Long Sales Poems
Long Sales Poems. Below are the most popular long Sales by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sales poems by poem length and keyword.
The value of contents
In modern society
By voting and likes are defined
But whether they vote on a poem
Or literature
It value does not modify
To more they are influencer
Makes them resources
For sales and the trades advertise
Opinions theories makes
That are wrongly
Contrary to what them despise
If system obliged is
To value opinions
The judgement is then to applies
On mass degradation
Of systems and values
It is entertainment
And these are the views
Literacy lost
Lost the sense and the point
Remaining intelligent fews
New models of business
Enterpreters is this
Enterpreneurs is this
The new generation of crap
Controller Step 7
What is their controller
Poetry nowadays rap
Too much entertainment
Unreasoned attainment
What rocket this does intercept
Corrupt education
There is no solution
Economy wise they survive
Arrangements in masses
Packed by them busses
No chance in envoronment thrive
Lil packets of content
The content creators
For slots they about to fulfil
Posterity posts
And so you must be posting
In system of cultire this ill
Intelligence targeting
Memories shared
The meaning and purpose of war
Topology glossary
And of mathematics
The real the object of door
Representaional
Models of graphics
Expectancy life
And its length
The synchronization
Clock rhythm is vibration
Delusions, allusions of peace
I will thus tell you
How you shall be thinking
Because I am leader of yours
System is set out
On this target signature
Combines to applying the force
And all for the market
For price fluctuation
The value of money
Resources and that
Sustainable are you
In this equilibrium
Complexity for this is bad
The genious is simple
Enough for one letter
Or number the numeris this
The key distributiuon
Of Quantum schizophrrenia
No win for this system is sys
The terminology
And false apologies
Systems of judgement imposed
Paths to develop
In such wrongly system
To action in mass you are forced
Fullfill the your purpose
Exactly solution
Responsible for this are we
I thought I'd be doing
The job and directives
At least for some kind of fee
Let’s start with some rhyme..
I started the morning microdosing iced coffee
and scrolling the endless Internet sea
Similar to Odysseus’ travels in the Odyssey,
my sales were swelled by fashion amenities
and I was waylaid by sirens of curiosity
enough of THAT..
Ok, I have regrets. Last night I was talked into going to an after-party, when honestly, I was ready to go home. Why does Peter let me do that?
We were having enough fun where we were.
So, in this group of 10 or so, on foot, we tottered into an elegant restaurant where tiny plates that cost €40 held 4 actual bites of delicious food. We were sharing (with 1-3 other people). So, picking up the tab, I paid €400 and got what? Two bites?!
Still, with the energy of a club after midnight,
we finally got to the after-party and it was a delight
but with absolutely no food in sight.
Except two olives.
This morning I’m as ravenous as a Cyclops.
My order, placed early, would fill a triceratops.
For room service I’m toe-tappingly waiting
because the staff’s moving as fast as a Monet still-life painting.
.
.
A song for this:
Beauty and the Beast by Jump5
Bonanza of shamrocks will soon blanket Green Acres...
where Lassie free to run across petco junction
All across the webbed
wide esse Scott's landed wold
emerald green Trifolium
carpets harbor untold
burrows of tiny Leprechauns clover
(leaf) ways grant trifold
wishes if captured might
divulge pot of gold
at rainbow's end, and e'en mend
yar shoes, whence re: souled,
thence tread softly beneath subthreshold
of audibility, cuz unseen universe
hapts tubby microscopically rolled
with subterranean inhabited by Lilliputian
mischievous impish beings
(about bajillion holed
up could fill the Taj Mahal) even donned with
heavy coat protecting them
(usually men) against cold
yet frolic with reel delight jiggling
with inborn instinct exhibit twofold
talent to dance with modesty
downplaying (while fiddling)
analogous to some roof fiend
averse tubby extolled,
nonetheless, their popular
doth soar, and grievously scold
persistent myth anchored with toehold,
and thus do not indulge
pruriently with pixies considerably dulled,
since libido practically nonexistent told
me (under oath of
confidentiality), one Grunwald
trusted yours truly, the secrete
will not leak out,
nor spread like slime mold,
this descendant of Lemuel Gulliver
who schleps across the webbed wide wold.
Yours truly (an average
height and weight size ways)
nondescript grown
male munching kin
stands a little less than threefold
larger than full grown homunculi.
