Long Phone book Poems
Long Phone book Poems. Below are the most popular long Phone book by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Phone book poems by poem length and keyword.
Crime is a real problem in Jamaica
Hundreds are dead, there's no solution to the problem
Even the police are giving up ...the police commissioner has resigned ...sir trust me, no one man can solve this problem...you did your best
In the meantime, we are still counting bodies
We hear the cries but ...no solutions
We only can call on God now
The problem started long before our time, when garrison politics was the order of the day
Few are educated
No real opportunities
The big man distributing guns in the inner city
Young men smoking weed on the corner
Pregnant teenagers
Women selling themselves for a few dollars
No father in the house and our men still believe they should have" gal in a bungle "
Where is the church in all of this? busy talking about the cover of a phone book and nothing on crime ...seriously
We can't win the war on crime until we win the war in the family, we need real role models, we need real men …yes MEN
The truth is until we start teaching our men to be responsible we will never win the war on crime
until it's at our front door before we get serious
When our women stop washing bloody clothing for their gun men son and mate
Yes, we all need to stop accepting bull **** before all this will end
Until then we will continue to count bodies, when will it end, when the society start taking responsibility
The purpose of a phone book
Back when I was very small
Was to raise the height of children
Who were young and not too tall.
The kiddie table sat them first
But then they weren’t part of
The main event of which they hoped
To squeeze into the heart of.
So when their parents gave consent
They joined the grown-up table
Yet being short, to reach their plates
They simply weren’t able.
So phone books to the rescue!
With the slightest little push
A directory was placed beneath
Each toddler’s waiting tush.
The meal went on until those kids
Were bundled off to slumber
And never did we use those books
To find one single number!
The first K-mart
opens its door.
Into space we
start to explore.
Motown Records is born,
It's from the soul.
We have new music,
It's called Rock n Roll.
For luck we carried
A rabbit's foot.
We kept phone numbers
in a phone book.
There were two
keys for the car.
The Barbie doll,
an instant star.
The kids had Bozo
and Howdy Doody.
We saw the first
drive-in movie.
We had I Love Lucy
on the TV.
We had no safe place
for safety.
In real-time we
experienced Beatlemania.
Our information came
from an encyclopedia.
Food stamps for
people in poverty.
Dallas Texas they
assassinated,
John F Kennedy.
We wrote in cursive and
can tell circle time.
We shopped at the
local five and Dime.
We used the first
electronic calculator.
We ate Swansons
frozen TV dinner.
We got our milk
from a milkman.
Our President was
Harry S. Truman.
We heard music
from vinyl LPs.
We had no color
on our TVs.
The government signs
The Southern Manifesto.
Vaccinations begin to stop
the spread of polio.
We had Dick Clark and
American Bandstand.
The papers read,
Say goodbye to Marilyn.
Turbo1904?
When I was a Big Brother
for Jason,
an African-American 10 year old male,
we went into his apartment
so he could look around
for a long overdue library book.
As I accompanied him
from room to sparsely furnished room,
looking in nearly vacant closets,
cupboards,
drawers,
the only book we found
was a phone book,
looking silently neglected
much more than actively abused.
My first white male privileged
feelings about his Mom
had to do with blaming her
for probably not even feeling ashamed
for her irresponsible choices
while economically and politically administering
their bookless house
in this pre-WWW information age.
But, then I began asking questions.
What could Jason tell me
about his Mom's life
when she was his age?
What were stories
familiar to her,
read
or retold
or experienced
and re-experienced,
therapeutic or traumatic?
Through this widening narrative moment
of multigenerational conjecture,
hypothesis,
questioning,
contemplating,
I also learned to question
what traumatic straight white male stories
are experienced by gay
and bisexual
and transsexual 10-year-olds,
regardless of racial identification,
And by 10-year-old girls,
perhaps regardless of racial identification,
or even further amplified
by being doubly,
and silently, outside
straight white patriarchal privilege.
I found myself
suddenly
tearfully
incapable of briefly imagining
much less deeply,
unflinchingly contemplating
the trauma
of growing up poor
and lesbian
and black or brown
or too red
or too yellow
without any books
or stories,
read
or retold
or experienced
about how her 10-year-old life will matter,
could be healthy, someday,
would ever be felt safe,
unless held shamefully silent,
Not appropriate material
for books
or retelling
or experiencing straight
white
male dominant stories,
economic
and political narratives
about retributive trauma
and not multicultural
restorative
democratically inclusive therapy.
In another time, I will not be there for you,
Me, a stranger all but twice your age and a man.
The only one in the sea of all humanity that you could see
To help you keep your sanity
And give you back some faith so you could dare to hope once more.
