Long Services Poems
Long Services Poems. Below are the most popular long Services by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Services poems by poem length and keyword.
As a child and a teenager I used to attend a mission-hall,
Which had an outreach to the homeless of Edinburgh;
And every three weeks until I was about seven,
They would give the last call so that god could your soul deliver.
They said at the end of every sermon,
Every three weeks in the evening,
“This is the last call!” and they meant ever,
‘Cos Jesus could return any time for the believing.
I felt so intimated by it, this unkind presence of mind,
That I could not properly sit on my seat,
But I knew that they were insane with melancholy,
And that it was the real dynamics of life that they could not heat.
I refused to chat with them after services and at the youth club,
About what I believed and about the in and outs of my thoughts,
But poignantly sat down with the Youth Fellowship leader once,
And talked to him about what in me life had very clearly wrought.
When I said outrightly that I did not believe in the Second Coming,
And that life was for keeps, give or take a few possibilities,
It was as if his world crashed down disarrayed in shambles,
As he was shattered by my philosophical sway and confident amble.
He realised fully that I was damning their last call,
The pressure of it and how it riled, writhed and tormented;
That it was for no good reason, for no universal moral principle,
For no disciplinary cause and for no complimentary angle.
So he arrogantly walked away from me, rudely with passivity,
Not aware of his own need of polity, sense and direction,
But it was a triumph for that mission-hall boy worker,
To react to an objector so firmly and not himself recapture.
They were generally unresponsive and indifferent,
To intelligent objectors who had a righteous way,
Because this left them with their day-to-day lunacy,
With reality dressed for them to face another day.
That mission has changed today into a Christian centre,
Bright and refurbished and selling lunches in a cafe,
And I am proud of its journey, how far it came,
Because the transition was by no means lame.
I doubt a benefactor,
philanthropist,
a short-term financial investor,
could optimally provide
protect
prevail with
an ecopolitically healthy therapeutic service
Yet,
intersectionally,
interdependently,
multiculturally,
poly-sensorily
fall far short
of co-investing in cooperative
sacred green ecofeminist
organic empowering
and enlightening communion.
Disempowering
codependent
anthrosupremacist services
in some way(s) Other,
commodifying non-profit and government intention,
subjugating potential enrichment rivals,
marginalizing direct service providers
These, often HealthTrust and WealthBeauty associated,
wise EarthMother's most sacred multi-sensory recreations
regeneratively throw resonant
and resilient
enlightening
and empowering
bicameral
bilateral
binomial
bionic
bigenderal opportunities
for and of restoring
CoAttaching Green EcoPolitical Communion,
All co-invested cooperative life systems
are about as likely to have appeared,
as disappeared,
win/win TrueAtomic
and Synergetic WaveLinear
As a Yang/Yintegral polyculturing ****
creolizing his/her/their predative PatriarchOther
needs sacred HerOther
in hearted heat Welcoming-Wombing Self
More than S/He lives to merely
ever-more serve philanthropic benefits
as unfavorably contrasted with
committing to cooperatively lusty solidarity
empowering and enlightening
fertile resilient thriving
Entries and exits
for compassion
passions cooperatively climaxing,
ecopolitically predicting long-term healthy
and safe win/win
global,
universally uniting afterglow
At least more so
than waking up the next morning
sadly realizing your latest RightWing investment
further jeopardizes health
and safe wealth of all our grandchildren
and their rusty food chains
and their green climate healthcare infrastructures
and their ecopolitical co-investing wealth cooperatives
and their Plant and Animal Lives Matter
indigenous green wisdom deals.
I’m not shy, but sometimes I don’t speak up when My insides are mixed up, and my words are stopped by a gate that’s locked, and the only key is sanity, that coincidentally falls off my broken mental ring which I have been searching for as that too goes missing I was looking into different ways I can keep my key from falling astray. Maybe take the lock off the gate, that’s blocking the words and emotions I need to feel, and say Creating a backup with my feeling’s day after day
I thought I hired a head locksmith
But same same different ish
He canceled our weekly standing appointments.
