Long Newscaster Poems
Long Newscaster Poems. Below are the most popular long Newscaster by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Newscaster poems by poem length and keyword.
How steep is the slope in front of you
that you see it practically impossible to climb?
How wide is this Ocean
which seem insane to cross over?
Brace up, put your mind together
and just imagine the snow falls in June
and Flowers grow black petals.
Imagine Togo experiences Winter
and Red + Yellow gives white.
Imagine a huge Maize Tree
and a tuber of fresh green Apples.
Imagine Pigs with long wings
and a flock of Goats happily swimming.
Imagine standing under the rain
and not getting wet
Imagine hair grows on the palm
and a Cow walking on its Horn
Imagine February having 31 days
and December, just 28.
Imagine cartoon characters becoming real
and rolling 13 in two 6-sided dice.
Imagine the birth of a fluent German speaking Newborn
to an Arab Mum
after just 10 weeks of gestation.
And a 100km bridge, built with rubber
Imagine an innocent virgin
becoming pregnant with Triplets.
who created the new lives through the internet.
Imagine a Man, getting younger with age
and the cat and mouse peacefully coexisting.
Imagine fire, drying out water when they meet
and pepper becoming sweet while glucose becoming bitter.
Imagine the scent of a perfume smelling from a picture
and a Chest X-ray photo showing the intent of the Heart.
Imagine the best newscaster
as a bad stammerer
and the fastest runner
without Limbs.
Imagine the blind from birth
who's able to differentiate between Colours
and a retrograde existence
where Life starts after Death.
Imagine a Dog as the Master
and man as its pet
or a Camel,
passing through the eye of a needle.
Though impossible,
all can be pictured in the mind
which is the starting point of actualizing all forms of reality.
Since 'never' never exists
and St. Never's day isn't imaginable
your huddle then becomes a mere challenge
and in no time, you'll be at the top of the cliff
as you look down, smile and say
"Difficulty isn't impossibility"
The asphalt driveway is blackened over by rain
sand bags lie in the corner of the garage in case water creeps in, some sheep scurry in distant fields
Your elephant eyes are locked on the TV; 55 inches of electronic love
I liked lying under the moonlight on summer nights as moths danced towards the patio light I remind myself in melancholy moods, child please don’t cry, every season changes
Your vehicle’s mileage spans out to El Dorado’s grave and back
The snares of your life keep drumming it’s slower now, consistent patters; the TV is staring back at you copper pennies lie in wait beside your remote control, everything has a place with you
If I could tie a rope around your Will I would direct it towards my family, we are hopeful you will see us, and remember tossing your children in the air, serving crepes every Christmas morning and the brick house you lived in with your wife for more than two decades, a pool of tumbling memories without all the injures, it is ok to feel free, to be a part of a living zoo
thunder rumbles past our yellow one-story apartment, somewhere swans sleep unaware of rain
swaying slowly when you stand, I’m starting to realize God balances us all out
cement like air fills my lungs as the newscaster gets soaked by yet another wave
staring blankly, you blink at the angel food cake on the counter and shuffle on, towards the Rio Grande
bones of drowned years clamber past Nevada, Arizona, all the tumble weed states
falling forward we catch ourselves each day, we shade our eyes from the glaring sun, as the dust gathers below the Grand Canyon
you shuffle in and switch the channel, the trumpets settle in my heart as you ask, how did it go today?
GOODBYE MORNING PERSON
Sit up
Stretch
Yawn
Head quite empty
Woozy
No remembered dreams
Before anything else COFFEE!
It’s the cats and me
Squeaky teeth
Sponge bath or shower
Shave
Nothing profound
Just life
Just plain naked
On the avenue (back of my mind) wheels haven’t started
their daily spin
The weather channel (with its mindless music)
A neighborhood feel – what goes on next door in the
WORLD!
Yes! now it begins
It’s a neighborhood thing
Cannot be helped – it starts
An up-and-down-the-block thing
Mentally I’m out the door
There are streets avenues stores a mall
Something is alive out there
The conviction strangely eases
With the first taste I start to function
And function is what it’s all about
ask any newscaster
Realizing this “function” it eases
There is some ridiculous wholeness some sanity
The night? the dream? unreal!
By noon all is GO!
Another drag-ass day
I am this other person this programmed stiff
The morning person is distant
I do not even want to recall that jelly
Some formula has taken hold
has been in the veins all along
Yes! the VEINS!