With courage fading fast,
Your young lady's troubles you laid in the lap of a stranger
And a man all but twice your age.
The desperation in both voice and eyes,
Your faith in me, your last hope standing,
All cried out to me to show some kind of humanity.
With the one who helped get you in this state plotting,
And conspiring with those who gave you life, to pressure you
To desecrate your womb and burden you with all the guilt.
I did the least a stranger and a man all but twice your age could do,
By looking up a phone book to find someone at the local hospital,
With more Knowledge than me,
Someone not a stranger to the needs of a young lady all but half my age,
To better free you from any guilt or shame, no matter what your decision.
I am still glad I was there for you.
But in another time where the soul in humanity,
Will be but a whisper away,
I will not be there for you.
It will be someone with no need to shy away from giving you that
Hug I withheld from you.
I found out later that you still had issues and hope was all but gone.
That hug I withheld from you now an indictment on society in this time
I still weep for you and the hole in humanity.
Oh, lovely darling
I would be all yours...
of your devotion to me
were felt honestly;
we would be
one heart,
one soul...
who is more powerful:
us or destiny?
We should hold hands
and feel our heartbeat:
trust is not built on lies!
Are you looking for a sexy man...
Someone who can get you to Heaven?
I can't give diamond rings:
only the truest heart!
Being beautiful is
an advantage and a curse;
hundreds of guys' names
are listed in your phone book...
they send you likes on Facebook!
I can't give you diamond rings:
only the truest heart;
they charm you with words
that hides honesty...
they are promises
that will fade quickly!
Be wise, hold me tight:
they won't break us apart!
It's sung to my own Musical of " The Truest Heart. "
Quince wads pack gaps in particleboard.
Yellow newspapers underlay linoleum.
The apartment is a nicotine
an atlas of a blotched sky
can be read on the ceiling.
He has a friend that he visits once a week;
she will stand in front of him to masturbate.
Her apartment walls are paper thin. She tells him
that at night her neighbors scratch on them;
she thinks they are writing to her.
Later they go out to a small pub,
sit quietly in a corner
holding hands until closing time.
One day she is not there.
He scans the headlines, obituary columns,
the classified ads --- there is no news.
Weeks pass. Her parents live in Surrey,
he can't find them in the phone book.
He stops looking for the lost.
Us introverted
I had a snack bar I saw myself as the “Main Host”
talking to people being verbose and popular
something I was not patently cut out to be.
On an opening day, I hoped no one would come
and if someone let it be one at a time, no such
luck, many came buying soft drinks and burgers
I smiled and smiled, spoke gibberish and hoped
the customers would leave; haven’t they a home
to go to? Bothering me with natter.
When the café was full, I left the counter hiding
in a corner, wishing I had a Valium.
I looked up in the phone book to see if there
was a club for the insanely shy people could go
there had been such a club, but naturally, no one came
they were lurking outside, thinking
of going in but feared there might be many people
I knew of a man who had a used furniture shop
when customers came, he hid in a wardrobe until
They, thinking the shop was empty; needless to say
he couldn’t pay the rent.
After days of suffering at the hands of my phobia
I got a woman to front the counter while I cooked
and cleaned the dishes.
No, I’m not the “Main Host,” we can’t all become what
we dream of becoming.
100 Years Beyond
David J Walker
And after all
The mirror did not reflect any of the rain
From last Fall
Dryness is the grand prize won at contests of skill
At county fairs
Young girls always find ways to be perfect at something but
Boys don’t seem to care
Today we have scheduled a tour of an antique shop
On the older end of 34th street
Sanitation engineers supply the wares
A friend of a friend knows someone who remembers when
It was a dirt road
Many of the names on the sidewalk shingles are
Familiar and are the same printed in the phone book
On the nicer side of town
100 years ago turns out to be closer than I thought
Which means 100 years from now is almost here
FIRE, FIRE
The house is burning round me,
There’s no time to hang about.
Just enough for me to get
A few essentials out.
First, up to the bathroom
To collect my medications.
To a lifelong hypochondriac,
They’re vital preparations.
Next, the photo albums;
I just can’t let them burn.
My life recorded through a lens,
Through every twist and turn.
The car is parked close to the house;
I’m afraid it might explode.
So I have to find the car keys,
To move it down the road.
My fire insurance policy
Covers such a fate.
I’d better take that with me,
To prove it’s up to date.
I have to take my cell phone;
It’s full if information.
A phone book and a Filofax,
My life’s organisation.
I’ve put my warmest coat on,
Although the weather’s sunny.
Well, my wallet’s in the pocket,
Full of credit cards and money.
And, lastly, my computer,
To keep me in the loop,
And make sure I can enter
This poem in Poetry Soup.