Rumor monger kickstarter
Matthew Scott Harris
posits nontrue tidbit
regarding rock 'n' roll star
who (name unmentioned)
became the most influential
musicians across the universe,
with estimated record sales
of around 600 million
as of two thousand twenty blank.
Imp possible mission
to see non elfish (pressed) lee
160 years after his Irish ancestor
crossed the Atlantic
curling his left lip,
whereby convalescing, peep ping auld
timers cavorting wax nostalgic with
itty bitty whippersnappers,
averse to any outliers,
whether hirsute or bald
an honest to goodness painstaking effort
initially stymied friendship proffered, a cold
reception eventually bedecked
hall of the mountain king
(while sharing diet of worms)
deep under verdantly
festooned knolls of Eire land.
Are you ready?
Picture eighty-seven children, practicing for a Christmas show
in a sales barn that does not have heat or a sound system.
A skunk died somewhere in here a few hours ago.
Many are screaming.
Some are crying.
Many do not know me.
I am new in town, and obviously crazy.
It is freezing cold.
I had unwisely told all the mommies
to do their Christmas shopping
and leave all eighty-seven children with me
without any other adult chaperones.
I could be a killer. I guess no one understood that
because they did.
We were all sobbing when they returned to pick up their
children. I did not show it on the outside. I was too "nice".
I was sobbing on the inside, trying to figure out how to save
face when it failed, flopped, and was the worst show they had ever
seen.
It came to me a few hours later after I had my heart attack and died twice. I called six mommies and gave them parts. One was the narrator, because she knew the children's names. Which was
a much better start than I had. Two others would get them on and off the stage.
Did I mention I telephoned every number in the church directory to see if anyone could figure out how to rig up a star that lit up on the back of a pick up that we could all follow from the church to the manger (aka sales barn) the night of the program? The man who could do it was named Ziegwier. The last name in the book, so I called them all.
It was the best Sunday School Christmas play in the history of the world because I was the last car to get there, due to me orchestrating so much stuff at the church, and the six women had it all going beautifully and well by the time I parked clear in the back and ran in there. I sat back and relaxed, knowing God was in the house.
Words from perforated ceiling tiles squawk
as megaphone filters blare
in crackled sequence
around missing stations
and call letters that aren’t acronyms
I hear these words, but shake my head
I know they are for me,
sent by well wishing advisors
wearing t-shirts imprinted
“I’m with stupid”
(and the arrows point at me)
Still I don’t heed the warnings…
I can’t, for dreams require reaching,
top shelf visions waving with
hope filled coupons
offering no discount for the heart
“Don’t want what you can not have,” they shout
As I continue to climb the frozen escalator,
cleaning my shoes on the bristles,
then checking my appearance in the sunglass
refection of a mannequin missing one arm
(and I feel happy for this plastic person)
For it has no idea how it feels
To be out of style, yesterday’s sleeves
worn of worried first impressions,
heart beat delusions and needs
at the end of the line…to check out
and yet, until the time comes for me to “check out”
I will reach for that dream, regardless of
invisible sales clerks on their eternal break,
because I will reach that register and I will ask that question
to which she just might say yes
(and then who will be wearing the t-shirt)
If you want to see how well your school is doing,
In the conservation stakes,
The race on which the future of the planet,
Could well be decided,
It would do no harm to look at their plans for making use
Of what is in your recycling bins.
Have they asked for your empty yogurt pots?
That could double as paint pots,
Have they asked for any containers for glue they make?
Or do they spend a portion of your fees on single use glue sticks.
Have you donated wood off cuts for the carpentry shop?
To save on trips to the mega stores, to spend mega bucks.
And while they are there buy screws and nails,
While unopened packets gather dust in your garage.
Is the school office full of cardboard furniture?
That is plastic coated and will breed mold when damp
Or did they find a new home for that that wooden table and chairs,
That was lovingly restored in the carpentry shop.
Did that leftover field drain behind your garage go to the tip?
Or did it save the school a few more bucks.
And what about when the clips on the plastic drainpipes broke,
Did your spare ones do the trick?
Is your school on more friendly terms with the sales reps than
Most of the parents?
And could you even count the number of catalogues that come daily,
Through the mail.
Does your school invest in companies that make disinfectants and soaps?
