Long Newsworthy Poems
Long Newsworthy Poems. Below are the most popular long Newsworthy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Newsworthy poems by poem length and keyword.
With a peaceful plot
My Big Game betting tickets I got
It seems they have a European divide that has an opinion for three nations that do try
With the American football putting gold and leadership on the stage
This message should be healthy for any age.
According to my results
That still have no faults
The British are selecting the Chiefs
Since their Liverpool Reds had the right beef
On their way to being number one
In matches that have no playoffs and are there for entertaining fun
As for the Italians Inter Milan
Was the prophet able don
As they selected the art of the deal
With a 49er’s meal
Now there was one that took the middle of the road
Since that was what the French know
Metz made the decision with scoring being the priority mission
Their ticket prints out Chiefs/49ers over 54
And if that happens it will be a nice payoff that will head out the door.
Right now, the half time show is on the floor
And ten ten is the score
It seems not to be a bore
But it is moving very quickly fir sure
With the draft coming here soon
This game being played under the moon
is the final seasonal visual NFL shield display
And hopefully one will say
Everything was worth the pay
But as for the British, Italians and French
They are not sitting on the bench
Since their matches are next week
And continue a heavy message they do speak
With a respectable peck on a cheek
In every small village and town
These games keep the peace before things go down
There are skills learned
That will keep one from getting burned
As tonight’s wind blows outside
Keep in mind of this poetic guide
It is not the winner loser that is newsworthy
Maybe the fact that a war is needed instead of someone being apologetic and sorry.
Carry on all you physical entertainers
And hopefully someday a point will be made to all those complainers
Let our lives be lived with much respect
And put in perspective that lucrative check
There is a reason for all this
And aggressive behavior can be missed
Put it in competition where it belongs
And that is indeed a nice thought for any lyric in any song.
Standing there,
are they prisoners
to the surroundings?
Or, are they part of
the surroundings
themselves?
Toned, muscular
they’ve become nature’s
fastest, as man adopts them
for sport, for pleasure, for hunt.
Some, being
purebred, set records,
become newsworthy, or
even the odds on favorites.
While others, still beautiful
become destined for work
or become glue for
childrens
use.
In respect,
the horse of
today is the very
same horse of the
past and remains
the horse of
tomorrow,
God’s
gift
on
4
legs!
Predator drone recording:- 6.00am
The dawn sky dramatic
Multi-coloured in rainbow array
Mutating flares of crimson reds
One portent Wednesday.
Overhead the predator drone motionless
Metallic silver it's planed wings
and tip pointed nose
Alarming to view it's presence
Though reassuring to see it remain
As alien activity increases
In newsworthy reports of the same
Covert surveillance monitoring
Is commonly known
Also equipped with combative technology
Has this futuristic drone
The troubled nations looked skywards
From parliament offices, homes and schools
No communication has been received or ventured
As a stalemate seems to prevail
At 6.30 pm on Thursday
A bombardment of ferocious intensity
Annihilated a mountain range
Within 30 seconds as dust cleared
The landscape now had changed
Once where there were mountains
Only a rising mushroom cloud
Panic was endemic
As satellite news worldwide spread.
Communities in the vicinity
Had collapsing buildings
and the people laying injured or dead.
Countless areas were targeted
Cities razed to the ground
People as headless chickens
Madness crazed were hunted down.
Total annihilation of the human race
Was the aliens only goal
Governments faltered and fell
Young destined to never grow old.
The authoritarian levels of society
In bunkers down did go
As the skyscrapers monopolise
stood as gravestones over the
crowded inhabitants below.
No help could be alerted
from the defence forces,
ambulance or police
People decided to die in their homes
With loved ones silent in their grief
The old order had been toppled
No-one could envisage the end
Then, Monday at 5.00 am
An ear piercing whistling
continued without restrain
Ear drums were shattered
No-one could withstand the pain
Making everyone left suicidal
that was the alien's game.
They entered the Earth's stratosphere
at midnight on Saturday
But there was no human civilisation
No-one left to positively say.
