Long Patrons Poems
Long Patrons Poems. Below are the most popular long Patrons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Patrons poems by poem length and keyword.
Standing on the avenue under a light, all dressed
up with blood red lips like a piece of braciola
covered in attradtive colored wrappings.
Customers with bright new polished
shopping carts move slowly
looking, wondering
whether the price
is right.
How much will it take to buy that piece of tender
meat they wonder. The street lamp looks
down with the eye of an auctioneer
inspecting the merchandise.
Patrons stop their carts and
hearing the price, they
leave without
buying.
A client with a red shiny cart stops and buys a
young piece of flesh and quickly slides it
by his side. Police with their dull
carts, stroll by watching the line of
customers not wanting to bother
them, for they too have tasted
the fresh vittles from the
corner market.
No man knows the exact day or hour
But charlatans continually preach of an Armageddon stour
Over fallow fields they their abrasive treatises scour
Softening the hard, unyielding ground as a tidy, careful plower
With visions of doomsday they fertile hearts do shower
Their seeds annually spring up as the perennial flower
With self-aggrandizing statements, continually their banal egos empower
Prophesying the cataclysmic end from their ivory tower
Predicting a scourging blight on every shielded bower
With their fleecing mantra distill a warning so dour
Ignorant patrons dispossess themselves of temporal treasures and cower
With presentiments of fearsome events that will this evil world devour
If only they would throw off the yoke of parochial tenets, emboldening discerning spirits with valour
Their hungry hearts would the chaff disperse and process the truthful remnant into a satiating flour
Police will work for the government, not the community.
They will stalk the homeless, be merciless mercenaries, entrepreneur, agents provocateur.
Women will be bought and sold. Even some of the married ones.
Fissures will line the roads from sinkholes and earthquakes. Walking, driving anywhere will be a hazard.
There will be businesses and homeless street business.
Info and dirty deeds, sold.
Cannibal diners will be the nouveau, patrons will be the next course.
Cyborgs, cybernetics and children will learn to be street savvy.
The Hunger Games will be real.
Running Man will be real.
Prostitution will be done in the open.
Haters of Christians will be narks, in charge.
Satanic priests will be their dignitaries and lords.
Everything you do will be tracked.
Groups will be punished
Non Government sanctioned Militias will be outlawed.
They will no longer hide that Google is a government agent.
Bibles will be considered hate speech propaganda.
Poetry will be filtered through the Government, like the News is.
Snow came down hard
Harassing the roadside bar
Taking one more shot
Reminding himself, 'he was hot'
John proceeded to the lavatory
Without any worry
Mirror, he did reflect
No fear of the word 'reject'
Be aware
If you dare
Of the murderous affair
Advice I share
Ventured into the night
Seeking a romantic sight
Reality stated hurtful fight
"Goodbye, my dear knight
Our relationship is dead,"
Wearing the pearls he bought, she said
Be aware
If you dare
Of the murderous affair
Advice I share
Returning to the watering hole
Shivering and cold
Shocking we were told
Seductress commanded the stage
Half anyone's age
Protected inside a cage
Belting out a tune
Loving warmth came back soon
After being swooned
Patrons did say
Heating bill, owner electronically paid
Be aware
If you dare
Of the murderous affair
Advice I share
When the tempting tease was done
She approached the admirer, looking for fun
As for the haunting past outside
Confirming someone had lied
And died
"Those pearls fit you right"
Stranger mentioned, eyes bright
"They are a little tight,"
Informed the songbird, preparing for a deathly fight
Confirming fan, a nut
She kicked them in the butt
Finding a cell
Lonely, I must tell
Be aware
If you dare
Of a murderous affair
Advice I share
The public is invited to
The auction house before
The art is bid on, sold and then
Is carried out the door.
Since I live close, I love to go
To check out the display
And wonder ‘bout the patrons -
All that money they might pay.
I couldn’t really picture
A Picasso on my wall
Next to pictures of my family –
That just wouldn’t work at all.
Plus, some modern pieces, which, to me,
Were boring or bizarre,
Were expected to fetch millions;
Famous painters raise the bar.
Still, I felt so privileged just to see
What private owners hold,
Even though it won’t be me
To whom the auctioneer yells, “Sold!”
