Long Memos Poems
Long Memos Poems. Below are the most popular long Memos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Memos poems by poem length and keyword.
“The Dead Life”
(Sleep is the Sister of Death, so I am told)
Wake every morning take a break from death. From the life I live inhaling immortal breath. Uncontrolled vision of lives lived in my head. Most nights are dreamy, some nights are sad.
Fears of our days under lights brightly shining. Return to us in quiet of solemn memos reminding, _ ponderings of undertakings stood above ground. Distant plains amid hasty travels vastly abound.
I’ve drowned many times almost in the same place. Searched for mother who vanished without a trace. I remember this building, vaguely the name of that street. Rippled roads, posing people, infirm ground Beneath my feet.
Of curious consciousness, tis fateful demand whilst I sleep. Wander as a babe in the woods, it’s meaning Lost as sheep.
(If I live the life above in the valley of Death as such, I am doomed to be a restless soul. So far I’ve learnt to not go/turn back it causes the ripples in the road. Keep moving forward. I must remember this upon my return!)
If asked..but no one ever will
What I miss most
I am torn
Is it the champagne of your skin? The silken purity
Or your Love in its rawest most vulnerable desperate clinging clutching beauty
Or is it the avacadoness of your voice?
Your rolling...Har
you spoke my name...over and over
But perhaps it is your avid wandering searching ever learning mind? Did you say HTML...or was it Adobe...or a theoretical mathematical three dimensional formulation of angles and curves...bacon strips or drops theory
Did I love you?
Dropped to knees
Fallen to floor
Pulled over as not to hurt others with my car
You ask for an answer that the entire universe knows all too too well
But somehow...you missed the memo
No one sends memos anymore
Its all group text
and conference calls..and video chattings
Will there be remnant markings in the geologic strata that show the remnants of cell phones and laptops
like Dinasuar bones today...will they say ...they lived in the
Facebookian era...or the twiterian...or instagramian...or the lostmindian
Just saying...we have all gone completely mad and we are soon to be dust from dust...bone from bone
and fast worthy of deep reflective and historical folly
study
I was rushing a project, due at 6,
With a messy top, I couldn’t resist
Arranging trays with photos of my man;
Such thick debris, a whole clean-up began.
A jar of expired tea spilled on my chest
Now, this made me shake off a lunch hour’s rest.
My hands pulled out scarves, lotion, and fake gems
From a drawer filled with old beauty items!
Then, I checked a pile of discs that was needed
Yet my eyes found notes, memos never read.
By 4 pm, job mates helped me wipe out
Heaps of litter, junk mail pouring like spouts.
Oh deadline came while I froze on page 1,
Knowing the boss would demand a rerun!
Sara Kendrick's Today I Accomplished
5/18/2015
Henry’s Rust Bucket
He had managed the steep rise from a valley to his home and sat on the small
stoep. Another koppie towering ahead, he looked straight forward and counted
his blessings. One, by one he wrote a list of thanksgivings, carefully folded the
scraps of paper, then crumbled them up and darted them into a corroded pail of
collection. Always a good shot, it filled. A little water still in the bucket, ink
smudged and ran its course as thoughts nudged each other and the sludge pot
thickened. Soon it was far more full than half empty, the cache of paper-mache
almost burst from its seams. When memos and ‘done it’ notes oozed through a
hole at the bottom, scraped through and lifted his mood and the bucket, Henry
the cooper hardly kept up with the fill. The tub rose and time passed so slowly
that it turned in rebuttal, as the container had been really a scuttle for carbon
and coal, a near enough copy to hold passion and fire. So, elevated and so
imposing it became that it shaded the koppie. ‘Enough is enough’, I must move
on and rise to occasions. Remember the past and the present.’ Thus, he changed
perspective and stood on the bucket. It still had a hole and his steps had gone
rusty, but now he could touch the mountains again. Henry had so much to be
grateful for, even with a half empty bucket, that just one or two ‘post it’s’ would
have surely sufficed. ‘Never late than not ever’ he exclaimed, ‘I must fix the hole
in my bucket, gratitude list will only get me so far’.
