Long Protocols Poems
Long Protocols Poems. Below are the most popular long Protocols by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Protocols poems by poem length and keyword.
How did we acquire the knowledge of getting food
following all protocols and procedures
of knowing when the Earth is in a fine mood
to give a handshake of bountiful harvest?
In search of knowledge and understanding
man has explored Nature, down to its hood
and due to his short comings, treated humanity unfairly and rude.
Knowing the mechanics of an existing phenomenon
makes one a happy and creative dude
but having no idea how it even existed
makes his understanding still bare and nude
Under a higher authority, we’re all nursed
be it a gentleman with the fine name-Jude
or matter in a non-stop pause
having no artery of sustenance like the wood
Life and existence, wisdom and health, He’s the source
Him- not even the microscopes can elude
He is existing, everlasting and much more than a force
He is no other than God and He is good.
In this era of experimentation,
unforeseen boulders form
in the road of progress.
Low interest rates
encourage the right hand to invest,
while the left speculates unnoticed.
Governments spend money before the ink dries,
purchasing assets, forcing lines on economic charts,
following virgin protocols.
Skewed markets seem normal,
kurtosis no longer matters
in this 21st century laboratory.
Social scientists join the parade
with shutdown demands
to end a pandemic.
Boulders become barriers,
traffic crawls,
and anxiety replaces speed.
Fuel runs low,
compensated by steep descent
into a mist blocking the destination.
No one knows where this new turnpike,
with untested exits and unmarked lanes goes,
but drivers follow large road signs overhead.
Emerging from sleep dream temerity,
his remote aurora spectral prisms
from which his wakefulness gives legerity,
from which surfaces new burgeoning aphorisms.
Truth’s contours arrayed in fluid fluency,
his morning ataraxia in the still water lake
from where his senses lose their truancy,
from where ideation sheds the opaque.
He finds repose in a moment's seclusion,
his lucid cortex in reflective possibility,
but he learns his real confirmation in inclusion,
and learns our fellowship best protects our fragility.
So quickly we imbrute each other with walls,
he knows how militarization is summoned by anxiety,
he weeps at the endless requiem protocols,
he grieves at history’s long cruel impropriety.
But he detects his promise in human need,
our struggle against forces of dehumanization,
our commission in communitarian creed,
our hope in human family realization.
Awarded second place in Poetrysoup "Grace and Solitude" rhyming poetry contest sponsored by John Hamilton.
It is a whodunnit
This Is a mystery
The question is
Who killed me?
Was it my brother
My sister or my mother?
Was it my dear father,
Was I smothered by their love
Or stabbed by their rules
Was I shot by a volley
Of advice that I disagreed with,
Was I drowned in my own
Uncontrollable emotions without
A breath of logic or humility?
The question is
Who killed me?
Is the murder weapon
Hidden in that shed I worked
That billion dollar factory
that stole my time,
Chained me to the chair
And gagged me with protocols,
And kept me churning out
More fodder for their brickwork
In exchange for a small fee
funding my personal needs.
Is my boss sat there smiling
At his deeds, as cold death crept
Over me?
Perhaps the noose was knit
By the devil that lives
In the social chain
Pretend friends, neighbours
Some on social networks,
wielding their own unseen weapons?
The question still remains
Whodunnit
Who killed me?
Still and cold
Lying across the bed
In a pool of despair
My flickering mind,
Had an answer coming through,
The person who killed me
Was one who lived through blame
Closed the door on luck
And wore the place down
In constant complaints.
The person who killed me
Was most likely me!
The Hacker
Vodka
Used Dells and HP notebooks
Routers and switches
Gateways and sniffers
Kvm boxes and multi real-time data shows
My booty is plenty
No one knows the white mask of mist
They only know some monies are amiss
Bots and trojans and loggers too
Tools of the trade
As the cash is readily piled and made
2 million bit coins
400 million Yuan
786 billion rubles, there goes Putin’s new dawn
From Monaco to Luxembourg to Timbuktu
I have all the cash
Stolen from even mighty criminals too
Now I partake in my biggest heist
The crown jewels you can all keep and gaze
My prize is of more value, I shall hack all the days
I trace ip’s, and wires and protocols
Searching for patterns and rhythms and single heart beats
I shall not ever accept any defeat
I sit in my chair, monitors a plenty
Scanning and routing, probing and poking
Kilobytes and packets of data my way
Slowly, I shall hack into the device I wish to sway
Bingo, I got it, I think I am in
Pacemaker number 24-25-poet-of-things
I now control the beat of her heart
As I reprogram her love from here to the start
Pumping away, verses that sway
I shall now control her hearts desires of spring love in May
Captured her heart
Now I hold it in prisons enclave
To ancient romances and poetic rhymes
I know I am guilty of loves worst crime
However now I know her heart is all mine
I shall make it beat for eternity
So that the kiss I shall give on her sweet lips
Will be smiles held forever and a day
I hacked her heart
And I like it this way!
If I had been a governess, I would have been paid.
Maybe a pittance, maybe a penny, maybe in francs or yen.
Who knows?
If I had been a race car driver, I would have been revered
By my pit crew, I would have made them laugh as I left
The others in the dust, as I lapped around, refusing to
Wear my helmet. Varoom! Varoom!