Looks like he, up and quit. Was the lock just too intricate that he couldn’t even try to replicate it. Or refer any good suggestions that would help some words escape
No, just like the rest he gave up, and I recall the last day
He grabbed his head, and I watched his efforts Fade away. So back to square one. it is for me. No, I’m not shy. I’m just backed up a little inside Sometimes, I’m afraid to talk because I don’t know what word bomb, I may drop. It’s taken an hour to write this poem, which it should not. I’m pulling and pulling words under the gate. Where the opening is just a sliver I’ve managed to recently create. Time is what I will have to take Take, ha. Take time to say the words I need to say Feel the emotions individually, not all at once, in one sitting, on one day.
Dang it. He did help, didn't he?
I see I didn’t need the services he was providing me I just needed to look at this differently. Remembering that these days more times than not, I don't get bombarded by my feelings and thoughts My gate now has a knob, which I can use that won't be locked
Everything wants to be heard and seen
Only now, I know how to process them individually
Value people when they have life
Strangely, people understand lately
Everything is loud and clear, yet blinds
Still, people find it challenging, but why? honestly
Wait, let’s unpack the fact.
Dead people do not speak
Neither response is to pick a fight
They are calm and quiet
Due to which they candlelight
Celebrate the opponent's flight
Words flow with compassion disguised
The love poured out seamlessly
Memorial services filled with sighs
If he wakes up again endlessly?
All the love talks bag up sky’s
Life goes on as usual
Two kinds live in the world.
Loving people keep loving
Evil people keep hating.
Living in a broken world
Throughout a program playing so
Or the streaming of a show,
Commercials advertise the new...
Broadcasting to me and you.
Only seconds long, they toss
Their message out to get across.
Straightforward - sometimes with humour
To appeal to the consumer.
Marketed products for sale...
New lines of recent retail.
Variations of a flavour
Or something similar to savour.
Through jingles and spoken word...
Business making itself heard.
Near future events of outing
Made aware of - without shouting.
Samples of what can be seen
Coming soon to the big screen.
What television has in store
On channels, services and more.
Commercials may often employ
A sense of delay and annoy.
Still, their purpose is promotion...
It is our choice to make notion.
This is dangerous
I mean you're dangerous
Your eyes make me nervous
Yet aroused
But that's what scares me more
I melt into you
And just want to pour
Pour into you
Being around you is dangerous
You're smile is contagious
Making me want to use your face
For my own services
Mr. Dangerous
You make me say things I have never said before
You have me thinking things I thought I never would before
Instantly
You are dangerous
Because I like you as more than just a friend
Now that intimacy is involved
I'd be damn if you had other "friends"
Not because I'm possessive
I just hate the thought of you
Making someone else's back bend
My attraction to you is dangerous
No it's not love, not yet at least
But I am quite territorial not officially mine
Yet we have nothing but raw material
So excuse me if the thought of someone else with you
Makes my thoughts a bit serial
The sprout of momentary illusion,
the voyage of a derelict dream in place of a lie,
the lure of April, the deceit of May concertized in December,
in wintry snow, mocked,
miscarriages of a well worn organ,
the grin of February,
suspended in September,
the burden of unconquered Lust,
the armies of censorial secret "bedders",
begging for the abandoned rottenness on my path,
obsequious frenzy of the hasty oath at Ikoyi,
the stealthily lure of a defiled bed before the oath,
the desperation of "a wanna be" by crook,
hurried by the mascara coated looks of a postponed "dowried hariotery,"
A bedfellow from the red zone,
an unrepentant Gomer,
The armies of bias exes overwhelmed the gaze with suspicions,
compelling through diurnal and surreptitious escapades in dark corners,
allured by unfinished lust,
to the city centre for a quickie,
And myriads of men hides in ambuscade save one,
with threats of kill for suspending their “off home” secret lush
The public mistress unfit for their homes, Yet suited for their Lust by turns
she warmed our beds they say'
purloined for your Fall of a few days,
The bawd roamed unrestrained,
'Don't talk to me' she says.
Unbridled concupiscence her forte,
forty plus years in the trade,
well versed in the art
The sneaky nights,
the secret calls,
the Stygian services,
and countless gift of libidinous frivolities.
Yet their victim must remain mute,
as truly the drama unfolded ,
all appeal rebuffed by arrogance,
as they taunt with permissive perverse Laws
convinced on the first day.
Converse for four weeks,
conscripted in one week
“conbedded” on arrival in same day,
Correction of a fool,
concluded at the Court.