Bubbling babbling burbling banter brimming at the bar
First sup.. hush…memory lane trip rush..nicely tickled
Plush lace ebbed…lush beer swirls race webbed
Whirls..down dimpled dappled jar....nicely pickled
Pagans perch….sip druid fluid drip…Iris’s secular church
Trumpet tradition.. beacons blush in embers of the past
Cluttered classy cast of polished pewter..ballsy brass
Whimsy wafting across tobacco tinted tainted times
Parched patrons quaffing while cavorting with crannies
Carousing with nooks sporting timber flannelled panels
As sons then become dad..on the same pews with their lad
Lawyer betwixt a tyro…local employer..bumpkin on the giro
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before
Gracious Landladies…loquacious landlords near and far..
Who let us roam in our home from home we raise our jar
To every special space.. familiar face in that third place..ta
Cat Crimes and Misdemeanors
Five cats came into town in a 57 Chevy
To rob Bank of America with AK-47s
They blew in through the doors with a meow
Demanded attention…now!
No one would pet them
Patrons cringed in fear and fell
This was no ordinary crime
All five were charged with trespassing among other things
And that was just the beginning
Detectives figured out quite quickly
Cats don’t drive old cars, especially kitties
Who have no licenses or opposable thumbs
So they could not pull the triggers
Old widow, Mrs. Peabody, the driver of the Chevy
Took her kittens with her for the drive
A deposit, the only thing on her mind
Thank God it was not a capital or high crime
But she and the cats were fined
Charged with misdemeanors
As for the AK-47s
They were toys strapped to their sides for fun
Cats only meow. They don’t shoot guns
They don't commit crimes
That is, not at this time
She walked into the restaurant and youngsters’ eyes did a stare.
Had probably never seen white go-go-boots or teased up hair.
Short length of her miniskirt is not shocking like it was back in the day.
Circular symmetrical patterns of her pinks and blacks are sixties gay.
She was showing off her outfit when she headed straight my way.
“What do you think?” do I look like you grandma? She stopped to say.
I think you are prettier, I told her. But you look really terrific, for sure.
Her outfit and boots-are-made-for-walking made several patrons purr.
She is dressed like an old grandma! A youngster said, clearly upset.
Her date’s googly eyes showed us that he was not this creature’s pet.
When a gorgeous girl walks into a restaurant, it does not matter.
If she is dressed in an old-fashioned way, or chocolate syrup splatter.
The confidence on my granddaughter made me excited and proud.
She is absolutely ready to take on the world, but in no way loud.
I showed her off around the room and watched the old guys bluff.
They sucked in their guts too, pretending they were also hot stuff.
High above the quiet, darkened streets of January, the night wind begins to whisper secrets through my apartment window casements. Far below me lie four cafes, all in sync as they awaken from daytime hibernation to begin an evening ritual of turning on lights, welcoming thirsty patrons, discouraging lost polar bears, trying to survive.
Light bulbs hang in lazy swags, dripping evenly from the edge of each identical awning. Predictably, their glow travels as fast as the light itself creating a sudden and uninvited interruption of the Arctic desert landscape.
Sitting apart on their respective corners below, the cafes squeeze into a single pane near the bottom of my window. Leaning closer, I blow a hot and intoxicated breath onto the glass in defiance or retaliation, an attempt at immolation perhaps. Instead, my unused air lies wasted across the cafes on the other side of the window, in an irregular oval of futility.
I use a balled-up fist to wipe away the misty scene before it has a chance to evaporate and leave me alone, a desperate and inevitable disappearing act in the face of my curated isolation.
To fave or not to fave, is that the question
Whether ‘tis nobler to remain silent
To hurl faint praise and fortune
Suffer the pangs of outrageous doubt
Or take up arms against a sightless algorithm
And by opposing them. ..To try – to sleep,
No more: amid the angst of glory’s glut
To write, perchance to dream, now there’s the rub
For on that page what words may come
When we have shuffled off this muse’s toil
Must give us pause --- Where’s the respect
That make calamity of so long a write.
For who would bear the whims of AI scorn
Challenge the oppressor’s right or wrong
The pangs of twisted words now on display
The insolence the words themselves convey
The patient merit the unworthy take
With muted words a silenced voice to bare
To grunt and swear at writing’s dreary life
Ominous tomes unread ‘til after death
Discovered on the yellowed pages torn
By heirless patrons puzzling the will
Makes us cherish still the words we have
Than search for others that we know not of
Thus, conscience comes before the coward’s fall
And thus, the furtive pen seeks retribution
“Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought”.
And pages filled with pith and frozen moment
Without regard are read by minds awry
And lose an unsought gain
//My sincerest apology to Shakespeare and his minions//