Long Sold Poems
Long Sold Poems. Below are the most popular long Sold by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sold poems by poem length and keyword.
he recognized our logo
and it made me proud,
even here where they
like it simple
and less complicated they see
what we do and recognize our
product as best.
trying to offer more
for less and giving people
something that's
worth having
and something that can
be reliable
from every point of view.
the reason I came here
was to
support efforts for a
clothes and food drive
we are offering those
who patronize us a
hands up. we are collecting
used old clothes
no matter the condition
we are making blankets
stitching holes
restyling wore materials and creating
clothing to be resold at low prices
and custom quilts and blankets for people
who need them.
some will be sold some will be given as charity.
food drives aren't for the extremely poor
these items are discounted for quick sales
and the poor and poorer patrons of the area
can take advantage of
discount prices, and this will be done without
creating an image to where
the poor will be exploited and villainized.
My chair is rated for eight hours of sitting,
optimal lumbar support, adjustable armrests,
as if comfort could compensate
for the slow calcification of dreams.
I've organised my inbox into folders:
Urgent, Important, Someday, Never.
Someday is where ambition goes to die
in increments too small to mourn.
The metrics are always watching:
response time, productivity score,
the gamification of my worth
reduced to numbers on a dashboard.
My coworker brings her lunch in containers.
Sunday's labor portioned into Tuesday's sustenance.
We are all preparing for a future
that looks exactly like today.
The motivational poster says
"You don't have to be great to start,
but you have to start to be great."
I've been starting for thirty-five years.
In meetings, we discuss synergy,
leverage, bandwidth, moving the needle.
These words mean nothing and everything,
a liturgy for the Department of staying employed.
I dream in spreadsheets now.
Columns of tasks that multiply like cells,
each one dividing into subtasks,
an infinite regression of doing.
The retirement calculator says
I can stop working at sixty
if the market cooperates,
if I don't get sick,
if the world doesn't end first.
But here's what they don't tell you
about trading time for money:
you can always make more money.
Time, once sold, is gone forever.
I close my laptop at 6.45pm
One hour fifteen minutes of unpaid overtime,
a tithe to the god of looking busy,
of being seen as dedicated.
Outside, the sun is setting
on a day I barely noticed.
Somewhere, people are living lives
that don't fit into outlook calendars.
Tomorrow I'll come back.
Log in, stand up, sync up, circle back.
The chair will remember the shape of my surrender.
The screen will glow its welcome.
And I will perform productivity
like a trained animal who's forgotten
there was ever any other way
to justify taking up space on earth.
"The Third Christmas"
IF I had thought about where to begin,
I wouldn’t have begun.
This is the story of us.
A family goes through the war zone occasionally,
intermittently, say every ten years or so
or possibly a minor tiff each year
over a Christmas re-gifting
or a prodigal unwanted
sits silently, mouth closed,
crowding the wanted
or an over zealous family member,
commencing with good cheer,
destroys a precious moment,
thanks giving becomes
an alcohol fuelled debate
an argument for living
all forget the forgiving
silent night becomes
kristallnacht
pathologically
fear replaces good cheer
Some families are an entire War.
Politically sewn and sold, egos bruised.
Years can be swallowed up
in strategic artillery campaigns
Who comes
Who goes
Quiet assassinations
Back seat driving
on the right way
Home
The Third Christmas
How to avoid being again.
Just so you know
you are not alone
Decorate the Heart with Snow
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/596k7K8l5JA
Fake news covers up for every Biden lie
projecting on to Trump to demonize
Yet the truth leaks out to their own demise.
Trump is Putin puppet yet Trump kept Putin in check
Biden lost Ukraine with massive funding that is suspect
Trump phone call was to blackmail Ukraine they claim
while on film Biden boast with holding funds
to fire Ukrainian prosecutor for crimes of Biden and his son
Falsely investigating Trump to the nations shame
Trumps home invaded for secret documents he kept
a crime impossible for Trump since he was President
As veep Biden stole top secret classified documents
and sold them to the CCP our government secrets
Trump keeps his documents locked and guarded at Mar-a-Logo
Biden had them in his house, garage , U Penn to sell and show
More deaths from covid under Biden with vaccines that do more harm
The sudden deaths of healthy young men causing alarms
Our borders invaded and nation under siege
Inflation and falling wages as our people bleed
No oil gas or coal means no more food
Biden administration so dumb and arrogantly rude
Grooming our children and confusing gender
World at war, Christians thrown in a blender
All blamed on Trump but with him we were good
Gaslighting backfiring on them for the truth is understood.
In hushed strides silver threads tonight unfold again,
my longing on trampled soil to be rolled again.
Beneath maple leaves my silent flower shivers,
scarlet bed of withering dreams is cold again.
So numb my desires echo in hollowed umbra,
My wishes I fear might remain untold again.
Lonely lark from wilderness sings of my despair,
Blazing sparks simmer on snow being bold again.