Escaping from the wintry plight
Fearless knight
Having golden locks
With a physique like a rock
Walked up and down the mountainous block
In the village filled with sweets
And treats
Back at the romantic villa
A few miles up the hill-a
Mrs. Knight was petting her coyote companion
While spending a moment getting tannin
“Hubby looking around
This quaint enchanted town
Something to bring back home
To me resting all alone
After performing that physical feat
Due to melting snow from summer heat”
Tending to his well groom locks
Plenty time on the clock
Still on a hero stage
Preparing to put name on the newspaper page
Going into the office named “The Traitor Post”
Easy conversation expecting to coast
Probably receive a kind professional toast
Sitting there was the Editor acting the role called a host
“Le Claire is my name
Sensationalism is my game
I will take your account
Whatever it is about
Make the paperboys scream and shout
Headlines blaring
Information worth sharing
All of which has meaning
Newsworthy and beaming
Never considered just dreaming
As the knight explained his story
Where the avalanche was sorry
Feeling like number one
Doing the interview was quite fun
Mrs. Knight on the other hand
Watched the frozen ice stand
Far away taking out the garbage cans
Wondering if the warming trend
Will make the watery based particle bend
And send
Down the slopes
Giving everyone no hope
Seeing her coyote inside
Ready to guide
Waiting for her groom
Returning under the moon
Walking at night
Faithful husband and knight
Stopped by the Indian Trinket store
Encountered a lovely seller on the floor
Needing excitement since she was bored
Knight still had power
Leaving a flower
Near her working computer tower
Next to a signed photo
Showing the knight shirtless and bolder
Before heading outside where it was colder
Vexation seeps through sighs
As the pen finds comfort
Sharing the same story
Nonsensical pretty boys
With smoke cloud habits
And bloodshot ponderings
Vaunting on their
Newsworthy delinquency
With incessant metal bar consequences
Promulgating in the same breath
they’re gaining
New ground
Breaking the cleanse
Of poisoning
Their liver
And feeling the linear
Coldness of a countertop
On their nose
With a half glass of water
In a ring of loneliness
On their nightstand
The gulp of insomnia
Rudely digs its hook of candidness
In your empathic being
Melodramatic memories
Of empty dinner table
Upbringings
Spending school nights
Placing cigarettes
In plastic bottles
With front porch
Heart to hearts
With their second self
Pulling the sleeves
Of sweatshirts once borrowed
Over tattooed knuckles
Shivering against the disbelief
That loyalty in this town
Is only face to face
Rehashing
first heartbreaks
With the outlook
That mistrust follows
Demons
That look just like you
The way you
Introduce yourself
With skintight beliefs
Low cut distractions
Met with
Amorous disposition
Abrade their thoughts
Of you from tantalizing
To discomfiture
And their ears
Can’t handle
Opprobrium especially from their friends
When you would
Put fingers
In yours like an obstinate child
Just to keep
Looking at them
With oblivious blissful daydreams
Even if you were
Stumbling drunk
Out of their broken front door the night before
After learning
They sent flowers to someone else
Like a man with his paramour
Leaving your existence
In a blighted state
Surrounded by empty walls
For
They
Took it all
But don’t worry
The guilt of breaking your heart
Is easier for them to swallow
Than the nausea
Traveling up their throat
With the spew of your adoration
Who decides what historical events adorn
textbooks students read,
hence a starry notion born
grew up while
this lumpenproletariat day dreaming,
Asian aw shucks husky
husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer
barnstorming across
expansive fields of baby
(barely) barley corn
crib bed crop 'pon harvest time,
(an maize zing genre), especially
when enriched with humus
laden loamy muck cob bra,
then aye delightfully
trumpet from dehorn
of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me
saluting rank and file fool's capped
fecund fashioned earthborn
dunce sing tassels,
versus growing seasons gone by,
when draught of ideas forlorn
despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn
high and dry reap peat head paltry yield,
asper when this strapping chap
a sweaty backed greenhorn
pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil
omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy"
posterity sagas deeming
shenanigans of highborn
and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn
noble folks,
who grease palms of industrialists,
whose quaking self importance
thwarts aside rural cosseted
krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n
how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie
helping determine
zero absolute value of newborn
fated to slave away
till body electric outworn,
yet paradigm shift of
(butter late then ever)
jiffy popcorn version
sown by seeds of Jethro Tull,
whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn
agricultural revolution took root,
whence before long some did scorn
and lamented machinations
ordered simple existence ripped and torn,
where antithetical views suppressed
and unto revolutionaries
became legion and well-worn.
LEAST WE FORGET THE GIRLS’ KILLING CRY
(Apropos The Boko Haram Girls)
i
We no longer hear
the screams of the young girls
nor the whimpering
of their little brothers—
nor the echoes of falling tears
of grieving widowed mothers
and the muffled hush, hush, hush
to new born babes.
How much longer
must we awake
to another morning
we wished we never lived to see?
Mornings where
the horizon’s plains
are dotted with earthen keloids
of humpbacked graves
in overpopulated makeshift cemeteries
where food crops once grew.
Horizons reminiscent of
the screaming echoes animating
from departing Middle Passage ships.
ii
How much longer
must we experience nights
of damned deranged dads—brothers
roaming, ravaging, raping
sisters and slitting mothers’ throats;
damned deranged dads—brothers
driven by a demonized illusion
of the Nile goddess of fertility;
intoxicating themselves
with chalices of their families’ blood?
How much longer?!!!
