Long Mobiles Poems
Long Mobiles Poems. Below are the most popular long Mobiles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mobiles poems by poem length and keyword.
This monster who doth eat our time
Cares not if it’s yours or mine.
A perfect life you’re tempted with,
That at least we can forgive.
The people look and stare in haste
But think of all the time they waste,
To seek a ‘like’ or ‘emoji’,
It’s sad, I’m sure you will agree.
Children who no longer read
Seek this habit thus to feed.
It takes their life as well as soul,
Surely that’s the monster’s goal.
No longer do we talk at lunch,
It might be me, it’s just a hunch
But tablets, mobiles or laptops
Are why the chatter always stops.
It matters not the poisoned choice
To which you cheerfully rejoice.
The monster feeds on sacrifice,
He never even thinks it twice!
Mankind may well be swept aside
As technology will soon decide,
The fate of all our children’s lives,
We should not let this monster thrive!
The Cape Cod Museum of Art had a show
And we caught it the very last day,
Displaying the various works of Bob Staake
In a can’t-help-but-grin type of way.
If you don’t know his work, you must catch up at once
For each piece is a total delight.
There are mobiles and posters and sculpture galore,
Plus the many kids’ books he did write.
In addition to works, what he really does best
Is to illustrate, so you may find
That his fabulous artwork accompanies, too,
Others’ story books that he designed.
If you read The New Yorker, you won’t be surprised
That his covers have often appeared
And each one is a gem with a sly kind of wit
That is perfectly, charmingly weird.
Luck was shining on us, for the day we were there,
We were in for a most special treat.
Mr. Staake paid a visit and we got to join
An impromptu but sweet meet and greet.
What a wonderful way to be able to share
Your esteem with the one who inspired
So much joy; it was thrilling to let someone know
Face to face just how much he’s admired.
I don’t know about you but I think it right
That kids should eat at the table, most every night.
Sit down with mum, sit down with dad
For these are the best memories you’ll ever have.
There will come a time and it creeps up fast,
When past days are gone, for they never last
When you will wish those days were back
When there is something in your life, you will forever lack.
It had been tradition, it had always been
But today at mealtimes children are never seen
They sit with their takeaways on their lap
Whilst the video games will, their attention sap!
And these days parents are forced to compete
With mobiles phones as their offspring tweet
For conversation at mealtimes may well be lost
And the lack of table manners will be the cost!!
Visited the Whitney*
For the Hoppers – what a treat!
A gathering of works with which
Few artists can compete.
Yet in a separate little room
A different treasure lay –
A film of “Calder’s Circus”
With its figures on display.
For Alexander Calder,
He of mostly-mobiles fame,
Put together, out of wire,
And deserving of acclaim
Every animal and acrobat
That we’d expect to see
At a circus, bringing them to life.
(At least, he did for me.)
With a twinkle in his eye,
He made the dogs and horses prance,
While the trapeze artists flew
And Fanni did her sexy dance.
There’s an elephant and lion
And a strong man and some seals,
Every figure bringing laughter
And how-did-he-do-that squeals.
Though I went to see the Hoppers,
I was thrilled with them, despite
Thinking Calder’s wire circus
Brought to me the most delight.
*The Whitney Museum of Art, Manhattan,
which currently has an Edward Hopper exhibit.
The last train to my destination
Sparsely crowded, seats unoccupied here and there
Its weariness is palpable, even the lights are blinking
A group of commuters remain huddled together
After the day’s hard work they prefer nodding upon each others’ shoulder
The train runs sleepily, now and again lights from outside
Flash upon the saint-like faces of the people inside
The train gradually slows down, presently it’s a stop
The platform receives some home bound bodies, someone
Jumps into the compartment carrying a group of young girls
They are perhaps returning from their school fest
They have revelled much, played and sang and danced
So rightfully they are tired, momentary rings on their mobiles
Are responded to, and then silence again
One of them suddenly opens up her eyes
The obscene nudge in her breast can not be mistaken
Can she protest? Would she…
Her meek eyes show helplessness
The lustful hand strikes again… she sobs…
All of a sudden a slap on the face of the rascal
Reverberates through the compartment, a woman in tattered clothes
Raises her finger to him, she’s one of them who go to the town
To earn their daily bread
Next halt, the girls get down
The blinking back light of the train disappears, leaving a trail of dust
I've never known a fixed address. I love the home we've made for three years in our rental house so I'm sad that it's now up for sale. Last night, I sat in the sunroom thinking of how much I'll miss the joy I feel while in that room.
two walls are all window, one an eastern exposure
the other walls, floor and ceiling are old red, knotty wood
the brick fireplace has a beautifully carved, simple mantel
approximately twenty houseplants on antique stools thrive
on the floor among the plants is a life-sized, carved, wooden swan
many mobiles of either angels or hearts hang from the ceiling
on the mantel sits my collection of antique weather vanes
there are five, mismatched chairs in a semicircle
two spindle leg tables sit among the five chairs
on one table is an imitation antique radio tuned to light rock
in a corner, on a stand we built, is an electric keyboard
on one wall in a case we built, there is a dartboard
and everywhere in the room are memories of good, fulfilling times spent
... CayCay
August 6, 2019
10.