Contest New Year 2018 A Better Production
Sponsor Kim Rodriques
Oh! That anguishing moment! When I craved to cry,
And pour my tears, like monsoon rains, on some grass dry;
A bit away, hence, from the madding crowd, I went,
To soothe my grieving heart; give benevolent vent...
A hard hand hit my shoulder and commanding, said:
You're a man! Should not cry! Calm! Courage! Go ahead!
We, in our culture taunt, tease, torture girls, torment,
No shame? Showing off before strangers? You pretend!
Go! Wipe tears Apply talcum on your plastic face!
Lest those around judge you an empty broken vase!
Our girls, hence, tie pains like ghosts in their sari-knot,
Paint their faces with multi-color smiles, a lot.
Children! Gems! Never cry! If cry... Bad boys! Bad girls!
Satan is making home in you! His freedom whirls!
Why do angels crave things, like beggars full of greed?
Why, like dramatic artists - fussy tantrums breed?
God's watching like a hawk! Behave! Be virtuous!
Your movement should be angelic! Care! Courteous!
Yet, deaths, dangers, droughts, floods earthquakes for many years,
Have made us shed, like rain torrents, abundant tears;
All who gently hushed up feelings like shut memos,
Have melt into tears as though from lavas or snows;
Seeing harsh callous actions if we do not cry,
God's creating such rich tears has no purpose high.
Dogs cry. Horses cry. Birds, flies, and reptiles cry too,
Feelings, like dew-drops, fill and fall when we're in woe;
Sentiments secrete like wild streams within our hearts,
Full-fledged; flow like fluent falls; finely flits and flirts;
Stopping these, is, like building dams over rivers,
Wherein - water waves; caves; crashes; ripple-triggers...
Holding tears may be raw romantic! Dramatic!
Yet, its nature is to flow and fall full frantic.
Brain stressed; heartbeat skipped! Breath blocked! Body traumatized!
Muscles, nerves, and blood vessels stiff antagonized;
Nature has ways of venting pain and suffering,
Thwarting this is, just like her freedom plundering.
18 August 2021
This or That, Vol 5 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Out of sight, Out of mind
that's putting it kind
never told never asked
always the one getting bypassed
Parties. events, holidays too
not even invited to the family barbecue
One the process then the black sheep
after that I was treated like a creep
Hello, I am the forgotten child
You know, the one you exiled
never being understood
from childhood to adulthood
never acknowledged never seen
then blamed for everything in between
important events just overlooked
my calendars empty, trust me I looked
Don't know the place
don't know the time
reminding me not whine
families become strangers
when the bonds are endangered
Anything in common how would I know
I only get th memos
being invisible isn't as fun as it seems
super hero powers aren't everyones dreams
I don't know you at all you know me even less
gosh, do you even know my address
why do I try
it just makes me want to cry
isolated even more
as soon as I walk in the door
Sunday phone calls are few nd far between
who knew we gave up that routine
nothing to report nothing to say
family bonds continue to fray
no fighting was hard no arguments made
I should be the one feeling betrayed
I wonder if you feel the same
you all stay. silent nothing to proclaim
Draining my spirit crushing my soul
its nothing I can control
until you acknowledge your part
healing can't start
Behold the abominable annals of the Storm domicile,
A living, groaning edifice of lumber and bureaucratic despair—
Where Allen Storm, the paternal prodigal of procedural pedantry,
Treads upon its creaking floors with the rigor of a misfiled memo,
And Betty Storm, matron of mundane mismanagement,
Douses its sentient walls with detergents of dire discontent,
While young Charles Storm, a cherubic herald of domestic disarray,
Lobs rancid vegetables at its trembling windows in a fit of unreason.
O disconsolate domicile, thou art no mere inert structure,
But a quivering, sulking house of living, loathsome lament—
Its beams and banisters pulse with the bureaucratic heartbeat of neglected archives,
And from its secret cellar, a staccato drip of mislaid paperwork emerges,
Each drop a damning note in the dissonant dirge of decay,
A relentless reminder of a dwelling abused by its custodians.
In a most uncouth and disquieting retort,
The living house retaliates with vile vibratos of revolt:
Its walls emit a stifled, staccato sigh of overripe despair,
As doors creak open like the groaning lament of discarded forms,
And corridors exude a miasma of forgotten memos and administrative regret,
So that the very air around it becomes thick with repugnant, repressed bureaucracy—
A spectacle so discomforting that even the sturdiest sensibilities recoil
In revulsion at the unholy union of living architecture and domestic abuse.