There are numbers flowing
Problems with no answers
Problems kicked aside
The “ME” has taken over
Unashamed
Fully astrut
Going down the same uniform avenues
Feeling the same guilt same lust
Same unstoppable drive
Goodbye morning person
A golden brown wooden fence
Made by the hands of my dad
Trimmed dark green bushes
Leaned amongst the borders
Encompassing the many colors
Bright reds, Dark purples
And mellow yellows
And best of all
A small tree
Able to be seen even
From the window
Of my bedroom
Passerby’s usually commented
“What a beautiful garden”
On a city street, outside a bus stop
Beautiful yards were not common
Hot days while my dad watered the garden
I would sit on the porch
With my twin sister
One day a channel 11 newscaster passed by
Asked my dad what he was doing on this hot day
Said watering the flowers and spending time with his daughters
She asked how old we were
Said we were six
Lady then asked us do you ever say anything at the same time
And we replied no
At the same time
This made the newscaster laugh
Fourteen years later
Still reside on that same city street
Same bus passes up and down
Same passerby’s walk the street
No one admires the garden anymore
Passerby’s use our yard as an ashtray
Maybe because it looks like a graveyard
The golden brown wooden fence is not there
Looking outside my bedroom window
I can no longer see the tree
I can no longer see
Bright reds, Dark purples, and mellow yellows
I am stuck seeing dead grass and cigarette buds
So I planted morning glory flowers
Hoping to bring the beauty that was lost
And bring back the unity and love
This yard showed
This yard didn’t always fit the stereotype
My dad didn’t always fit the stereotype
I didn’t always fit the stereotype
And
Neither did my mom or my sister
At around a quarter passed 6AM from the 2nd floor window,
I inhaled a most lovely view. So, I had to exhale and share with you.
My eyes beheld the canopy of blue so clear, pristine, and free of all clouds.
All around, I was enraptured with a view of trees as far as I could see.
Just inside the border of green trees was a rail line and also highway 49.
As I took in this spacious panorama of quiet and tranquility, with poise, I paused. It was a beautiful fence of green, a natural encasement planted by the hand of God. Inside that picturesque blue and green were crop-lands of brown, drying from multiple rains. These fields of future grains of beans and corn lie still, fixed in time, awaiting their turn, as at times, we must.
On an electric line, there sits a black bird that I often see who seems to lite there so faithfully. Breath in this scene
my friends and salivate these moments with me.
As an old TV host used to say to your kids and mine, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood". And as a great newscaster said every night as he signed off, "That's the way it is.....". I hope things are well in your neighborhood, and I pray that things go well for you today. I just wanted to let you know before I go. In my neighborhood, 'That's the way it is on Wednesday,
04/27/22, at 6:57AM.
042622PSCtest, A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
A Life Hit
ThIt was a life hit,
A one after the other:
For first, there was the coma,
And just the idea of it
To struggle with, but then,
Afterwards my eyesight smudged
Spaces, altered them, imposed
Textures, shapes and colors.
This was diagnosed
(A complication from my coma)
As Charles Bonnet syndrome.
Hmmm...
Tough call for an artist —
Already dealing with proliferative
retinopathy, and its dozen laser
eye treatments nearly destroying
all peripheral vision —
Poor fellow, Charles,
Having such a legacy, a hard hit;
It challenged me to need
To learn to draw all over again,
Like a child turning the pages
Of instruction books.
When
I drew portraits, I’d put in three
Eyes and not see it until told.
Actually
There came quite much laughing
At the perceptions from the hit,
Which involve voids in vision —
Something the brain will not
Accept and so it fills in, often
Humorously (I’d say) —
Hmmm...
Funny brain. I’ll never forget
One day, re-learning to draw dogs
And after staring at photos
Of pups for more than an hour,
How I looked up from my sketches
To watch the news,
Only to see every newscaster
And interviewed expert now
Had a long, hairy muzzle
And floppy ears.
Hmmm...
Finally a life hit
That could go with a bucket of
buttered popcorn.
————————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 5/2021
Thanks be to God
This is Bart J. Connell from Channel KVIT NEWS RADIO
Here is the forecast today over in KoKoMo.
It will be raining cats and tigers out of the north.
You might also expect some dog hail and so forth.
I blink my eyes and look at my clock radio.
What is it saying? What about KoKoMo?
Can you repeat that? I ask, hearing just the last part.
Will be raining acorns from the east, said newscaster Bart.
Raining acorns, cats and tigers too? Dog hail? What should I do?