How much longer
must our daughters remain
forgotten victims
Of those who’ve lost the free
in freedom—like those who’ve sold the in
in independence—lackeys
to and of ancient slave masters
who’ve learned well
the western ways of deception?
iii
Unmoved and no longer
grievously concerned,
the world mesmerizes itself
with a deceived sacrilege image
of a revered Nile goddess.
Meanwhile, defiled bodies
of African girls
are no longer newsworthy…
these wretched of the earth sisters
continue to suffer ethnocentric
rape and gendercide: perpetuations
of free roaming…hoodwinked brethren,
inebriated with neo-colonial genocide.
While Up And Adrift In Cloud 9...
Reprieve from damp,
and rainy, or sultry weather,
I schlepped a
light weight Shaker
made folding chair
out upon Jim Baker
Nabor's green acre
and once enthroned
as a " FAKE FAKIR"
in rubberized web
bing (seam ming lee
lapis lazuli trimmed),
this body of mine
lapsed into Quaker
state averse to focus attention,
gnome hatter eyes fixedly glute
to the pages, sans
newsworthy printed material,
to apprise and jute
keeping me astute
with major local and global
journalistic burning hotspots
whatsapp pining (the
most recent issue Newt
about Gingrich commendable
TIME magazine), boot
with rather light
breeze tolerably blowing
temperate, moderate air currents
enveloping this here ole coot,
who aint got Hoot
tee and the Blowfish, nor toot
from no mo' magic flute,
thus by natural
dint cocked mean
looking head (you figure out
which one) between
the devil and the
deep blue seas tureen,
which gaze extended clean
skyward to cerulean vault
populated with strunk
and white tufts
in stark contrast did lean
in to the verdant rich green
sward abuzz within
invisible micro ecosystems
niched and stitched by Jean
E. Huss flora Dean
and endearing fauna
minted quartered gene,
which hubbub of variegated
organisms sound
accompanied motley crue
of each scudding soundcloud
shape shifting bill
low whee near weightless
(cottony ma their) keen
stern preachily mass stir,
then puff (like
a magic dragon),
no more easily seen.
Good news
grows healthy outward actions
from inward integrity attractions.
Pathological propaganda,
fake news,
grows conspiracies
and black magic outside my door,
From unconscious accidents of ignorant mistrust
and deliberately mendacious distrust.
Good news plantings,
waterings,
fertilizing outcomes
harvest polycultures of healthy wisdom--
more good hope-filled news.
Fake news evermore outgrows paranoid
fake absence of historic news,
lack of weed discernment,
drought of PositivEnergy,
toxic salt and bleach
build sick subclimates,
monocultural worship
desecrating MotherEarth's healthy karmic grace
with more red Ego Outrage,
anthro-centric bad win/lose business
trending toward lose/lose
absence of secular LeftTruth
and sacred RightBeauty
gospels.
For example,
Today, in the USA,
declares FakeNews Incorporated,
Donald John saved everybody
in the whole world
from the horrors of Green EcoTherapeutic Cooperatives
restoring Health/Wealth News--
Positive organic energy
devaluing derision of evermore deflating
FakeNews competitions for market share.
Yes,
that,
AND Donald John saved no one
currently living on RealTime PlanetEarth
with contagious bliss of more Integrity
through RightBrain ego entertainments
observing adrenaline-soaked
over-heated competing subclimates
of pathological Fake Busyness
pushing nothing healthy--
merely more WinLose
trending toward LoseLose devolution,
counter-revolutionary absence of anything
PositivEnergy newsworthy.
Gospel narratives
grow healthy multicultural salvific actions
from Left with Right integrity attractions.
They were Hollywood farmed; the girls, the pink and blond feathers-
shoes on their heads, but when they began to give birth to human
chickens there was a national outcry. Cops cordoned off each home
where an avian pregnancy had occurred. A comprehensive
government birth control program had fallen short;
the girls had mated, but with what?
The chicks (we called them chicks), were hairless, not bald, feathers
as thin as needles grew from their heads, but the skin was plucked
as if some evolutionary edict had demanded they be retail-ready.
The off-spring were quickly taken away for cold-storage.
Within hours each young mother had been represented by agents.
Legal teams coalesced around bewildered families. They were told
to say nothing, sign nothing, promise nothing, but they did.
The girls began to talk.
None of them could recall having strange sex. They social networked,
argued, trash talked, became best friends forever. Giggled on
‘Late Night’ talk shows. They composed lists of their favorite things. A
chorus of tweets became raucous.
The unusual births were sporadic, incidences became less, soon there
were no more reports. The media moved on. The girls struggled
to stay newsworthy, were medicated with drugs manufactured
by masked workers. Gradually they began to shop in small groups again.
Their behavior closely watched by celebrity therapists and
ornithologists.
The girls kept their shoes in designer shopping bags and on their feet.
When asked why they had once placed shoes on their head,
they would run away clucking hysterically.