Long Queues Poems
Long Queues Poems. Below are the most popular long Queues by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Queues poems by poem length and keyword.
I chuckle soft when people fume,
And blame the lot in suits and gloom.
“You see those leaders? All a scam!”
But who’s still selling free yarn?
Was it not your own cousin’s name,
On that campaign with matching frame?
The nurse who sighs, “This ward’s a zoo,”
Still checks her brows in selfie view.
She posts, “On duty, Lord be praised,”
While someone’s gasping, soul half-raised.
Yet when they moan the state’s unwell,
She nods, “It’s true,” then rings the bell.
The lecturer, with paunch and tie,
Reads ancient notes with weary sigh.
He shares some grades with knowing nod,
Then says, “This country’s truly flawed.”
He blames the youth for lack of grit—
While half his class just pays to sit.
The copper parked on potholed street,
Asks, “Where’s your licence? Papers neat?”
He grins, “Let’s talk,” with greasy grin,
While tucking morning bribes within.
By noon he’s shouting on the news—
“Society’s gone down the loos!”
We roast the system every day,
With memes and gifs in strong array.
Yet scroll past queues to dodge the vote,
Then mourn when goats are running boats.
We ask for change, yet shift no ground—
Just echo tweets that spin around.
The tailor swears, “Your cloth’s near done,”
But dances at his niece’s fun.
The mechanic says your car’s in queue,
But joyrides round like Fast & Few.
Then tells his mates, “This land’s a mess!”
While wearing shoes you just redressed.
The market lady shifts her scale,
And bags your rice with hidden shale.
The youth who screams, “We must rebel!”
Still ghosts his friend to chase one belle.
We all want justice, loud and bold—
But sow deceit like coins of old.
The pastor thunders, “Give and live!”
Then buys a Benz you helped to give.
He claims the Lord approves his flight,
While dodging tax in holy light.
He’s not alone—we’re in this stew,
From deacon’s pew to bus queue too.
So when next time you curse “the throne,”
Recall—it doesn’t stand alone.
That golden seat’s not self-assigned,
It’s built from all we’ve undermined.
To mend the roof, don’t shout and frown—
Pick up a spade, rebuild your town.
You want clear roads? Then drive with sense.
You want fair rules? Then stop the fence.
It’s not by screaming, “God will run it!”
While jumping queues with cheek and sonnet.
The mirror’s clear, it doesn’t bluff—
We are the system. That’s enough.
Taxes are not talking nor are they taxis. But airports are often very congested. Packed tightly forming queues. Vastly unreported by news. News are neatly arranged newts in a bath licking ice cream. And a single melt of globular sploosh is merely an unwelcome loss. So washing becomes very dextrous in beckoning an eroded surface. Bubbles can form at will from depths of over fifty five feet. Whereupon a steely coloured beast of old will rise to take on even the mightiest of modern weaponry. When travelling in herds step left right left rigidly and always steer to the centre. Cinematic viewpoints of pathways filled with the patterned stardust trails. Break no saucepan in a rage. And cage no plant. It is to be said that at this time the potency of a banana sandwich with jam can run at great athletic speed over a basin drop. So always drag a meal to a ballroom. With chains. It is also wise and often imperative to shield eyes with cups and harness the knives,forks,and spoons. So as to avoid the high fluted champagne glasses who can be very nasty if crossed. Particularly if wearing a nine million pound gown. Sweep no lawn for lawns must be mown with a one centimetre pair of scissors. Many blades. Long time cutting. And dangling off the central high way at midnight is a feat only achieved by a very large circular bat. Pinnacles painting prisons playing political polo parties. And jester moments from the east and west ignite laughter and cheers from birth and south. So far heard by the eleventh moon many miles away. Air current velocity then. In a bowl. Chatting to a ladle about the state the potatoes are arranged in. It us simply not done. Unheard of in fact. To chop and place potatoes next to carrot and cabbage when all must surely know by now that this is unsafe as they simply do not get along together and therefore the soup will taste most sour. Dour diaries digging digital downloaded dreams. And a large portion of porridge in a mist on the horizon. Skipping. Hahahaha face of a thoughtful tissue. Hahaha exclamations exciting existential exotic experiences explicitly. Hahaha rotunda rotating rut. Xxxxx numerology Z that was the latest from the p y q reporting from a morning zoo next to a nice sty. Z cvb jackets Z.
Form:
Virtual trophies (wife for I)...
offered, husbanded, and collected
when winning solitaire
Nothing beats that exaltant rush of adrenaline
watching the computer generated cards
automatically routed
to their respective suite (spot)
(after they get turned face value up)
generates countenance to evince a grin.
