Long Packaging Poems
Long Packaging Poems. Below are the most popular long Packaging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Packaging poems by poem length and keyword.
Is a diary entry 'poetry' per se?
What if it touches engaging the soul
peeling back layers of raw hidden emotion?
What if it bares sharing innermost secrets ~
what if it articulates heart to heart?
Sometimes we'll just blurt out our feelings
avoiding the fancy frivolous packaging
spilling the beans it's not always pretty.
We just say it like it is
black on white unfiltered uncensored
words spewing out without grace or flair
just getting the load off our chest.
So... are diary entries 'poetry'?
Yes if you want them to be
Yes when they go beyond the mundane
Yes when they pull at your heartstrings
in any way you choose ~
Lineku: 3 stanzas of 5-7-5 lines ~ every line either 5 or 7 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
My winter begins right at the end of August
Just as the school kids are heading back to school!
Shops start to display their seasonal range and the decorations go up
Christmas cards depicting wintery scenes and snowmen
Gift boxes piled high with ‘useful gadgets’ that you never realised you needed
Basically it’s same tat you had last year but in different packaging!
Rows of seasonal jumpers; the Rudolph ones have a red flashing nose …
You can’t wash the darn thing because of the batteries
so they really are ‘Christmas jumpers’, as you can’t wear them again
Mince pies that have a best before date of 16th October 2017
My winter goes on right up until 26th December
It is then that the Easter eggs go on display!
11-30-17
They were accounted for,
officially dead at least,
but the sickening fact was
that large numbers of the dead
had gone missing.
Occasionally, still pinging cellphones
were found in Hades, Purgatory, and
other Bardo states.
Olympus was still drunkenly silent,
as were almost all of the seven heavens.
In nirvana,
the footwear of some of the deceased,
had been left in a pile awaiting a divine fire.
The missing had presumably
transported themselves
to some less boneheaded ideas
of the afterlife.
Eventually, God pronounced.
“Right” he said, “right, okay,
this is a sales glitch really. We’re just not
packaging death attractively enough”.
However the missing dead never returned,
having found their own way
out of all that craziness.
I was ten
And SHE was eleven
And the other was already gone long ago
But now we get happiness
Bad habits follow
Bad actions
Bad moods
Unprepared parents make
Untempered tantrums
The medicine is killing me
Why can’t I take control
Anger and Pain
Pain and Anger
A room filled with trash
But it's MY TRASH
MINE
Sometimes in healing
We cast our pain
On the people we love
Moms got medicine
She cries for yelling
I don't care
I don't care
Time to see the therapist
I HATE THIS
I hate this
It doesn’t even work
Why did you steal?
I don’t know
I don't even remember picking that up
School is tiring
I know what I a supposed to do
But nobody sees me anyway
That girl sees me.
I don't like it
She sees me and is rude
All the other kids get yelled at for moving
I left in the middle of class
Nobody noticed when I got back
Why do homework
It doesn't matter
Nobody looks at these grades
Why keep comics
If you can't read them
I don't understand why the packaging is important
I see that you are angry
I don't see how moving a book
From one corner to another
Is Stealing
But ok
Form:
Clive’s wife is out of town for the evening
so he doesn’t have a second to lose
Feeling his excitement rising
he nervously places his first order
The late night courier delivers a huge box
Clive frantically rips off the packaging
to reveal ...
Six inch stiletto’s -
in flamingo pink patent leather
Clive moans in sheer ecstasy
As he squeezes his hirsuit size 13 feet
into sexy shiny shoes
Slipping into a shimmering sequinned dress
he applies theatrical makeup
which hides his five o’clock shadow
a platinum blonde wig completes the look
Clives transformation to Tallulah is finally complete!
Night Shoes Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Slausin
5/15/19
My dumbwaiter thoughts circle
beyond dumb tongue,
nummed by the enigma of autistic brilliance.
Now that I only see in infrared spectometry.
If I am eclipsed by the pre morrows dusk,
the impending vise, gripped in your sojourn.
What do I be, what is left of my journey done.
A flaccoid doll left out in your storm
in your subduing gauntlet thrown,
Queen of the Stormborn,
Rider of Dragons, come.
What then is the cast of shadows for,
the White Walkers of the North?
While you dance in my marrow
as unattainable scorn.
To have your cold-snap lull me to death
and jar me back to life.
A tempered oscillator of hapless bulwark,
a still-born of your broken water
left in the care of the Angels
and whisked to God's Holy Throne.
In my delusions of warped moonbeams projecting phantasms upon my minds fantastical means.
Who takes care in the packaging,
in the warning labels in the free falls
into livewire nets or none at all.
