Long Newspapers Poems
Long Newspapers Poems. Below are the most popular long Newspapers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Newspapers poems by poem length and keyword.
Calling Captain Hindsight, where the heck are you?
The table booked for one-fifteen and now it’s ten-past-two,
The waiting staff are anxious, they want me to move on,
Their patience was exhausted as I sat buttering a scone.
I dawdled on arrival though the menu is quite clear,
I fiddled with my glasses whenever waitresses came near,
I nibbled on some poppadoms and slowly sipped my soup
But they’re keen to move this table now, to accommodate a group.
So come in Captain Hindsight, I need you on the line,
Just Tweet a cute emoji if you’re still a friend of mine,
You must be getting hungry, clear your diary, find some foods,
The hosts of countless phone-ins are simply spouting platitudes.
Is it really sensible to let our steelworks close,
Should Boohoo use slave labour to stitch our discount clothes?
Was breaking-up the railways a really mad idea?
Dare we book a holiday for May or June next year?
Reveal yourself on Tik-Tok or maybe Instagram,
This is no time to reject toys or throw them from your pram.
Laying-low is not required they need you on the news
There are many here among us who would gladly steal your shoes.
Just who imagined gantries over motorways were sane
When stranded vehicles occasionally block the left-hand lane?
Should crops be decimated by barbarians hare-coursing
As some tally-up donations from the firms they like endorsing?
The nurses and the warehousemen all need your sound advice
Without this there’s an endless risk they’ll run around like mice.
Public trust in newspapers will ebb away and lapse,
With schisms on the increase we need you to say “Perhaps.”
So please stay in our consciousness - like Robin Hood or Santa
Without your wise opinions, LBC* will lose its banter.
When the bar stools are in use again we shan’t know what to say,
So come back Captain Hindsight, please don’t go away!
* LBC is an English language radio station highly reliant upon telephone calls from its listeners. This poem was first published by Poets Unite Worldwide on 25th September 2021.
Pause a brief moment, stop and think,
now go back in time, back to a time
before cars came along,
back to when you just had radio.
An age when one knew their neighbour
and travel was only as necessary.
The village bobby always knew where to look
and crime was just off the petty kind.
A time without the telly (quite amusing)
when families truly communicated.
No films or programmes putting ideas into heads
increasing the crime rate of much more terrible crimes.
Newspapers telling us what they think we want to hear
intruding into people's private space then,
showing their own distorted view of who we are.
Bringing to our attention all that is happening.
Now we come to the Crux, the heart of things
without these advances, some so miraculous
would we be better off without them?
I leave you, my reader to decide.
In my house,
the women howled like dusk wolves.
But the men —
they sipped tea.
They stayed
quiet.
When my mother cried at midnight,
crushing her own bangles
with bare hands —
my father adjusted the volume
of the news channel.
He didn’t strike her.
He just… didn’t stop her from bleeding.
My brother knew.
He saw her trembling
when doors clicked shut.
But he tied his shoelaces
and went to cricket practice.
Because boys were taught
to win games,
not intervene in grief.
My grandfather,
a man of great wisdom,
wrote long letters on integrity.
But never once
asked his daughter-in-law
if she still had dreams
or just unpaid bills
and blue-black skin.
Even the priest
who blessed our home
saw her wounds
and called them “karma.”
The world loves
a quiet man
more than a screaming woman.
And so, the women burned
like incense —
silently, fragrantly,
forgiveness rising in smoke.
And the men?
They folded newspapers.
Wore clean shirts.
Voted for change.
And kept their names
polished.
No one remembers
the hands that did nothing.
No one accuses
the lips that stayed zipped.
But I remember.
I remember
every man
who stood at the scene
of a woman’s devastation
and blinked —
then looked away.
Because silence,
my darling,
is not innocence.
It is complicity.
It is cowardice
in a tailored suit.
It is the soft glove
over a sharp nail.
It wasn’t the slap
that broke her—
it was the eyes
that saw it,
and didn’t flinch.
The lying newspapers
To vote in Britain is a strange affair
since it is class-based, every class only read
what is of their interest,
doing the best to denigrate the enemies party leaders
but since the owners of newspapers are usually
right-wing the conservative party often wins.
There is an exception the Guardian can at time
the sound left-wing, but then they get cold feet and join
the shrieking of the right.
The popular press also called the gutter press destroy
peoples reputation, say “Corburn” an excellent politician
belonging to the left of the labour party.
What is scary is that working/class readers get influenced
by the constant lies and vote for a party
that is no good for them and the country.
This comes down to lack of education not being able
to read between the line and think independently.
A door made from the haphazard weaving
of wood, rust, and ivy.
Smudged newspapers flap wings
in a heaving wind. Drowned birds
emerge from wet print. Barren condoms
spill to feed the mouths of empty cans.
The garden has no house.
Rubble and verge limn a floor-plan.
Weeds grapple, roots maul concrete.