This heart felt diamond in the rough
gamboling ace of a man
learned to call a spade a spade
soon after joining the culture club.
Within an alternate universe
another Matthew Scott Harris
destiny manifested beckoned uber lyft,
his militant doppelganger
(created entirely of antimatter
since birth of universe)
decked out in camouflage fatigues,
dead set on collision course
to annihilate each other
if and/or when we inevitably meet.
No place exists for yours truly
to run and hide
especially hermetically sealing
(while waxing poetic) himself
with booking selfsame mortal
within a read (reed) out hideaway,
hence impossible mission
to ward off sealed fate
lest (markedly) both of us
(even if reaching out
to bridge reconciliation)
blown to smithereens
methinks I and mine nemesis
would be wiped out
(cue the Surfaris song titled wipe out)
as if Thanos snapped.
The aforementioned scenario
far more horrifying than
livingsocial within human zoo
where *****sapiens primates,
an aggregate of many
a cruel genealogical yahoo
outliers rowdy unlearned without xue,
an essential constituent
of the body electric kool aid acid test
smartass who spout colorful retorts
analogous to up the wazoo,
but much more explicit,
therefore audiological
viewer discretion advised
unless one feels confident
to cast a magic spell using voodoo
ideally invoking debilitating, horrifying,
lustrating newt trill eye zing
permanent state of danger
or threat accursed
trumpeting lout can never undo
especially when joker is wild
whereat apparatus tricked out
fastening pollexes courtesy thumbscrews
perchance re-evaluating my person
when crafting image
conveying torturous schlock
after ye did pleasantly review
other writings of mine that did skews
toward humanitarian connectedness
painstakingly minding my peas and queues
wracking my brain
regarding creativity to peruse.
London, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem : Londres
…a serious and well-behaved Englishman, well-attired, handsome clothes (Victor Hugo)
(In this poem, I didn’t feel adhering strictly to the rhyme scheme would have served a higher purpose. T. Wignesan)
One summer Sunday when everything’s bathed in sunshine
London turns into a real feast for délicate souls tuned in :
Trees strong and rotund from frail lawns sprouting
Tender green, an air far from mists and gases grows fine.
So much so they appear to be planted in pastoral country
Limpid sunshine feathery in the fine sky, though blue-ish
Hardly. One feels as if in a bath where wafts
The perfume of a lingering infusion of tea.
Ten-thirty, the hour of interminable services
Divine. Thousands of melodious bells toll through the air
Sonorous and volatile as though seized by strange caprices,
The psalms of David come snorting through clear fog.
Such silvery tintinnabulation that one hears not in France,
The country of intensely tolling bells of bitter bronze
Strike up a concert that’s most sweet, instilling of hope and joyous
Though perhaps a little too sweet, one must there fear Hell.
Tolling bells again greet the afternoon. Men in queues
Well-dressed women and children glide rather
Than walk, hold to their silence in a selfish manner
With their voices reserved instead for exclaiming amen.
All this people look pleased in their stiffening posture
Clasping, even if mistakenly, to their profession of faith
And their Protestantism being alike rough and spineless
Makes some look even set right above the reach of the law.
Hopes of the true christian, Peter’s ever-widening fish-pond,
Fish ready for the Fisher who may count on catching them ;
Holy-Ghost, God Almighty, let pour Thy light on them
So that Jesus’ worth they might at last come to understand.
Six o’clock. The drinkers find their way to the refreshment room,
The family its «home » and the street’s abandoned to God :
And in the dirty-looking sky a few stars look quite lonesome
Foreshadowing rain over homeless beggars out in the cold.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Knocking on success’ door, irrespective of its intensity
is worthy of a response and an attention.
When life smiles and nature is happy, the one who passes their estate
is embraced by favour to take luck home.
Showcased by a tale
of two counterparts of same platform but different worlds.
He’s serious, but she’s playful,
a test defining their progress into another phase is the huddle.
From book to book, knowledge he accumulates
even sweat’s discomfort is no match
for such a determination which scares both life and death.
His living is subjected into a miserable triangle;
lectures, canteen and home is all he knows
even his dreams have been converted to a library for research
and a single spoken word from his lips
pours out a barrage of wisdom.
His understanding then gives an entire jungle
the salvation of great civilization.
Her time for merry is never taken for a joke,
her schedules are tabulated by the inventors of fun,
leisure and study share the spoil of her engagements,
pleasure tops the yardstick for all her toiling
and her indifference to progress in life
makes the demons of failure lust after her course.
Nineteen weeks of play and a week of work is her formula
on the eleventh hour, before the day of reckoning
she reads in compartments,
choosing her focus through random selection.
He commands the justification to succeed
while she queues in the long line of fate.
