Long Packets Poems
Long Packets Poems. Below are the most popular long Packets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Packets poems by poem length and keyword.
I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.
The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.
Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.
I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.
Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life
The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.
Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.
Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.
Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free.
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity
Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.
Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.
I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.
Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone.
And nothing for me.
Oh wow. Oh look. Over there. A fish tank is jumping through a hoop. Now that is a sight. How rather remarkable and just how agile. Wish I was young said the ancient log. But all I do is sit here in the forest. Roots exposed to every breeze. Little creatures rely on you for shelter though. Shouted the shrew. Who was scuttling through the leaves after a busy day marketing moss. The tree sighed. It missed being upright. Nose to the winds. And rooted. Not one to dwell on such sadness he turned his attention to the commotion further down his gnarled trunk. It was a party of two legged. Giggling and shouting. Must they be so noisy. To make matters worse they ate from large packets. Took photographs. Then upon leaving left all their packets behind. Why? It would not have been this way in the days of old. Fed up now he began to devise a plan to rise from the woods. He notices a large flock of birds close by. Oi he shouted help. The birds came over immediately. This tree was most revered. And highly respected. They enquired as to how to assist him. To wish he replied that he wished with all his heart to leave this woodland home and float downstream via the lake. The birds squawked noisily discussing how to move such a weight. Then they noticed some rope and picked and pecked till the tree was secure. Then with heavy powerful swoops in synchronized fashion up they went and so did the tree. Nearby the cool waters of the lake greeted the tree with a gentle caress and the flock untied the knots with occasional fish caught. Good for their tea. The tree thanked them with all his might. Then began his journey to where he hoped there would be two legged ones who cared, new friends, and a chance to be upright again. The waterfall in the distance roared. Down went the tree landing upright in a rock pool. And there he remained. Smiling. Occasionally brightly coloured folk pass but no packets though. Just jackets. And little animals made their nests and homes in his sturdy frame. Divined driving dripping drops drink dramatically delivering delicacy. And a little purple frog laughs in a bucket home on a lawn. Haha beads becoming breaded beaches. Hahah organised orangutans officially ordered overtures. Hahaha wastepaper baskets jumping over a finishing line beating the dustpan and brush and the rakes too. Xxxxxx exemplified z z z z z.
Form:
after Gustav Holst
Do you remember when you told me that story
of all the Planets in the sky and how they all
had different jobs and had different people they
were in charge of?
(i)
In the first hour of our road trip, when the first 30
minutes had passed into silence, you said
that Uranus was a magician and he was friends with
all the squirrels and mice and kindly rodents
of the forest. They would climb on his shoulders
or eat pieces of hard, white cheese out of his wrinkled
hands. You said it was Heaven on Earth to be
a rodent in Uranus’s company because as soon
as the cheese ran out, Uranus would open up a little
black book and cast a brand new dairy-oriented spell.
(ii)
We had to take our first pit stop 2 hours into the trip
because you hate eating breakfast right when you wake
up and your stomach was starting to interrupt your
stories. The checkout clerk didn’t laugh at your 9 a.m.
jokes and didn’t even bother to say you’re welcome
after your second, emphatic thank you. When you
closed the car door with all your strength you told
me the story of Mars, the bringer of War and how
he owed you a favor. You would send him in to shake
all the racks of snacks until they fell on the floor,
or to steal all the mustard packets from the roller
grill. I told you that wasn’t fair to the other patrons
and in your infinite kindness, relented and took
a great big sip of your 64 oz frozen soda-pop.
(iii)
The road stretched out before us in a long, black
and yellow runway. 64 ozs later we had to stop
again. It was my turn to drive, which meant it was
your turn to play the music. The sun was hiding
behind the clouds like your little niece behind
your sister’s skirts at family reunions so you played
a few somber, sullen tunes to mimic the day.
An hour into my driving stint the sun grew more
and more confident, daring to peek around the
cumulonimbus skirt and shed a little light for
our humble journey. The music became joyous,
upbeat yet serene. And you: you became
inspired, telling me that Venus, the bringer
of Peace sent the sun to light our way and break
the melancholy landscape into transcendental
scenes, as she had done for you a million times before.
I grew up in Bath in the nineteen nineties
wearing short shorts over tighty whities,
while Bath were champions of English Rugby,
a beautiful city farfetched from ugly.