Black bags regurgitate
bacon rinds.
A boy's found-treasure: a nickel can-opener,
a pen with a lady, whose clothes fall off
when turned upside-down,
a chewed Superman doll.
That night his closed eyes
fly over the city with a half-naked lady.
while a can-opener
slowly opens up adulthood.
every day and a sweet shop
On a plateau in the middle of nowhere, there was
a shop selling chocolate and week-old newspapers
I had no money, but in exchange, the man
accepted a hail of hay, the farmer gave when he
told me to go make my own bed, I had slept with
The milkmaid he had wanted for himself
as the evening gently fell over the desolate landscape
A horse came walking to the sweet shop that
also sell crossword puzzles and mouth harmonicas
It was the owner's transport, and he didn't like to stay
all night, asked me to take the shift, his main
The problem was all the rats that tried to break into his
shop, I could sleep on the kitchen table to avoid
being bitten
Nine, the next morning, he was back riding his steed
Five Fake Calls Koutas
every time the phone rings
every time the phone rings
I answer the phone with dread
no one calls me anymore
nothing but fake calls
My Love Loves to Play a Joke
My wife loves to play a joke
with all the fake call people
talking to them playing them
Until they don’t call
I yell, curse and scream at them
I yell, curse and scream and more
hoping that they will leave all alone
I get so lonely waiting here
for a call from a friend
Fake calls nothing but more fake calls
fake calls nothing but more fake calls
while watching fake news on TV
reading the fake newspapers
Everything is Fake
I wake up to all the fake calls
I wake up all to the fake calls
happy to talk to my fake friends
listening to their great scams
no more fake calls please
After a hazardous trip from a far- off district,
With drooping spirits and waning energy,
I alighted at the station to catch the night train,
My heart besieged by memories of a home, left behind.
Like a drop in the ocean,
I quickly merged with the buzzing crowd.
In the blinking light of platform lamps,
I saw a huge crowd- the young and the old,
With baggage heaped on baggage
Patiently waiting for the arrival of the train.
Soon came the grating voice of the loudspeaker~
“The Rajadhani Express from Delhi to Trivandrum
Scheduled to leave the station by 9 pm
Would be late by one hour’!"
I went cold at the thought of another long wait.
In the sweltering heat of a summer night,
Amid an undulating mass and deafening holler and roar
It would be hell tied there for one more hour.
The cry of babies fell in my ears like the squeal of piglets
Some old women sat on haunches on the floor,
Before some homemade food and snacks,
Spread out on old newspapers and began munching.
Youngsters busied themselves on their cell phones,
Sending missives to their loved ones,
Or chatting with their pals.
I sat away secluded, inhaling the soot and the dust
And looking vacantly at the curl of smoke
From the grumpy looking man’s cigar,
Sitting opposite to me lazily.
When his red falcon eyes fell on me,
My inner voice told me to move away,
And instantly I walked into the ladies’ retiring room,
Regretting once more, being a woman!/em>
To think clearly
What we see in our daily life is like a hastily iPhone photo
Lacking depths and smiles not reaching the eyes
Accept what is written in newspapers and for our political
Based and false information written by those who are
Interest is to convey to us their opinion, which consists
Of their prejudices based on the politics of their leaders.
Independent thinking is a struggle it is so easy to accept
The official thoughts of today, but also to clear one own
Biases like and dislikes.
What I fear can be more difficult is to clear the mind of as
We wash the mind of excess childhood beliefs and since
This endeavour is an impossible task, we must know all
Pinons are tainted; we are influenced by what we read
And of the environment that marked us.
What is maturing?
Is it the car you drive home in and not the gate you wait by?
Is it the movie you’ve rewatched a thousand times
only now realizing the villains were never born bad?
Is it swapping out yellow and pink for white and black?
yellow is fun, pink is cute
the colors and your suit don’t match
Is it reading newspapers instead of story books?
the stories were never real anyway
don’t waste your time on imagination
it’s not going on your résumé
Is it learning when to speak up and when to keep your mouth shut?
it’s called manners, seeming to make them ever so happy
the louder they laugh the lower your head sinks
Is it swallowing the tears you used to let out for a piece of candy?
suffocating, water levels rising
eyes dry, but the river inside is bleeding
Is it deleting contacts from your phone because you no longer have time for them?
lie, you have time; you just don’t have the energy
Is it knowing that nostalgia is the only thing left from your childhood?
Canvases and paintbrushes replacing crayons and glitter
but the canvas is empty, your paintings are no good
because you can’t remember how your old bedroom looked
Is it giving up?
not your efforts, your dreams
you don’t have dreams anymore
only pieces flashing by as you sleep
Is it realizing that there is no living, only surviving?
my laughter is hollow, my smiles aren’t real
for I smile not because I want to but because I must
wanting is a luxury for those who live
But like I said, I am a survivor
and I say this without pride
Because if this is what maturing looks like
I want to be the most childish person alive