If I had been a princess, I would have been bored, talking
Politely, wearing gloves to tea, learning dreary protocols,
My life not my own, a slave really.
Let me out of here!
But if I had been a pirate, I would have been daring and
Dashing. My crew would have adored me. They would have
Been terrified of my terribleness. I missed my chance.
Dang it!
Love is a candle burning at both ends.
We’re staring at colors not yet meant to be framed.
A prototype mixture of vermilion and cerulean,
raised to the power of negative sixteen in transmittance.
Deliverance delayed, waiting in the DLC.
Within the range of projected infamy,
unnamed protocols remain unrendered, once derailed,
absorbed by parameters etched into
the Everlasting Struggle.
The unyielding, plain color of pain.
RED. RED. RED. RED.
I wish I’d never seen you from so far away.
Doppler blue. Roentgen to Gray.
But I was only ten milliseconds astray.
How did phase become so overpowering?
Amaranth-fuchsia is said to delay even faith.
Love, in its highest sincerity,
is a candle that
burns efficiently
at both ends.
Graduation Of Two
It is a day to remember,
my son and grandson together,
Graduating with an A-plus,
so tell me what is all the fuss,
Cannot recall a dull moment,
from yearly gifts now bestowment,
Both of you summa cum laude,
G.P.A. four-point-oh lordy,
So come now, uncle and nephew,
we leased a hall for this venue,
Family and friends all gather,
Entertainment, food, gifts, matter,
Your dad and granddad are happy,
nana's countenance is pretty,
Interest, game technology,
twas both in your biology,
Twas in the cards with words on walls,
colleges with their protocols,
Tis best for both to get a house,
here are the keys as I espouse,
Since your parents bought your new cars,
I resolved to buy a just cause,
So here is a toast to you boys,
ere me young men, to books from toys,
Both part of our family tree,
today, a bit proudly it be.
2020 February 17
Rhyme Scheme:
Couplet
Don (ta) Ask Me 'Bout Exacerbation Of Trumpeted "FAKE" News
written September 19th, 2018, and following words still ring (more true) today – exactly six years later.
The then forty fifth prez
of United States of America
best get sent packing
to Lake woebegone
forced to coexist amidst University
of Pennsylvania Dutch
men in breeches
(May Apple lie)
swampy netherlands awash
with bipedal hominid
sucker punching leeches
where within every
whirled wide webbed
nook and cranny
Nietzscheism reaches,
and survival of fittest
iz basic credo,
and dogmatic ethos,
analogous to an apprentice teaches
a most frightful distortion of facts
and make up mistruths
indiscriminately bandied about
said alarmist blatant LIES
blithely stated with dangerous clout
appearing oblivious and totally
clueless without a doubt
punctuating with doubt Thomas
pettifogging questionable details
FALSE exclamations
generating fear with mindless
ignorance exaggerating protocols
as he doth emphatically flout
begetting, engendering,
and inflicting emotional gout
nothing accomplished by
hash tagging him a "LOUT"
and more opprobrious affect
would ensue anew
undeservedly praising him,
whose animus toward
Democrats would brew
but no matter what (tick)
tack toe taken,
he got nary a blue's clue
about vital issues,
which lack of insight
even Scooby Doo
would agree, heck the Americans
may as well install an emu
with more positive
forthcoming results,
cuz dis dope head like hellacious,
ludicrous, pernicious evils
in Pandora's box flew
his every actions
destroying essential glue
that sets this country apart
approximating Democracy, where hue
mans comprise melting pot,
whether Eskimos (er...
rather Inuits) in their
(fast melting) igloo
gentile, heathen, or Jew
experience limitless
pasta billet teas
applying their new
dill (aptitude) reaching
titular status of parvenu,
especially trumping proper, "P's"
and most every "Q"
before Wharton peer review.
A battered pier glass, the length of a running lightning,
The width of a Caesarean window,
And next to an agelong, framed
Daguerreotype, lies face down across
A musty room.
Shafts and rods of robust sunlight from cracks and holes
Make it less dingy.
The smell of arrogant tobacco haunts the breath
From the shattered floor tiles to the somnolent ceiling.
Shards and smithereens, curved and piercing,
Hook up on the protocols of stalagmites
Through the affront of invading nuns.
I see hope and despair.
I hear the muted sounds of betrayal.
The shards picture life and stress,
And are far-flung.
A small, earthen gallipot is among the shattered.
Spewing gunk on the platform of a volcano,
The confronted floor charges at my wandering feet.
My right heel bleeds gently.
I look out not for a suicide note since it’s a rare
Occurrence in rainy summer,
But I hasten cautiously to the foot of the room,
Like a worshipper strolls piously to the base of
A mountain.
And right there, I garnered the news of the day.
To begin with, it was a just a tale of a trumeau mirror —
A patented piece of introspective glass,
Part of a speculum.
And someone, not entirely debauched,
Once owned it proudly.
How did I get in here in the first place?
A portal,
The size of an elephant’s bowels,
Opened up and let me in through an
Apothecary’s maisonette.
For some fellows, mirrors crack with lightning’s
Image;
For some others, they crack with impunity.
And my shtick,
(Since the age of the hen and her eggs)
Has been to patch broken mirrors together,
Piece before piece.