Then in retrospect, Delilah revived.
mancanza di comprensione
By Bassoonio De Musica
and Tempoia Del Cantio
"The words came from behind
the Acadia Wall"
Beleiving in spirture she refused to
speak her desire to marry
she saw her lover more as a person
in need of love and lacked a desire
to feel as his savior
She didn't like referencing there
relationship to something romantic
due to his inability to "whoo" her with
lavish gifts
that would be keepsakes and foundations
just in the event of something untimely happening
it suited there need to belong to
one another
if he was wise enough to make her pregnant
it would seem more natural to be with him.
If until then she would stew the berries of the farm
and sip the wines of the vineyards until
he saw the tomorrows
through the eyes of there togetherness.
They went to Rome for Holy Week.
To see romance during such an
religous time. There were two
places in the city
were lovers would go and stand at the
wooden wall in the back of the resturant while
music would play
people would pass notes throught the slots
and when they were near the
area of the wall with holes dilled into
a circle
the person behind the wall would
read to the person
something he or she needed to know about there
relationship.
this couple would employ the services of
these people
only so the male in this situation
could understand the needs of
his woman. She said he lacked the knowledge
of being a strong man due to his
financial inability to make lavish gifting.
The room is called the "Boudere Romantio" or
O camera circulara alba or what is used
here "Stanza del Traduttore"
Were a Romain would go to translate his
foreign wives words using
the annuity of the church they read from
behind the wall
to remain anonymous.
---------------------------------------
Organs of the Chives
Allium tuberosum by The S. Creme
and Bakkon S. Chivery
the Romance of Wine
My first taste of GOD was fed to me by my dear mother when she prayed with me by the bedside each night as she resighted to me The Lord's Prayer.
Our FAMILY consisted of 12 children, mom, dad, grandma, and a dog named Jack. In my mind, I can presently see that big kitchen table and all of us gathered to eat. Our parents taught us by example the value of our family and our relatives. We visited our relatives on a regular basis and always feasted on the big three: fun, fellowship, and delicious food.
We all went to Sunday school every Sunday and to CHURCH worship services once a month. There were scheduled revivals and water baptisms once a year
In 55 years, I have spoken to only one childhood friend, and that was by telephone. I also saw him once more than 40 years ago. They were never
forgotten, but other FRIENDS took their place.
When I see where I am today, I remember all the ADVERSITIES and acknowledge the goodness and grace of God.
The CAREER path that I took was decided when I was 14 years of age. Every road I ever took always connected me to that path.
I remember the moment when I knew that she was the one. We have been
MARRIED for 50 years, and she's still the one.
The one ABODE that brings the most pain is the one that's no longer there.
In the 8th grade, I played on our school's basketball team. The games I most
Remember is one game that we lost by a large margin and one game that we won. There was no competition in the one we lost, 52 to 12. In that game, I learned about LOSING.
The other game was one of the games we won in which I scored 4 pivotal points that changed the tempo of the game. In that game, I learned about WINNING. 100322PS
A Flock of Startled Birds
He had sat for an hour on a long, low, flat rock,
He had checked himself over from bald patch to sock.
His leather shoes burnished to a mirror-like shine,
Tie ironed flat – a perfect straight line.
Trouser legs spotless, each one like a razor
Creases removed from a freshly-pressed blazer.
Beside him his beret, shaped, shaven and fitted.
Medals on chest at the spacing permitted.
A lifetime of honour, in metal and ribbon,
Scant recompense for the services given.
On the rock, gleaming black in the late evening sun
A Webley revolver – his Grandfather’s gun.
Then drawing himself up and heaving a sigh
He stood and was conscious of time slipping by
The sun was still shining but the far hills were dim
He knew that there wasn’t much time left to him.
No friends, no family, no future but pain
Nothing but memories of comrades, all slain.
The only survivor, he felt like a thief,
His mind filled with torment, dishonour and grief.
A lifetime of desperately trying to mourn
Till the shame and remorse were too much to be borne.
He put on his beret, threw up a salute.
A pang of fear stabbed, but he stood resolute.
With one hand in pocket he searched till he found;
Then picked up the revolver and chambered a round.
Near the rock, at his feet, lay a bottomless cave
Unmarked, uncorrupted, an ideal grave.
He stepped to the edge, raised the gun to his brow
“We all have our time,” he thought, “my time is now.”
As he tightened his finger, a calmness descended
In a moment the anguish and pain would be ended.
It was all he could do to defeat the despair.
Then a small flock of startled birds took to the air.