I get dressed quickly, and hunt diligently for my left shoe.
My dog has gotten ahold of it and given it a thorough chew.
There is nothing left of it, which makes me rather blue.
As I get into my car there is a loud plunk on the hood.
I think it must be hail which was as loud as it was good.
But no it is an acorn, and not just one; they come down hard.
They break my windshield which really irritates this bard.
Acorns are pelting me in the head as I head toward the house.
I call that news station and ask to talk to Bart, the louse.
How dare you say it would be raining acorns from the east.
It is hailing acorns here, you lying stupid beast!
Feel lucky, he tells me. The north is having a tiger rain.
They come down and eat people; and that is such a pain.
The cats are running wild, and there is dog hail also.
So when you are driving, I would steer south of KoKoMo.
Freudian Slip --- Insight of Lip --- Dane Ann
Gravestone ---Heart- Mark ---Dane Ann
Gall --- Vexing Vixen --- Dane Ann
Happiness --- Bounteous Bliss ---Dane Ann
Hog Sty --- Power Pen --- Dane Ann
Indigent --- Penniless Pauper --- Dane Ann
Insistent --- Relentless Nagging ---Dane Ann
Jerring ---Heartless Heckler --- Dane Ann
Jovial --- Cheery Chirping --- Dane Ann
Sports Nuts --- Crunchy Food, Poetic Mood For All to Read --- Linda-Marie Bariana
Good Vibrations --- Ghostly Groove --- Catie Lindsey
Last Will and Testament --- Dead Bread ---Catie Lindsey
Fine Wine and Spirits --- Wink and Drink ---Catie Lindsey
Agreement --- Words Concurred --- Dane Ann
Argument --- Quite Quarrel --- Dane Ann
Banter --- Chat Wit --- Dane Ann
Care --- Need Heed --- Dane Ann
Conscience --- Scruple Snooper --- Dane Ann
Detective --- Fact Grinder --- Dane Ann
Ducking --- Waddle Quacking --- Dane Ann
Emotional --- Frazzle Dazzled --- Dane Ann
Ship Mate --- Toy Boat --- HG
Gravestone --- Dead Cert. --- Sean Kelly
Broadcaster --- American Female Newscaster --- Sean Kelly
Cold War --- Battle Against Swine Flu ---Sean Kelly
Silicon Valley --- Cleavage, After Breast Enhancement --- Sean Kelly
Hebrew --- Jewish Tea For Men Only --- Sean Kelly
TIRED CAT
Get home from hell in the metro at six thirty -
He’s at the door to meet me.
Get my boots off as he rubs my legs.
Try to sit down and get some tea, he wants to be fed,
He’s exhausted - lying on the windowsill all day in the sun
Watching the cars go by.
Cat food tin opened, water in the bowl : at last I sit and drink my tea.
Paw-licking, face-washing, ear-kicking, stretching.
Then he wants to pour himself all across my lap
And purr loudly across my ears as he watches tv with me.
He’s bored with no one to talk to him all day.
He stalks slowly round my head , waving a twitching tail in my face,
As the newscaster explains how the two teams
Almost came to blows over a disputed goal,….what goal? Missed it.
Now I’m tea’d and sausage’d, and ready to pick him up:
Psh-wsh-psh -wsh. . . . . pssspsspsspsss. . . . . come to daddy -
He turns his one-eyed side to me and slowly walks to the door:
Forget it buster. . . . . . I want out.
He’ll be out most of the night, running his cat-business,
Then scratch at the window about three in the morning,
And come in and sleep on my bed, exhausted.
This poem is dedicated to Souper Joyce Johnson! “The Greatest Generation” was penned by newscaster Tom Brokaw in 1998 and became a best seller. This generation is defined as people born between 1901 and 1927 who survived the Great Depression and World War II.
The Great Depression
World War II
Multiple epidemics
Assassination of a president
At 80 Joyce picked up her poetic pen
Joining Poetry Soup, way back then
Lifetime of memories and wisdom she shares
Musings from a woman who loves and cares
Surviving life-changing losses
Burying her parents
Losing her beloved husband
And all her siblings
As her century mark approached, a publisher phoned
Seeking to spread the perspectives Joyce owned
“Lifetime Memories in Verse,” a special archive
Joyce’s poems displayed to keep memories alive
History repeats
From past mistakes we learn
Our “Greatest Generation” is disappearing
Tap their wisdom now
*March 9, 2021
For Line Gauthier’s “Poetry as Legacy” Contest