Long Tabloid Poems
Long Tabloid Poems. Below are the most popular long Tabloid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tabloid poems by poem length and keyword.
Anxious Kate
could never be late
Up at 3:30
she began to worry
Got to work two hours early
sat around growing surly
Kate's morning dragged on
with many a yawn
By lunch break
her hands would shake
Her afternoon seemed long
she'd do everything wrong
The last hour Kate skipped
and she got pink-slipped
Plunged into depression deep
Poor Kate couldn't sleep
She couldn't get up early
which really had her worried
She became intent on taking her life
but couldn't find a suitable knife
So, she wended her way to Canterbury, dressed as a pilgrim
where she met a dashing Londoner by the name of William...
Here's hoping this tale has filled your void
next installment you'll find in any tabloid
THE RAISED HAND
‘Hold my hand’ said the mom, breezing across with a raised hand;
The traffic obeyed her hand; the boy too held on and ran across.
I learned a lesson; waving my hand like a leader, I tried to cross.
Brakes were pressed; wheels avoided me; I stood with one hand,
Frozen in mid-road; ‘crazy fellow’ shouts circled me and my hand.
They made me a ramp, nay; a statue; moms and boys still ran across,
As I stood there still; girls giggled; some winked; slowly I tried to cross;
A look of surprise stilled the road as I walked across with my hand.
‘The sixty year statue on Parker road vanished’ tweets trended in android;
Soon WhatsApp made videos viral; trips were made to look at the ramp,
Built in memory there soon after; built to appease many a Tabloid,
With a raised hand; pedestrians take selfies with the hand in android;
Girls ask boys to take them to the road, to the hand and to the ramp.
On the road, time stood still once, my hand stands like an eternal Tabloid.
Goodbye
Little white lie
Watching a person breakdown and cry
It starts off innocent enough
But in the end accusations could be rough
Some brag
While flipping through the tabloid mag
Is it a fantasy trip?
Wanting control planning life’s script
Throwing words around
Social leaders in the town
Spewing sensitive results
Bitterness showing up as insults
Ignoring injuries and who’s at fault
Sounding good neighbors’ impress
Gullible audience avoiding a mess
Is it all right blurring the truth?
Disregarding any credible proof
Or is it a comfort act
If handled properly with tact
Staging area a better place
To explain their case
There is a way
Fiction does pay
Write a book
Develop a plot, imagine a hook
Add character ingredients like a cook
Cast a line
Worth a dime
Reader will interpret the message in their own mind
Fish around and a scene will come
Antagonist lose, protagonist won
Sweet or stinks
Authored works will make one think
A paperback writer
Is a turn page fighter
Letting everyone know
Putting on a one on one show
Battling a foe?
Let it go
Pick up the pen
Unleash the internal creative gem
Address it to the publisher, attach and send
Waiting for the reviews hoping they defend
Earning a few bucks not caring when
Citizens were upset
With the Honey Hornets set
They played dance songs
But it was all wrong
Records being abused
Scratching them when used
Stingers created a vibe
That said let the music die
Before the first forty five ended
Twilight Zone Rod should be commended
Two for Stirling
Hometown hive was swirling
Only to see another pair go by
Relegation staring bees straight in the eye
Four score
Sky Blue headed for the door
“Nice seeing you here
Will be playing for champions league cheer
In the coming year
Tabloid stuff did not work
Honesty was how we popped the cork”
Later in the day Gunners held fire
While Aston’s Villa was put on the tight wire
If this was the end to the show
Arsenal would let them know
First half saw one in
Enough for a claret blue army crucial win
This allowed a table jump
To safety over buzzing hump
No need reporting anything new
Except the canary could be dining on honey dipping stew
In the dungeon
Doing some number crunching
Asking themselves why did we go to that high profile luncheon
Where we did all the munching
There’s none more racist than your Working Man.
Conservative. “Let’s keep it as it is:
just give me Tic-Tac-Toe and Criss-Cross Quiz.”
No greater sexist since the world began –
that foxes have their prices, he’ll accept,
and swallows whole the tabloid rag he reads
(the breasts of teenage girls are all he heeds).
Compassion for his Comrades? Jesus wept!
He’s happy with his Fangios and Faldos,
admires Samantha Foxes, Katy Prices.
His only Cristianos are Ronaldos,
and God alone knows if he’s heard of Isis.
Keep feeding him his Oprahs and Geraldos,
but pray you don’t encounter him in crisis.
Media Tabloid Vixen.
You seem to speak as if from the grave,
a crosswired rig of McGyverse psyops in a
disguised Ministry of Truth Museum Mausoleum.
Report with vampires of halitosis, ad nauseum.
