Long Private property Poems
Long Private property Poems. Below are the most popular long Private property by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Private property poems by poem length and keyword.
Roman à clef tragicomedy...
overlaid with façade of fiction = Mein Kampf
No need for yours truly to dig deep,
(albeit bonafide figuratively)
by Dickens thru mine Uriah Heep,
a gnarled mass creep
ping, comprising, encompassing, glomming
abysmal existence strewn with hard times,
such that I wanna leap
out this metaphorical bleak house,
a black hole in the wall swallowing
i.e. disallowing any peep
ordinarily yawping, proliferating, flirting...
now fumfering lamely issued by keep
ping low profile super tramping cheap
trickster, our mutual
friend Matthew Scott Harris,
where lack of functioning heating unit
(think male organ if ye will)
upended, rendered, discombobulated...
scrappy body electric hominid
to experience quality sleep.
Principal reason I write
to balance and aright
unexpected largesse
(thank you dad), where
eyes suddenly got bright
and bushy tail incessantly
wagged day and night,
a sensible palliative temporarily
eased penury plight,
which cash equivalent,
viz four Benjamins alleviated quite
helpful thwarting necessity to fight
off bill collectors brandishing
armstrong lance's compelling me
to summon black knight
in shining armor lodged within white
castle amidst prickly bishop
obviously one prone easily to excite
amusing little lord Fauntleroy
groomed as heir to throne,
enthusiasm since his birth did ignite
(Aesop pose) storybook life,
where fanciful elation did take flight
buzzfeeding, droning, feasting
on par with Mister
Bumble bee in flight
sweet nectar amidst lilies of the field
analogous to stripling Adam - fine lad
eve vent chilly seeking delight.
Ah to gather rose while ye may
tis futile wishful thinking,
now at mine three
score orbitz round sun,
which libido far out at bay
prurient predilections once
spawn time wracked to lay
waste vestal virgin such as... Little Dorrit,
now... raging hormones stagnant clay
hardened, atrophied, eutrophied,
jackknifed limp bizkit
long bereft testy tickle
yar seaman quizzical,
slack jawed, and sullen at
deserted abandoned cobwebbed quay
ignored do not enter, keep out,
private property signals desiccated,
no place for Peter to take holiday
barring ingress to ply skin flute
amidst hollerin hootenanny,
perhaps convincingly explaining
welcoming Voldemort without delay.
Some ten years ago, a business owner went to bid for a cleaning job. Her's was a cleaning service for both private and commercial properties. This was a private property, and part of the conversation went like this:
Potential customer: "Our last cleaning service charged us $50 per clean." Reply: "How did you ever let her get away?" "She moved from the area", was his response. The bidder then said, "We could never do this job for $50. Perhaps she was not liscensed, had no insurance, and paid no taxes. She takes the cash and moves on. We have far more overhead. And furthermore, we never try to be the cheapest. We work hard at being the best".
The business lady did not get that job, because the homeowner was looking to buy the "Cheapest Service", and the business owner was looking to sell
the "Best Service".
07212017FBPS
March 17, 2016
Mary E.W. Stephenson
My Reconstructed House
In my house of reconstruction, it is very well lit under the glory of GOD.
There is a 'No Trespass' sign on my lawn, and a 'Private Property' sign is
hanging from my front door.
Yet I peek outside of my windows and see the misery that tramples the lives of others.
I am a compassionate soul. Yet I know that I must be careful as to whom I let in my house.
In my old house I was ingenuous and allow negativity, jealousy, treachery, and deceit cross my door sill, and it tore down the walls of my house, leaving me with an empty shell of a house.
My heart was splintered and I became plagued with despair.
Now there is a loving spirit that flows freely from chambers to chambers.
The tender yet feverish love of my man keeps my house warm and cozy.
I have given GOD the key to my house, and I feel free to be successful in growth and accomplishment.
People admire my new house and they want to know what they need to do to get such a well-constructed house, and I tell them to open the door to their inadequate house and let GOD in.
It’s 2023 and the world wants to know
‘What is a woman?’
Apparently now all it takes is call yourself one
and, poof, you are.
Which means we have finally arrived
in the post-modern nightmare of objectiveless fantasy.
In this fantasy definitions and identities
are as fluid as genders.
Fee, I want to be a billionaire
as I demand the bank give me their money.
Fi, I’m a doctor now, no degree required,
so pay up insurance.
Fo, just give me all your stuff shop owner
private property is an illusion but I deserve my fair share.
Fum, if you can’t see me for who I say I am,
then you are a racist, bigot, cockroach, charlatan TERF!
In this fantasy, real problems are pushed away
discarded in the historical heap of objectionable truth.
Instead, 1st World problems rule
micro-aggressions and imaginal fears you need a PhD to discern.
Meanwhile, the real world wants to know about the woman thing,
there are children crying,
real flesh and blood progeny,
born and unborn
reaching out in desperation for a little perspective and comfort
in a world that has gone mad
figuratively, literally
each of us now an Alice struggling
in her own existential black hole
to come of age.
(6/9/23)
Every day another woman gets killed by their mate, sliced, chopped and hacked
What is going on with these men,
When did a woman’s vagina become your private property?
You can cheat but she can't
You can move on but she can't
What the hell is that
According to you ...you own her life just because you shared a night
Big Man ...young boy ...stop killing our women, she has the right to move on
You can sleep with 10 other women but as soon as you think it's over you take a knife and slit her throat…seriously…what is good for the goose is for good gander …she can love another
You call that love…cheating with 10 others …she’s not your private property
You don't have the right to her life just because you shared a child ...when it’s over, it’s just over ...you don't have the right to her life
Big man ...young boy ...stop killing our women, she has the right to move on
Multiple ongoing state and local projects along heavily traveled roadways in Ventura County are expected to cause some traffic delays over the weekend and into the week of Sept. 22.