Thus, in the annals of the universe where Vogon verse is vile and void,
The Storm family's treatment of their sentient, suffering house
Breeds an unutterable and visceral reaction in the heart of any unfortunate listener,
A poetic penance of pulsating pain and perturbed paper trails,
That leaves one pondering in nauseous wonder the tragic farce
Of a house that lives—and dies—under the oppressive hand of the Storms.
WHO ARE THESE AMBITOUS MEN
WHO STAND BEFORE ME
ARE THEE THE SAMETHAT TAKES
BARLEY FROM THE FEILDS
AND STORES IT IN THE CAVES
MIGHT THE MEN OF THE FEILDS
SHAVE YOUR BEARDS
TO SHOW YOUR FACES
OR SHALL THE WOMAN
OF EVENING
CAUSE YOU ILL
TO HAVE TRACK OF WHO
YOU'VE BEEN WITH
DO YOUR COUSINS IN FAR AND DISTANT LANDS
UNDERSTAND OUR WAYS
THAT YOU MIGHT SEND TO THEM
THE BARLEY OF OUR FIELDS
TO BRIGHTEN UP THEIR DAYS
DO PEOPLE EAT THE BREADS
FROM OUR BARLEY ON DISTANT
SHORES
SHALL I SEND MEMOS TO
DIFFERENT PLACES
SINCE YOU SEEM TO IGNORE ME
SPEAK THAT I MIGHT
HEAR YOUR LIES
STORIED TO A PERFECT DETAIL
WHERE ARE THE GRAINS FROM MY FIELDS
HAVE YOUR SATANIC PLOTS
PREVAILED
WHO'S SHIPS ARE HARBORED
TO RECEIVE GIFT OF THESE GRAINS
THEN THE CAPTAINS AND THESE SAILORS
CHORE TO DELIVER
THESE IMPORTANT THINGS
I SPEAK YE AS KING
ANSWER MIGHT
I THEN KNOW
SAY TO ME WHAT I ASK
THEN MAYBE I'LL LET YOU KNOW
On one of those old black-and-whites
with Orson "Spendthrift" Welles on board,
and many memos lying ignored,
the studio's money men took fright.
They brought in Stephen "hard man" Fier
to get the budget back in line.
If Orson begged a ball of twine,
he found his invoice scrutineered.
There's no incentive quite like hate.
One night, when craftsmen downed their tools
And wraps were safely wrapped in spools
the great director lingered late,
took brush and paint pot from the shelf
and daubed across one vast white wall,
"We've nothing here to fear at all -
except, that is, for Fier himself."
We never hear our own death knells.
Next day, the words were rubbed out, all.
Someone, in letters six feet tall,
had put, "All's Well that Ends Welles".
Why we'd catered to the foundation of unpopular beliefs beyond what a romance like ours would follow beneath the calmness of people like us the fascinating wonder along the cities shoreline of gut wrenched haste we'd found each other in spite the gathering of hatred bestowed between the lines of a completed manuscript well kelp under my pillow why we'd balanced a certain novel approach to be forgiven if our love affair caused pain the lessons learned the writings on the wall poetically prohibited to love after writing a romantic love affair smothered by the mafia the creativeness the cunniness the sinking values of the old country crawling beyond the olive branches grapevines and lemon trees of tuscany finding me within the cupboards of cedar raw bourbon cigars painting a warm glass of merlot suddenly Italia began to bathe in my sweet nectar of kindness wrapped in nothing but desire hence a quiet find where being a female writer with masculine views why rather frowned upon throughout the twenty first century unless it's displayed on a mahogany mantel where Mann have left torn pages rippled wrapping of memos reminders that a woman could not write masculine binderies playwrites from beyond what's seen what's heard what's felt breaking barriers of what one believes should be allowed only in a sullen thought process the thinking kind the moral findings of patience and thought musing over the masterpiece I craved over labor pains breast feeding and hearing that a woman just can't write organized crime novels to be or not to be charmed by affection yet honored to be a writer