the apparent golden pot that i thought
to be the underneath of a kadam-tree
in the dim light i can notice that
the stars in the sky are disappearing
this session of poetry
is coming to an end
now where would i
go
to that little home
the home
a tiny word of 4 letters
within that home
the children are giggling
playing … and making funs
when i entered
with a tri-cycle in hand
for them
i have been perplexed
many old persons are waiting there
to shake hands with me
11.
almost most of my desires
are very much hurt
to show it publicly
i wrap bandages
around all over my body
i keep on the stage-drama
in our programme of reading poetry
tea is served twice
current has gone off for three times
for four times the mobiles ring
to pick up love
some people think about returning back
from today’s dais to the ancient stage
of performing folk-drama
then they are also sympathetic
to my sufferings
12.
everyday
on my way to return home from the school
when my mom took hold of my hands
i could see in my body
the dancing of an unforgettable
aura
even now that mystical halo is walking
on the leaves of the trees
to fulfil my mornings
that wayfaring along the road
is ringing far and far-off
thus taking bath in every day’s
dust smoke hue and cry
many such love
gradually gets aged
is it true
in the long run
i too
would be the ingredient
of a fairy-tale
just because i love
that paddy field
some time later
she will also become
human
13.
then she will make all of us
join her walking
those inmost feeling
those memories meditations
the loneliness and solitude…
sans the touch of the imagination of
a crater…
a creator…
this blunder…
this socially outcast white …
this type of uneven…
and irrelevance…
sume words
when peep in the mind
i surprise to see that
it’s ten to 2 at night
then in the balcony
my father is crying
he always notices some grave-yard men
in front of him
and sheds tears
The contrast of black and white and bright colors
Are what a baby can see before any of the lovely pastel colors
So I would start with that.
Research proves that developing babies like to see things that move.
Mobiles and twirling glittery items are a must have.
Especially if you want baby to learn to self soothe
And stay in his or her bed a little longer in the morning playing.
Make sure the baby has a firm mattress, and no pillow or extra bedding.
Check the slats in the crib and do a bit of research.
An antique crib might be beautiful, but you do not want baby’s head caught.
Safety first, but color and contrast of black and white for sure.
Make sure there is a cozy rocking chair for Mommy or Daddy also.
There is nothing as wonderful as rocking baby to sleep,
And later cuddling in the rocker while reading your toddler a book.
Soft lights are ideal, nothing florescent. Nothing harsh.
A bookcase and a toy box, also a changing table and handy place for diapers.
You will change things along the way, which is okay. You are the parent.
Make it easy for yourself. That is the key to a successful design.
The throne of the crow
Dominates their subjects below
Scanning each plot of sow
For the murders they can overthrow.
The two withered branches from the tallest trees
Seat the crow and its eyes to see that vast blue sea.
Its vertical stick, oddly a nature of patriarchy.
Long ago, from a time we don’t know
Zeus grew this tree from his seed
And its green leaves flourished
As the sun sat high in the sky.
While the top branch leaves the only reminisce
That of Zeus’ pick.
Magpies, pigeons, and crows
They are his sons and successors of valiant beaux.
But black and brown birds hopping in the yard
Harbouring their sights on the brown dirt
Pulling the earthly worms that Gaia set upon them.
An inflow of peace and happiness
Churns my creative outflow
And a few droplets of invisible snow.
I see their chirps drowned by auto-noised-polluted-mobiles
I hear the silent blissfulness they secrete within my yard of worms.
Cannibal birds, I yield my anger from you
It is these mindless mucks
Who reserve my destructive emotion descended from mother nature herself.
She and her daughters and her sisters and her sons and her twins and her lovers
Lay in their graves of sorrow
From the forced submission of killing machines
Resembling man and his bloody best friend.
She dominated no one but herself
This kindness for weakness
Gripped by the bloody hands of the Man.
They shed this blood of mimic yearly
We shed our ancient blood monthly.
We know this blood naturally
They know this blood brutally.
Sitting in the balcony, I sit blank and stare
Two crows in the tree, some flying in the air
They hop and play without care or worry
I watch them with fancy, don’t know why I feel sorry
They have all the time, and no boss to please
No responsibilities, no bills, no school fees
No one to shout, and no one to blame
Each day for them, it is just the same
They need not be formal, nor wear shoes
They can go just like that, wherever they choose
No train to chase, no mobiles to see, they have no clock
They roam around the wires, caw and mock
Mornings I rush, I don’t want to be late
I see them around — they don’t carry any weight
Of pending work to be done, or loans to be paid
Or my family’s tantrums that never fade
My wife wants more, my child won't hear
I maintain my calm, but deep inside I fear
I look at the crows — they are happy though small
They fly freely in the sky, I worry within the walls
They are black, and not noticed by all
Yet they appear happy and strong, and never fall
They may look dirty, we shoo them away
Carefree are they — they fly without bounds anyway
Maybe tomorrow, one of them won’t come
Everyone looks the same, some other will come
I want that peace — with no burden or name
Just me and the sky, detached from this elusive fame
Sitting in the balcony, I watch blank and stare
The two crows in the tree hop merrily in the air
No worries, no attachments — their lives may not be grand
Yet they are so free… and here I am, an ordinary man
By Suresh Iyer