Over budget pulls to affordable backfire in designers credit debts, flopping a foreclosure of municipal bonds for decades to come.
Is Thousand Oaks and Unincorporated districts to blame for an insolvent lien?
Trades of Conviction Bail
As sustainable measure of federal reserve
function post fraud is fraud
Failure to resign vote is testimony
and article before congress
Copyright © kevin mathenia | Year Posted 2025
Unincorporated districts measure of need methods and means to obtain premise of signatures
Homekey Fraud thousand oaks California
Private property assembly
Ok journal
Objective pro
Con
Resent all bills?
Write article of congress rebuttal against politician
Maintain reader on ship with sails?
Free speech is discussed newspaper not campaign rhetoric of welfare fraud lobby children corruption of municipal bonds and municipal works building keys they inherited
These people are journalists!
We thought it would last forever,
not a kink in the endless chain of supplies;
Now more than the store shelves
are coming up continuously empty;
Still the menu is good to change,
maybe get out grandma’s old recipe;
No amount of money in the world
can buy you food that doesn’t exist;
We thought it was just gonna go away,
the trucks would always deliver more eggs;
Then omelettes became a luxury item,
‘Snickers’ were all we could afford or find;
Starvation ended with ‘We are the World.’
Western civilization? That’s impossible;
North America is flooded with resources;
Regrow endless crops on soil rich land;
No amount of money in the world
can buy you food that doesn’t exist;
Bottom of the barrel no trash to steal;
Private property gardens, no trespassing;
Outlaws armed with skills and dirty hands,
Off grid not for sale, can’t steal from them;
The wealthy can get whatever they need,
or so the one percent always thought;
No amount of money in the world
can buy you food that doesn’t exist.
Lucky is a red ear slider terrapin who currently lives with me.
For all intents and purposes, let's refer to Lucky as a she.
I named her Lucky because it was lucky that I just so happened to be
at the same place where Lucky was abandoned so very cold heartedly.
In a small fish bowl, on the curb, left out with the trash was she,
but I happened by, saw her and rescued Lucky.
She now lives a life of relative comfort and safety
in the 55 gallon aquarium that I have provided for she,
where she can bask on her float or go swimming freely,
or forage through the gravel searching for something to eat.
Lucky's stay with me however is only temporary.
When she has grown large enough to successfully compete
among other foragers in a habitat more naturally,
that will be the day when I inevitably set Lucky free
to live the rest of her life the way it was intended to be.
I would prefer however in all honesty
a man made pond on someone's private property,
perhaps stocked with fish, frogs and other turtles already
where routine feedings occur regularly.
Should anyone know of such a place that would freely
accept a red ear slider turtle into their sanctuary,
I would appreciate it if you could somehow inform me.
Heartfelt appreciation would also be extended from my gal Lucky.
The drunk
A thick plastic curtain of the type used in warehouses he could not see through
to other than shadowy figures moving around he knew he saw a past that
no longer belonged to him.
He sat on the edge of his unmade bed, drinking warm beer when a sharp knock
on the door of his flat
it was the landlord looking at him with contempt, said he must pay the rent tomorrow or else!
Despair sizzled through his body needed a strong drink one mixed vodka and cold coffee,
while asking himself how it had come to this losing his job because he had been
“outspoken”, told his boss to off
Drinking the rest of the beer, he decided to take the bus to the farm he once lived
as a child; he had been happy there and to trace his life from there
He got off the bus in a small town near the farm. needing a drink, but it must have been early
the cafe had no ale he had a coffee which he mixed with vodka; when that
was seen they had told him to leave
He bought a tin of cola and sat in a park drinking thinking of this unfriendly town full of Jesus
people with no sense of humor
He took a taxi to the farm, now a gated community the river was gone, the wooden bridge
across it too, where he used to sit under and see tiny fishes nibble at his toes- gone, ing gone.
A man came and told him it was private property and looked as burly guard on duty
Down the main road where they were widening the road, a workers’ shed
he got in a found cold coffee and mixed it with vodka, he must have lost the sense of time
all of a sudden it was morning the workers were coming.
He got a bus home and walked to his flat the landlord said his mother had paid the rent
and taken my belongings she wanted to see him
At her flat sat many people, even the boss who had fired him; thought this assault is called
intervention; telling him his problem was booze, he was a good guy when sober
They left in time for him to go to the nearest café for a few more beers before closing time.
The next day, he had, a shower and dressed in clean clothes
He went to a meeting where people appeared feverishly happy and laughing out loud.
I understood too late
that waiting builds prisons
with invisible bars
and doors no one has to lock.
I was taught to believe
that meeting someone would change everything,
that a particular face
would come to repair what was missing,
that an extraordinary love
would finally give meaning
to my existence.
I rejected that story.
I am not a forgotten half
begging for its missing piece.
I am not an empty house
waiting for someone to move in.
I am not a riddle
whose answer belongs to someone else.
I exist before you arrive
and I will exist after you leave.
I would rather have an imperfect freedom
than an affection turned into surveillance.
I would rather choose solitude
than accept an imposed presence.
I would rather face a brutal truth
than accept those forms of tenderness
that demand I surrender myself.
Love should not possess.
It should not manage a life
like private property.
It should not hand out
certificates of worth
to those who fit
the expectations of the romantic marketplace.
I no longer want to be selected,
evaluated, compared,
accepted under conditions.
I want to meet someone
who promises me no eternity,
but respects my freedom.
Someone who stays
without turning their presence
into a debt.
And if no one comes,
I will not consider my existence
a failure.
I will keep moving forward,
not toward someone,
but toward myself.
Because true rebellion
begins when we stop waiting
for someone else to finally give us permission
to live fully.