Passing through this is a decorated corridor to his success
raising her hands in pathetic surrender is her bullet-less gun.
He’s sure, she’s not; he’s ready, she’s frightened,
he walks confidently; she does it in a gait-like manner,
the heat of such examination he absorbs, but she gets burnt.
What next, is the short incubation period of truth
when several hearts await a straight forward judgement
and comfortable minds anticipate a glorious confirmation
with all efforts well deserving of the medal
and a prosperous finding, a worthy result of true seekers……
She passed!..................... He did not!
Michelin star cricketing cook…by hook or crook.. so canny..will find every nook and cranny…if you took a look at the record..score or text book ..won’t have forsook ..our dutiful..beautiful babbling Brook
Although the barmy army might suggest this almighty Blighty Test best..is more like an umami tsunami..
Bravissimo heave ho machismo..top grade…gung ho pyro Tyke tyro.. renegade hand grenade.. Bowlers afraid.. dismayed..slayed and flayed..somehow right now kapow..but also retrograde..
Boisterous babbling brook…a silky blade…gorged.. slices through a dappled glade..forged..handmade..the republic of Yorkshire conveyed and displayed
Stands so tall…enthrall with his gall.. like Jaiswal…towering…flowering overpowering..glowering…never cowering ... .just run showering..
Us all believers.. that larruping levers.. panache dashers rule…fielders does tease..
Shirty..become go fetch receivers..flash or is it dirty Harry..360 degrees wheeze with such ease..
What a way to play…with that hint and glint of Clint ..Please ..go on funk punk.. make my day
Not the most erudite but when it comes to timber tickles…willow wizardry….no luddite… will ignite… when things get dark and stark… Harry will be that spark..shining bright delight..having a lark out on the park..
Our sumptuous Aurora explorer…humming run sorcery scorer..tropic kaleidoscopic hues..rambunctious strumming the spectrum with his plectrum..woos queues with verdant voluptuous views
Many a sage would rage..even those on the other side of the Ribble.. wouldn’t quibble or contest..knows..the latest of those white rose heroes..is the Test best of the new age..
A pest..blessed with zest from the Yorky conquest treasure chest....won’t wain and never in vain…slain by Brook’s insane high octane rampage..gets us off the hook again…
Can’t cage..does entertain…on the ultimate stage..his disdain like heavy rain…no refuge from the deluge..babbling Brook subterfuge..floods the back page once again..
Based on a true incident-
In an atmosphere when every one is worried and busy in solving its own problems, this poem would give you some moments of relief to enjoy the beauty of Nature, With best wishes to all my PS friends......Ravindra K Kapoor
Beauty of Acacia tree in black cloudy night - 1
.
I was overwhelmed by seeing
the beauty of Babool* acacia flowers,
In this rainy season only,
It was a thick cloudy evening -
When the dark clouds of the sky were not allowing
the soft medium light of stars
to fall on Earth,
.
The cool breeze was blowing
With its soothing spray of small mini drops of rains,
It was creating a magical pleasant feeling and
a loving touch on me.
When I came out of the house alone, as usual,
For my daily evening walk. 01
.
When I passed by those acacia trees queues
on the side of the footpath,
On that deserted road,
Where I go for my walks everyday,
I suddenly stopped,
After noticing and watching,
The lamppost’s light falling
On that acacia tree,
In the dark of that rainy night.
.
And in that lamppost's light,
The beautiful yellow flowers of Babool (acacia tree)
Were smiling with an amazing beauty,
I was suddenly stunned,
To watch that beauty. 02
.
The tree of acacia is a tree
from which people often
Keep a distance,
because of its sharp thorns and
even fear to go near it.
.
I was standing almost touching its thorns
close to it,
Charmed by its magical beauty.
To catch some of it's images,
Of those vibrant beautiful flowers. 03
Ravindra K Kapoor
20th Aug.2020 .................... to be concluded in next
Photo of theacacia tree flowers can be seen on the following URL of my face book page and time line
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=3373893705994587&set=pcb.3373925362658088&type=3&theater
NOTE: * Babool or acacia tree is found in large numbers in India in those areas mainly, where the water level has gone down deep. I am currently in New Raipur of Chattisgarh.
Them and us under a Bombers Moon
By Steven Cooke
Making love to my demons
Under the flag of my country
Caught in between the never believer
And a pardon of angels,
Who bargain their souls for my redemption,
Empowered by a nation,
Glorified by heroes departed
My life sanctified by religious compromise
For tonight I fly, under the bombers moon
Nearer to God than most
I see the world differently,
This Earth orbits in a sea of cold
My plane hidden in its recess,
A place where silent screams dwell
And rainbows are sent to die.