We played on Stilts and had Yo-Yo's,
skateboards with logo's,
Tamagotchi's, Slinkys and Pogo Sticks,
a string tied to sticks for Diablo tricks.
A lot wobbled, we played Wall Ball,
Smarties packets caused trouble.
Political Correctness didn't exist yet,
we wore Reebok, Fila or Hi-Tec.
We had Roller Skates, later Roller Blades,
out on the concrete in the streets we played,
as there were always lots of parking spaces,
space we used for running races.
We played Bulldogs Charge on repeat,
never stopping for the rain or sleet.
We played Wembley, or Heads, Volleys and Beats,
playing in the street our daily treat.
We played Kirby because kirbs were free,
40 40 in, also called Alien,
front gardens were a great WWF ring,
or we'd hit tennis balls tied to string.
Jumpers for goalposts,
or one and a lamppost,
cheated as we'd peek
playing Hide And Seek.
We played Knock Knock Ginger with its hiding,
or we'd get out our bikes and go riding.
We went Garden Hopping, never stopping,
played in the dark after the suns dropping.
We had Master Systems, Mega Drives or Nintendo's,
but were not reliant on technology inside,
we built Lego stadiums, played Subbuteo,
we collected sticker books, Pog's and trading cards with pride.
There was a fuzziness to Radio and TV,
we'd always sneak a peek at Page 3,
we watched films on VHS, played Cassettes or CD's,
or Conkers when they dropped from trees.
We only had four television channels to be flicking,
Saturday mornings were for Live and Kicking.
Bodger and Badger, The Chuckle Brothers, Rosie and Jim,
but you couldn't beata, bit of Blue Peter,
to Neighbours and Home and Away we tuned in.
When home alone emptied living rooms,
played football inside, 2-a-side,
cleaned up damage with brooms,
when parents got home we lied.
I'm proud I grew up in the nineties in Bath,
we had so much fun, so many laughs.
From no other time and place I'd rather be,
so here's to the nineties in the West Country.
In the beginning there was a lonely word but soon after
there was no room at the meagre hostel for the saviour
Sanguine hopes flash-flooded the sanctuary of hearts
sacrificial blood of Christ awaited to be spilt in vain
Spelt out the message of rusty nails corroding on cross
bones mounted the flesh ready for vanishing memories
Lest we forget Christmas it amounts to summits of wrappers
luxurious gifts opulent indigestion after a vainglorious feast
Reindeer and global delivery services occlude the notion that
taking stock is not about counting presents but reducing the cost
Jesus flashes from i-pads I this and I that please give me more
extra goods additional abundance mince pies and stuffing
Belching and flatulent Tim reaches for his heartburn medication
tastes uppers and downers sniffs white powder on bank cards
His wife smears the makeup she grabbed from under the tree
her new perfume a bountiful offering of disguised scented myrrh
No sense for frank frankinsence as she sniffs expensive fragrances
from benefaction bottle’s decadence and reduces benediction to myth
Gift wrap explodes from the fireplace in the mix of unopened packets
just after Father Christmas has made a lucky escape from the scene
Arson of gluttony self-inflicted suffering self-immolation of sorts
sorts out this unholy communion followed by smouldering mourning
The insurance company refuses to pay as they insist that the couple
had backed the wrong course of action in vile contempt of true faith
They however donate a beautiful bible of careful calligraphy
with gilded ornamentation bound in leather and lather of time
There are no walls standing for wailing when Tim and his spouse
and it remains to be seen whether they might find a mangled manger
To resume business as usual or take refuge in meaning and truth
when the word in the beginning had become a sorry blank canvas
18th November 2018
Contest Christmas Mourning
Sponsor P.S. AWTRY
If you want to see how well your school is doing,
In the conservation stakes,
The race on which the future of the planet,
Could well be decided,
It would do no harm to look at their plans for making use
Of what is in your recycling bins.
Have they asked for your empty yogurt pots?
That could double as paint pots,
Have they asked for any containers for glue they make?
Or do they spend a portion of your fees on single use glue sticks.
Have you donated wood off cuts for the carpentry shop?
To save on trips to the mega stores, to spend mega bucks.
And while they are there buy screws and nails,
While unopened packets gather dust in your garage.
Is the school office full of cardboard furniture?