To be but a pilfered statue in Life's Adventure of you.
Where do damaged wings go for the impossible mend.
Where does the haughty breath go of endless debris blowing winds.
I am but screaming in digital,
the dark spectrum of light at rainbows end.
‘Taties and carrots and onions
All have their own natural skin
So why do most of the suppliers
Use plastic bags to pack them in,
Either the fragile brittle type
That bursts all over the floor
Or the stretchy greasy oily sort
That resist for evermore,
Evading each attempt until
They grudgingly finally split
Just before the onset of
A near fatal apoplectic fit.
Meat is sold in indestructible packs
With film top supposedly able to peel
But unfortunately all seem to have
An equally indestructible seal.
The advent of plastic packaging
Has become one of the banes of life
Normally requiring heated resort
To hacking with scissors or knife.
Are they super human, these designers
Or is each just a malicious little rat
Extracting satisfaction from inventing
Such useless products as that
They say us oldies don’t recycle
They don’t seem to understand
In our younger days we didn’t
Contaminate many acres of land.
We took our own shopping bags
Used paper and glass to pack
Bought our milk in bottles
And sent all the empties back
If there is an after life I hope
It is made unavoidably obligatory
That every packaging designer
Suffer eons in purgatory,
And in the cause of justice those
Whose lives they’ve made so drear
Be allowed to sit and watch and,
Maybe, cheer and shout and jeer.
Food packaging was once simple.
Ketchup came in a glass bottle
with a small cap that you unscrew.
Now we have plastic package new.
Man’s cleverness comes to the fore
to give ketchup a novel pour.
What clever gadgets we are sold
but there are details we’re not told.
Just the right squeeze is critical
from plastic bottle flexible.
Now if it’s straight out of the fridge
you must squeeze hard to get a squidge.
Then it should be allowed to breathe,
inhaling just from underneath.
But if you overlook this part
the next squeeze with a splat will start
and all around receive a share
as bright red splatters everywhere.
So next time with plastic ketchup
give it breathing time to catch up.
8/18/17
Put on a camo hat
Then checked each and every trap
And reset them, so there could be another catch
Been wearing a mask
To take care of the task
It's tedious, and helps being apt
Had to use gloves
And trudge
With a shoulder strap that falls off often or rubs
Held the atomiser tighter and lifted it up above
Near a wall of shrubs
The mask was to prevent what I was using, from getting into my lungs
And the gloves were to keep it off my skin, because
It could be harmful, since the packaging said it was
Don't need to be world renowned
I wasn't going to mess around
Just wanted to hold it down
And make my family proud
Instead of being a clown
The current labor
Involved the use of a generator
Across the span of a few acres
Wasn't going to ignore
Used extension cords
When the weather was cool or warm
Had to work with a hose
And stay composed
Not sticking out my nose
Focused on the bigger picture
Got covered in stickers
AKA hitchhikers
Worked with pliers
Near and far from telephone wires
With my hands
Followed through on plans
No need for a helping hand
Stepping up to the plate, being a man
Otherwise I'd be damned
Used my brain
Across any terrain
Instead of letting it all go down the drain
A fan of dunkles
Dug tunnels
And pits with shovels
Keeping out of trouble
Using my mind, knuckles
And muscle
Sticking to the hustle
On the double
When I read
that we are all sculpted
upon his image
the first imprint appeared in front of my cognition
is that one of the parts sliding down the conveyor belt
just like at Fiat's
little pieces dropping in paper boxes
warily inspected
obsessively revised
senselessly omitted
from with white gloves wrapped hands
among those nude paper covers
suddenly your path doesn't seem so mysterious anymore
it's circular
and there we are
circularly crossing over your first creatures hands
with their perfectly white gloves
they were the first one
they should have been left the first one
but you just had that need to prolong the game
and implement some new rules
expecting that products will behave
according to the implemented protocols
and your workers will hold their hands white
then
an apple occurred
some overdriven laborer
dropped it from his lunch box
onto that moving rubber platform
and everything went wrong
one hands turned black
other white hands in desire to maintain themselves clear
withdrawn from that rubber
leaving parts unsupervised
and boxes exposed to putrefaction
due to a single touch
some good parts are falling before they even reached the boxes
other good ones became damaged by the fall
or are dropped in incorrect packaging
some malfactured one's reach the boxes
and are sent side by side with good ones
everyone knows
what happens when mildewed wall leans on the dry one
knowing that our price is devaluing
according to the decay stage
you keep amusing yourself
deliberately pushing from time to time
that wrong button
just to remind us
how we are
easily corrupted goods