Long Phoning Poems
Long Phoning Poems. Below are the most popular long Phoning by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Phoning poems by poem length and keyword.
It is very dark and cold,
How had I ended up on this desolate road?
I still remembered packing my bags,
I wanted to go home.
Now I am standing here alone,
Waiting for someone to give me a ride,
Why does every car pass me by?
And where is my phone?
I still remembered phoning home,
Talking to mum and dad,
Telling them, I will come home.
He does not want to stop with his affairs.
What am I doing on this road?
Why am I getting so very cold?
My head is throbbing very severe,
My heart is beating very slowly.
Why could nobody see me out here?
I am standing in the middle of the road,
With a heavy suitcase in my hand,
They can obviously see I am stranded
Why could I not remember what happened?
After he enters the room.
Finding me packing my suitcase,
Telling him I am leaving.
I remembered he turned around, exiting the room.
All I heard was a big bang and screaming.
What happened then?
I cannot remember anything.
Mum and dad must be worried,
Wondering where I am.
I want to go home,
I don't want to be on this road alone
What are all these people doing out here?
Ambulance and police cars, looking for something.
Why don’t they see me?
Please I want to go home.
Mum, Dad, why are you here?
Not seeing me standing in front of you?
Why are you two screaming and crying?
Whose body are they carrying?
Did they find it here, on this desolate road?
Mum, dad I am here!
I want to go home.
A land-line is off its hook,
the dreamless are phoning me.
The line is dead and useless,
my dreams are often troubled by useless things.
Like when I found a kitten in the woods
and it died while I drove to the shelter.
It would have died anyway, just not in the snow,
my intervention was just another path
to its end.
Another voice not sunk enough to be silent.
And now here are my dead friends calling me
from party colored sets,
and I am driving the dead uselessly
across some finish line I can never reach.
I want a turntable, I miss the revolutions,
a label slowly spinning around
at 33 rpm, slow enough to read,
or seen from the bottom of a whisky glass.
An empty line hums on
static or white noise – who can say?
If I could ferry them all over
to where there is shelter I would.
“The Visitors”
They hide,
because arrival
is not a flashing “Welcome” sign;
they remain compartmentilised.
what fits best for their safety?
remain hidden,
small and invisible;
sound like a magnet
sent to them, personalised
on a golden disc by the lower world
first drew them in;
the message
was received
just like this.
the sender,
they sensed
not so friendly.
they still tune in daily
they watch, they wait,
they listen, they never speak;
it seems like an eternity, yet,
nothing will deter them,
they are drawn into the Others
like a favoured home coming.
they are on their own
arriving in a strange world,
their entrance ignored masterfully
while the sender, hungry monsters
are consumed, lost
in their brain-sucking technology
too busy to understand
the approaching golden thrones
of other gods;
there are those
without provocation
who would shoot them down,
without them
even ushering a word -
ignoring their word, like an alien world
borders
are well and truly
crossed.
the visitors arrive
silently, most powerful
realing in those that matter most,
the prophesized left-overs;
the gods
are phoning home, it's been aeons,
they are on their call-back mission.
the natives
they sense,
not so friendly;
from above, they observe
there is much division
in the underworld
amongst the demons.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
reeling/realing.
It took fifty-seven paces to the end of the track
But for some strange reason, only fifty-six back.
I tried it again, for something to do
While constantly phoning for breakdown rescue.
The ants were enormous, the grasshoppers blue
Inside of their wings only showed when they flew.
Thistles and lavender, cornflowers too,
But mostly just tarmac, a magnificent view.
Of the village below, a distant haze
Whilst here on the hill, we’ve been waiting for days.
Well that’s how it seems here in the heat,
A broken down car, my life at my feet;
Two tents and three cases
A bag full of shoes,
Four roll mats, gas cooker
And a map of Toulouse.
Wet suits and sun hats
A blow-up canoe,
Cool box and sun cream
A deck chair or two.
There are pillows for night time
A towel for the beach,
Two picnic rugs
And a goodie bag each.
“You can take what you like,
if it fits in the boot”
I spy a small gap
And fill it with loot.
The back seat is clear
Tunnel’s booked for tonight
We’re off and our hols
And we’re travelling light.
Tables are Covid-full.
Some have had it. Some have it.
Some are carrying it.
Some are vaccinated. Others are not.
Masks are down because this is the cafeteria.
All are eating, conversing, putting droplets onto tables.
My mask is up. I am a lot older. I am trying not to get this.
Covid is up five hundred percent in two weeks where I live.
Some students have been quarantined.
A few have been quarantined twice.