That is plastic coated and will breed mold when damp
Or did they find a new home for that that wooden table and chairs,
That was lovingly restored in the carpentry shop.
Did that leftover field drain behind your garage go to the tip?
Or did it save the school a few more bucks.
And what about when the clips on the plastic drainpipes broke,
Did your spare ones do the trick?
Is your school on more friendly terms with the sales reps than
Most of the parents?
And could you even count the number of catalogues that come daily,
Through the mail.
Does your school invest in companies that make disinfectants and soaps?
When even school children know that home made products or even honey
Are just as effective in most cases.
Is your school more worried about germs being on anything you donate?
Or the toxic substances on the new stuff that is made in sweat shops,
Where people will die during the process.
When you look in the playground is most of the equipment made of plastic,
Or wood that the community donated and built for free.
Does your school put out newsletters stating how much,
Recycled plastic they use?
Even before it can be re-used with less,
Pollution and savings in energy use.
Now you can tell me,
How your school is preparing for the conservation stakes?
And how much of your money are they using to bet on an outcome,
That will have a positive effect on the planet.
Friends and foes of flesh and bone from me they have flown
A different company I keep in reveries of twilight sleep
When night’s dark blanket does fall, I begin to hear their call
Carriage wheels creak, horses shriek, I look, but dare not speak
Some appear restrained; others seem in good manners untrained
Pale complexions, faces unshaven, countenances dark and graven
Friendly words are not uttered, heavy hearts remain un-fluttered
After a brief admiration I join this motley delegation sans hesitation
Through sleepy streets we ride, through dark alleys we arrive
To our place of gathering - in silence, without any chattering
Far from city lights, under a moonlit sky an owl hoots thrice
As if to wonder, “Are these nocturnal creatures of virtue or vice?”
These ghastly preachers with ominous features invade his lightless
Kingdom with a mysterious mission - in search of freedom,
Perhaps driven by some demon, or for some other unknown reason
The owl has seen enough, so it swiftly flies away with a huff
In a ruinous castle by moonlight lit, at a round table we quietly sit
The ghostly figures each reveal packets from under dusty jackets
On the table they are placed, then with their burning eyes I am faced
This is to be a feast, my hosts are many, but guests there aren`t any
The packets are unwrapped, their curious contents are unmatched:
Flavors of love and hate, horror, and beauty, to devour all is my duty
Some taste sweet, fruits of exotic flavor, I eat; everything I savor
Others brought blood to the table; to swallow this too I must be able
I eat, swallow, devour, my hosts are pleased; suddenly I am seized
By a feeling of heavy heart and head, I enter a dark sleep of the dead
When I wake, in my mouth there’s a strange taste, in my body I ache
But the ghosts` sustenance must be treasured, their feast remembered
Or else I`ll be dismembered, the dark treasures in the woods gathered
Will be retrieved and given to a more worthy soul, for their goal
Is to bring their bitter, bloody honey to feed the mind not the body -
The essence of life distilled by the dead in images and words I was fed
(The Battle for Orgreave Pit)
Cries of Zulu as miners rushed the barricades
Truncheons banging against riot shields
A nation at war with itself
Men of South Yorkshire,
United in the right to defend their pit
Maggie’s the Caesar of capitalism
Her legionnaires bought with 30 pieces of silver
Brought from the four corners of this septic isle
To take away another man’s right.
To destroy his culture, his freedom, his way of life
A democracy of road blocks and strip searches
England for the few
While miners live on Pots of rabbit stew
Demonised by the elected south,
Propaganda their stew.
Orgreave, now a place of forgotten ghosts
And Coal the driver of this great economic power
All gone
Memories, now overwhelmed by the banks and the city
But power is fleeting, a house of cards
For they too have felt the wind of recession
So beware the hurricane, or you too might become extinct
And what Caesar will save you.
Footnote to this poem
This poem is about the Miners’ Strike, June 18th 1984
As a young lad and bizarre as it may seem I played in a 5 a side football match at Orgreave Pit on this day.
My way was blocked by 1000s of miners and a cordon of Police blocking our access with barriers of Riot Shields.
We made our way to the front and asked a Policeman to let us through. To my amazement the cordon opened and we were let through.