When even school children know that home made products or even honey
Are just as effective in most cases.
Is your school more worried about germs being on anything you donate?
Or the toxic substances on the new stuff that is made in sweat shops,
Where people will die during the process.
When you look in the playground is most of the equipment made of plastic,
Or wood that the community donated and built for free.
Does your school put out newsletters stating how much,
Recycled plastic they use?
Even before it can be re-used with less,
Pollution and savings in energy use.
Now you can tell me,
How your school is preparing for the conservation stakes?
And how much of your money are they using to bet on an outcome,
That will have a positive effect on the planet.
Discus Dan originally competed in able-bodied events,
In the discus which meant him throwing a 2kg discus,
Rather than the Paralympian 1.5kg metal disc, contents,
And is proud of his able-bodied Under-20 vest, a plus.
But in Sydney in 2000 in the Paras he won the silver,
And then in Athens the next time he threw a top gold,
In Beijing in 2008 he got a bronze as he did deliver,
‘Cos at the F44 throw he has a sure and steady hold.
Dan was born with a foot deformity, loved school sports,
And takes great cheer from today’s huge Para ticket sales,
Which are so much greater than they were before, quarts,
Also also recalls receiving a medal whilst Mo had his sails.
It seems the roots of our humanity
Began its civilized nature upon land.
As much as nearby waters flowed & nourished,
Firm ground was needed as most would stand.
Like the seas, the earthen mounds seemed endless,
Stretching a horizon both wide and far.
Where explorations would find common borders,
While cultures defined a country with doors ajar.
Through time many would identify as a nation,
Held together by shared faith & a common word.
Yet few would not evolve without changes,
As strength and freedom often claimed a symbolic bird.
The patriotic pride given birth was adhesion,
Forming loose pieces to a stationary mold.
And no matter the economics or politics,
A need for resources became a rush for gold.
Whether agrarian, commercial, or industrial,
The lands provide for the needs who dwell.
Although growth often complicates the formula,
Where excess or shortage may compel.
Few moments are noted in history,
Where isolation is preferred against trades.
Since bartering has been a global lubricant,
Greasing the wheels of commerce against blockades.
This is where the globalistic fear mongers hover,
Cursing those elite that cross borders to make sales.
Yet while I agree there's a distant connection,
The confusion between economics & politics never fails.
Here history has donated a library full of lessons,
Where success & failure for all nations is put to test.
And if they can survive their innate, destructive, tendencies,
They might grow and thrive while continuing to invest.
5.0 grade-point on a 4.0 scale
Climbed Mt. Everest, the 'icy trail'
His summer job was 'Director of Sales'
This straight male applied early to Yale
Puerto Rican knockout with Eskimo mother
Non-binary female and transgender lover
Active in flash mobs, landed three months in jail
Now back on the streets, thanks to 'No Cash Bail'
Our 'Yalie' got rejected, 'Why' is the question
Since our flash-mobber got into Harvard
An accomplished bank-robber, else she'd have starved
While our erstwhile 'Yalie' cleaned rooms at the Westin
All's well that ends well, my folks always say
'Yalie's' gender-confused now ~ I think that I shall pray
Anybody, yes, anybody, can do poetry these days, though
getting it published is a tad more difficult.
For that you must be determined and thick-skinned,
irrespective of your talent,
and it’s plain sailing in any case,
if you’re both rich and vain.
You can write about anything, yes anything,
the less you worry about what, the better.
Let it come, doggerel will do
(McGonagall is now in Penguin,
which only goes to show,
recognition comes soon, if you’re lucky,
but otherwise – late).
You can write badly or well.
If you write well, you’re sailing,
but if not, you’re making
a valid socio-economic point.
Your work can be dull or interesting.
If it’s interesting, you’re sailing,
but if not, don’t worry –
some movement will pick you up.
If you rhyme, that’s fine,
you crafty would-be laureate. If not,
who cares? There are plenty who hold
that rhymes are rot.
Be profound or light,
obscure or lucid, daft or bright.
If you’re bright, you’re sailing. If not,
the collective unconscious will undertake,
and if the sales are right, so who’s complaining
on your way to the bank?
Anyone, at any time (I’m pausing
during the marking of my pupils’ atrocious mistakes),
so anyone, yes anyone, can write poetry these days.
But don’t ask me how I know.