Parents are phoning us, irritated their children have been sent home.
School nurses are depressed, ready to quit.
I watch it all in awe and amazement.
We eradicated the smallpox, measles and mumps.
Everybody got vaccinated.
People were more concerned about others than their “rights”.
I dread phoning businesses,
I dread phoning the store.
No real people answer.
Those days are no more.
Press one for English,
two for French, if you please.
No real human contact
for my queries to ease.
Press three for your balance.
Press four to complain.
Press five to start over.
These calls are a pain.
I pay more for my cable
than seems really fair
but I like that when I call
there are real people there.
My biggest pet peeve
is when the automated voice
calls me at my home
then gives me the choice,
press one for English,
two for French, if you please.
Press four and we'll connect you
with telemarketers overseas.
Automated phone calls
are as annoying as hell.
I just hate what has happened
to Dear old Ma Bell.
Looking back helplessly
at every foible like Epimetheus.
Born like a weed in the steamy morning,
I was an aimless, crude creature spinning
flamboyant cobwebs like a confident fool.
I slathered prismatic patterns, grinning like a jester.
Then, civilization impounded the measures of my dreams.
I became an embarrassed, lying chowderhead, concealing
my crayons.
I lacked language, locution, or parlance.
I sat absent, a prisoner in rote computation.
My night dreams merged with day-dreams.
My solo island became a continent.
I tried phoning out with phony phonetic fumbles
but everyone could see.
So, I slipped away, deserting, fleeing,
riding the rails in boxcars.
My passage through nocturnal town and village
untraceable, uncertain, preoccupied with the pigments
of my polyscope.
Later, I reappeared, reconsidered, and revised,
replicating the decorations of acuity, imitating
profundity like P. T. Barnum.
My spectacle drew crowds until I was discovered.
My retreat and retraction now heavy with
fatigue, I know not the lens of my psyche.
In sobriety, I recall all my splinters and ruptures.
But my rearranged reissues of adornments
will persist until I am expelled.
Published: The Opiate Journal, July 2020
I bought an interocitor and put it in my phone
Now I'm getting messages from galaxies unknown
Klaatu said Gort is broken down and waiting for some parts
From beyond the outer limits, not found on any charts
The Borg said they'll assimilate, 'tis futile to resist
The Thing said it would vegetate upon my groc'ry list
Teenagers from outer space we're in the Twilight Zone
The Blob said it could split in half to make itself a clone
The Robinsons still lost in space, forevermore to roam
Outer space invading soon, and ET phoning home
Arrakis said the planet Earth must meet the Guild's demands
Or Dune would send its giant worms to eat Saharan sands
For fear we'll be invaded and my body snatched away
And all the dreadful thoughts I've had, it's time for me to say
I've put my cosmic calls on hold because, for what it's worth,
I'm getting all the flack I need from good old planet Earth.
There are no more telephone booths,
not the old type - the glass coffins.
The Atalanta hub is rocking,
planes and people buzzing in and out
of an anthill nexus
of distracted minds.
Calling London,
a city
that has red telephone boxes,
concrete-set booths
that all ring at once.
Wrong numbers are seeking answers.
There is a cacophony
in the pressed ears of puzzlement.
The airport begins to spin around,
faster and faster,
a shaky orbit encircling speaking lips.
Dialing fingers sweat, are too thick
for changing conversations.
Talking heads are searching
for one direct call,
one line in an ethereal ball of string.
Red boxes are bellowing now,
every voice is angry,
nearby glass booths
are trembling with a frustrated rage.
All these images are an allegory
for the deaf and dumb days of yore,
a distant time locked in its own
transparent sarcophagus -
drowned-out mouths,
even now
fitfully trying to connect.
Borders
On the road to Life
There is no desire, to raise the ire, of this boarder guard,
Only a desire to raise her gates – to era boarder for this bard.
Boarder erected to keep this one at arms length – away form you –
Three more have been added ( no writing, no gmailing, no phoning ) what to do ?
How does one get passed ?, all that is said and done – making one feel so small.
Nothing – it seems – at all !
What are the chances ?, is the fate ?, that we can come face to face,
be in the presence of one another – social intercourse, to communicate.
What are the possibilities ?, that, with you, I hold some special place ?,
of relevance, of importance, of meaningfulness – what is my fate ?
Borders !, boarders, borders do I see, boarders you erected just for me
so that you can justify your actions, reactions, leaving me to be
nothing and no one you care to share with, and seldom see.
Seldom, now has become the essence, the realm of never,
and I do believe, it is your intension, your desire to make it forever.
B. J. “A” 2
April 6th 2009