Behind us was a surge of Miners all shouting Zulu. It must have been a rallying call, for me it was a magnificent site, a place of community rebellion, a place to be proud of. In response the Police beat their shields with truncheons. The sounds were deafening,
From the sides mounted police horses galloped into the crowd causing miners to fall and split. This was war without guns. The Miners regrouped and the Cry of Zulu saw miners coming over fields and down the lane charging at the barricade of shields, the sounds of the clashes were unbelievable. At the end of the day I was coming home there were coaches of police holding up their wage packets to the window at the remnants of miners now left, a final insult to the miners. None of this was reported at the time.
Verizon router won't connect to internet blues
(alternately titled: ma bell heave hubble
telecommunications gone south).
Best sung courtesy rotten dull liver:red worst
after words which, I gotta quench mine thirst
whereby think Botox lips zipped and pursed
hence impossible linkedin mission Mary Jane
and Buster Brown kisser darn it result socked
hermetically resigned, resealed and cursed.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Atheistic credo fuels (fossil)
jeremiad ordaining undevout
finds me cybersurfing phishing
for poetic effort to tout
March sixth tooth house sand twenty two
presents reasonable rhyming lit writ scout
herewith risk averse longfellow
on his figurative er... route
along information superhighway.
Netizen (generic and garden variety) Cain
not, nor able to don virtualtourist Lausanne
guise, nor Kiev hen twitter among Ukraine
literati earlier today (aforementioned date)
afflicting me courtesy GMO webbed strain
iambic phantom metered node hissing drain
analogous to evaporating Lake Pontchartrain.
Cuz unwitting byte size complicit accessory ghost
haunts micro electronic components machine most
culpable, feasible, n invisible Internet Protocol host
laryngeal mucous phlegm wreaks (think) burnt toast
esophageal acid reflux analogous metaphor, I post
downplaying feeling any reason to rhyme or boast
spun words masterly sharecropped along east coast.
CHORUS:
verse one:
Now, I gotta cure dem rascally misbehavin
data packets between computer blues,
cuz internet fixation yaw truly craven
lobbying scattershot spewing colorful hell raisin
lingo (awk curse) strung expletive epithets
extraordinary Luddite across cyberspace will lose.
verse two:
Hence dial up local kindergartner to troubleshoot
while he/she whistles Mozart's The Magic Flute
or visit nearest zoo to hire nasty, and shortish brute
critical electronic hardware, cuz aye got absolute
zero ability and even less legal tender slangy loot
thus Internet loper feel handicapped as deaf mute
unable to hear auld Donald trumpeting slo vac toot.
junkavore
Sophy’s mom sent her a giant case of “Fun dip” - a thousand packets of sour, fruit-flavored sugar. Is there anything more junkavore a parent can buy a child - well, ok, an 18 year old?
She LOVES them and so does Leong who’s from China where, apparently, you can’t get useless, non-nutritional snacks. The two of them are running around, all sugar hyped with their emo-grape-chemical-lips, sticking out phosphorescent-green-tongues and threatening to tickle everyone with cherry-red-fingers. It has me wondering, should I switch to dentistry?
Our college prep has moved to a new phase - with just 16 days until classes begin. We’re suddenly sleeping-in. It’s nothing we planned or even discussed, it just started happening. We go to sleep around 10pm and sleep until 10am - or later. I think we all subconsciously realized that soon we’ll be back to sleeplessness.
I’m peachy - in a great mindspace - these days. I’m well rested (see above), we’re killing our sophomore prep - even the physics, my period was a nothing, we spent over two hours in Ulta sampling perfumes, I have a new Macbook M2 (see below) and I painted my nails in tropical colors.
The FedEx man rolled up yesterday. “Anyone expecting something?” Anna asked the crowd of roommates attracted by the driver bringing packages to the door, two at a time. No one was expecting anything. Eventually he’d delivered 8, back to school, M2-Macbooks (2 in each color) - one for everyone - from my Grandmère.
If that sounds needlessly ostentatious, then you’re thinking she went to the mall and paid full price, but she probably just traded Tim Cook a half ton of lithium or something - one of her companies mines it - in Chili - I think. But still, my roommates were blagabloo.
I picked a starlight one. An odd thing about the new, flat Macbook-Air design is that you can’t pick it up with one hand - unless you hook it underneath with a long fingernail - what are guys going to do?
.
Slang:
junkavore = someone who eats completely unhealthily
peachy = happy and healthy
blagabloo = ecstatic