Away from the gaze of my enemy,
A phrase worthy of the Devil
Away from the patriots sting,
These too, sanctified by a religious hand.
The History books dilemma
My run begins
My mind listens to a confess of whispers,
The engines my Priest,
The bomb doors open,
Horsemen of The apocalypse,
Released from their tethers
I am the Arbiter of Death
As in Nature, Chance will decide
The faceless will fall
And god willing I will return home.
In the scheme of things
A Cities worth is one minute, 23 seconds
The camera to record in slow mo for Posterity,
And to delight the victorious.
The Impact sweeps away the sweat of past generations
Creates queues of ghosts, waiting,
To lay in row after row, of white marble.
Their silent screams absorbed into Heavens Gate,
A cold Hallelujah for God to judge.
Just another day on planet earth
But don’t worry,
Time, like, the brook of sighs, will wash away these sins
But not the seeds,
For we are the gardeners of sin,
Their germination, lovingly corrupted
In our differences, them and us
The Pillars of capitalism our advantage.
The fear of the Devil theirs
Our final epitaph in the circle of life,
We are conditioned to repeat the mistakes of the past,
As is the Wilder beast to cross the River of Death,
Or theologians using religion as a weapon of war
The devil and the Crocodile dines well, on such a menu
We truly are, a blessed Race.
Unblinking reflexive opinions lean
indubitably, favorably and certifiably
with minimal pandering soliciting
uber voodoo yawping woos
socially quintessentially obviously markedly
consciousness brakes alignment
defining mine political views
loosely yet not strictly, jerry-rigged,
hidebound Democratic
fealty haltingly pledged ones and twos
to roster of candidates
slated to challenge incumbent Republicans
all to quickly accused,
sans participating sinister ruse
this active voter puzzled at controversial
eye opening ex post facto
fractious, governmental
harmfully injuriously jaw-dropping
suppression within top secret queues
during nasty donkey kong braying p's and q's
(case in point) scurrilous, opprobrious,
and malodorous Clinton administration,
where (based upon my recent perusing
"The Peoples History” –
me strongly endorses
(authored by Howard Zinn news
worthy revelation, (whose recounting
atrocious, calumnious, egregious
glaring ignominious knowledge
jackbooted, mandated, predicated
on blind trust, essentially billeted
charade, facade, inlaid faux Hope loose
bandied cutthroat gratuity legislation
favoring pandering "pork" via
pretentiousness to wealthy gentiles Jews
abandoning average civilians snuffing out
sputtering, grousing, and hoo's
flick erring tapering fuse
whereat this news worthy informed citizen
totally tubularly unaware of any clues
pertaining to antithetical maneuvers,
(loo win ski) shenanigans, and undertakings
today yields genuine boo's
toward Clinton, where I despondently feel
he renegged promises
made to electorate (except top 1 %) got souled
(sold) to remaining 99% cheapest bidders
as-sized thirteen duff heated no nothing
sneezing Schnorrers
spluttering phelgm at me at-chews.
Broken England
By Steven Cooke
My Brave ancestors of England,
Look away, for I offend thee.
For your England is no more.
Decay eats away at this fallen empire.
Your people divided,
Its laws weakened by Europe’s power.
Its leadership, protecting the few.
The fresh air of your Country gone,
Only the stench of anarchy remains
Heroes of The Somme look away for I offend thee.
Stock Market Parasites, take without producing
Corporations overwhelm, the weak,
Without paying their due.
Their off shore havens digest the life blood of this once great nation,
Leaving the scraps of minimum wage for the masses to beg.
The dead of Pashendale look away for I offend thee.
Government legislate to keep us in bondage to 66
Over the hill at 50, to wonder the dole queues
Youth denied education,
Universities at a price,
Qualifications for the chosen few,
Unemployment, for the poor.
Our brothers of Gallipoli look away for I offend thee.
Our Cities are in pain.
Hopeless lives, with hopeless dreams,
Hopeless choices, drugs, crime,
Or silence behind closed doors.
Babies born to fail,
Children, exposed to depression and chips.
The ghosts of Arnhem look away for I offend thee.
A voice in the darkness, shouts its rage
The iron curtain of youth descends on England
This is no Lennon revolution,
This is youth with no future, abandoned by government
No rules here to obey, No Civic pride,
No sense of History, no Country to protect
The Saviours of Goose green look away for I offend thee
But fat cats beware, for there is a dream,
That cannot be bought.
A warning from history.
A country cannot go forward,
Without learning from the past.
Your greed will self destruct
Your Paradise a lie
For a Dangerous wind now blows,
And common sense, will fail.
For England is Broken,
And life will never be the same,
In England’s green and pleasant land.
Now It is my turn to look away,
for you see this offends me too.