Oh beloved! How oft have I waned crescent soul,
Your veil of molten stars I wish to hold again.
Dreams cuddled in beguile blossoms of aurora,
Await to relive their promises old again.
Fir-kissed caress of heartbeats over years apart,
Enchant siphoned silk silhouettes to mould again.
So bereft my memoirs leave no footprints on sand,
agony on alluring waves was sold again.
Celeste dances in nebula streams on sand dunes,
Graceful Aphrodite will I behold again?
Cynthia petals drape my hopes in banisters,
I pray my tender love grows manifold again.
August 31, 2020
Ghazal Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
12 syllables per line checked on www.howmanysyllables.com
There was a WoodenMan of old,
Who possessed great knowledge I’m told,
Was offered a handsome sum
To keep him mum,
But alas, he couldn’t be sold!
While on tour in Australia, he happened upon
A glorious sight!
A rare beauty of pure silky wood oak
A bit of mischief in her eyes as she
Held his glance,
The page turns…
He met a fine lass down under
Whose brain quite scorched
Him with wonder
With beauty that glowed
From a heart pure as gold
No man could put asunder!
Limerick with Bridge: a collaboration created by James Marshall Goff and Paulette Calasibetta
What is stolen
never endures.
Empires built on plunder
rot quietly.
America.
And its allies.
You crossed oceans
to empty the poor.
You called it trade.
You called it order.
Paper became power.
Ink became chains.
A currency without conscience
sold as destiny.
You ruled by bullying.
By fear dressed as leadership.
And wondered why
the world grew tired.
Nothing is too vast
to fall.
Nothing too small
to rise.
You proved one truth:
the world breathes easier
without thieves at the throne.
The universe keeps accounts.
It tolerates patience,
not cruelty.
And when leaders gamble with greed,
the innocent pay first.
But this is no longer
the seventeenth century.
The Global South
is awake.
They studied your methods.
They memorized your games.
What was taken
will return—
not in revenge,
but in reckoning.
Her breath catches with each infliction. Her pain their addiction. She wades water in a sea of strife. Her day, her tomorrow, her animosity toward life. She allows them passage only to feel their sharp talons once again grab hold. Softly she cries love can not be bought bartered or sold. Bleeding from their pain she limps onward. Her heart broken down yet her gaze upward. Hope remaining intact for you still hear her heart beat. Her destiny her future her fate has never been exact surely one day they shall all meet. So broken down, bleeding, and crying. Oh their stubborn blindness. Quietly you can hear her praying Father please save us.
In opulence, you dwelled, with wealth's endearing might
Gifts rained upon me, a gesture of your fleeting light
Thoughtful, you seemed, in moments of tender reprieve
Yet, when our bond broke, your words became a venomous deceive
You branded me an opportunist, with lips that scorned
Now I discern the truth, that love was never born
For love can't be bought, nor sold like merchandise in store
The heart that barters love, is one that's lost forevermore
Perhaps you felt pity's sting, or remorse's hollow refrain
But your words, they cut deep, like a dagger's fatal strain
You vilify me now, with labels of scorn and disdain
A rotten scum, an enemy, with no love to reclaim
What did I do, dear heart, to deserve this fate?
I loved you with abandon, with every fiber and every state
But you, with your learned pride, looked down upon my name
Education's pedestal, became the throne of your shame
I chose to liberate myself, from the chains that bound
I wouldn't spend my life, in a prison of the heart, unsound
Gifts didn't captivate me, it was your soul I adored
Your essence, your heart, your love, I yearned for, and nothing more
In fervent prayer, I pleaded, on bended knees, for you to see
The love that we once shared, in all its purity
But now I know, that wasn't love, that drove you to my side
It was a masquerade, a charade, where love was never the guide.
Now I lay me down to sleep
In my home that's really sweet
Had three large meals and a snack
There wasn't a hint of any lack
Comfortable shoes and clothes that fit
My heart's desires my money can get
Friends and family know my name
So many opportunities it's just insane
Doctors and dentists, heat and air
A hope and a future.. No despair
Little chance I'll die before I wake
But if I do, my soul God will take.
But the homeless orphan goes to sleep
His unbathed body on a filthy street
Sold himself today to get a meal
From a slimy stranger with a dollar bill
No life, no skills, no future, no hope
No family, no friends, no heat, no coat
No shelter, no job, no doctor, no care
No money, no support, no help anywhere
Despair and neglect, a fight to survive
A shell of a child more dead than alive
And if this orphan dies before he wakes
Will he know my God his soul to take?
~Lyric Man
Note: Just returned from two weeks in Africa. I’ve seen the most amazing and the most tragic sights. This poem/prayer is a contrast of a typical western lifestyle to that of a fatherless orphan.
PS-I’ve basically been without internet for the past two weeks and have missed reading your poetic works. May you and I never take take for granted all the blessings that we have been afforded!