo
he plays psychedelic lullabies to the dead
his music torturing the earth worms
What do you do when duct tape won’t fix it?
Y’know, when that “I got this” attitude is shattered
When it’s not things, or stuff, or “errors”
That require the questionable solutions of the “fixer”.
Souls are hard to comprehend and come without service manuals
No graphics or guidelines, no “call this number” bailout.
And yet they fail, suffer breakage, weaken with time
Outlive their expiration dates, idly linger.
Daybreak’s sun rises dimmer and fades to futility
As darkness intrudes into a vacant emptiness.
My tool box is useless, its contents befuddled
By an invisible break, an un-noticed fissure,
The silent slide into a dreaded abyss
Of distance, doubt, disconnection.
I am the duct tape and I cannot fix it
Save to cover my eyes and deny its presence.
I found it half-buried
in the forgotten geography
between a gutter and a curb,
a bent little relic
the color of old rain.
Nobody claimed it.
Nobody searched for it.
Cars hissed past
without so much as a glance.
Yet there it waited,
patient as a crown
lost by a careless king.
Perhaps it is a compass
for navigating dreams.
Perhaps it is a key
to a door that hasn't been invented yet.
Perhaps it is the missing gear
from the machinery of the moon.
The experts would disagree.
They would hold it beneath fluorescent lights,
consult manuals,
measure angles,
declare with certainty:
"Discarded scrap metal."
But experts are not always qualified
to recognize magic.
Children understand this.
So do poets.
The crow who inspected it
with a sideways eye
seemed impressed.
The wind paused long enough
to turn it over.
Even the sunlight
spent an extra minute
polishing its rust.
I carried it home
in my pocket
like a sacred artifact.
By evening
it had become
a telescope,
a dragon's tooth,
a royal seal,
a fossil from tomorrow.
Marvelous thingamajig,
unknown and unnecessary,
you remind me
that wonder is not found
inside precious things.
Wonder is the strange alchemy
that turns the ordinary
into treasure.
And somewhere beneath the ocean,
a curious girl would smile,
recognizing at once
what the rest of the world
mistook for trash.