In the dark depths of silence, where truth lies
concealed in sound-bites of sired waves,
video blade, blathe.
Gossips of falsehoods in shadows are revealed
with props in red hand.
Media, you wield power with a venomous tongue
and syphillised gland.
A serpent slithering, with deceitful songs sung with Satan's choir,
commercials brought to us by Lyre extract of Pfizer.
From screens ablaze with flashing lies
and ticker tape subliminal sparks setting fires.
To paper pages stained with compromise
and kerosene dreams.
You speak as if from the grave, a ghostly specter headlined headstone that reads
"Beware all ye that enter our trusts".
Haunting our minds with a twisted lecture,
brainwash or bust.
Your words twist and turn, a siren's call a whores fee.
Leading us astray, watching us fall
to service on our knees.
Beneath the chaos and the black noise you
fabricate then syndicate is the trampled truth altared and sacrificed upon your propaganda machine.
Lies a longing for an alternative source, a desire to set things straight from your ill gotten dis course of the insane.
We are rising up, breaking free from your chains,
"We the People" are more and more listening to
that still small voice that within us remains chaste.
For in the silence, in the stillness
we find time to discover your iconoclast idolatry broadcasts.
The power to reclaim our hearts and minds is still ours in our hands as we rip off your mask.
What natural
Is, tell!
The hawk in tabloid swoop did boast –
Whose sweetened-toil doth but
Stink, becometh it
A merry-menu nutriment.
The floods and the woods
Of their own stead in silent-words
– As a sentry –
Sendeth but a sober plea of a loyal peasantry
O, Nature! Creator! – all alludeth in an apogee
To Thy apanage and earnestly giveth plaudit unto Thee.
The swallow withal doth cheerfully
Gather and spin the straw ready to build wholly
Her empire of great tutelage;
And with her brethren bridally liveth in that age
Of diligent generation, in Thee fully hid
And given to lead like a kid.
What is more natured
Than a frog or toad in water plodded and nurtured?
His severe and heedless howl showeth his joy
To tell that: silent in a grave he shalt be a toy!
And the squirrel the jungle quire bustleth from
Tree to tree defiant of mortal wisdom.
A colossal splendour standeth
Thine sun, whose domain the day standeth;
Withal the moon’s comity: Thou, to her appal,
Bestoweth Thine night colonel –
Both but enlisteth in Thine countless soldiers of stars
Thine extol they effuseth like showers.
No less for praise, joineth the beasts –
In the homes so in the forests!
At peace in war as an influenza, Thine honours –
Man, Thine effigy, intellect and genius, in his hours
Extendeth through the gross of polity
Concurring with each command of Thine policy.
O, the fish speaketh of Thine glory, ingenious!
This inferred from a noisy-silence of her fins;
For she scorneth the indigent effort
Of the fisher whose labour won doth him hurt;
Yet, both creatures in many a varied way
Inditeth for posterity great praises that for Thee doth stay.
Yes, the clouds and the firmaments
Oceans, rivers, seas: all waters in constant movements
Doth in harmony with man and beasts
Arrayed in silent-noisy feasts
Shower in mysterious mirth
Thine glory from endless history and myth.
Yet, I behold the ineffable work bestowed on me;
My limbs, they moveth to second Thine decree!
My eyes, no exception indeed
To the law of my being, so splendid
Are those commands for me safely to live
Tho’ many infamous beings abound to strive!
Form:
Morris is tabloid attracting and affluent
but too extreme to make me
the constant victim of his insults
and a prisoner to his pride.
Curtis is a reflection of current culture.
Yes he is, but that’s not my ride,
so much piercing and tattoos
makes him a human shrine
and a scary movie beyond an adult audience.
Jason has swag beyond the radiance
of an intimidating hip hop mega star
but is it his lips-licking, dressing malpractice
or a voice which is a mixture of rock and reggae?
Not exactly what I’ve dreamt of since childhood.
Matt is modest, corporate and a very find dude.
Business will always be his true love
making me a mere contracted mistress
who will fit in only when rarely needed.
He’s a good guy, but will be a terrible lover.
Okay! Nicholas is another, simple and a soft earner.
What! Low income dudes? Pleeeaaaase!
The heavens and demons aren’t related
so also are the winter and the desert.
I may be a church girl, but one who gives fat offerings.
Oh miss! You are one of a rare kind my dear
since your eyes are microscopic and your taste insurmountable.
Your virtues then would be complete
when you have gross patience so infinitive.
It should then not be a heavy task for you
to wait for the only perfect fit of your choice
because Jesus Christ is coming very soon.
Almost
Decided to make that post
A tweet
That I thought would put on the heat
Entire world could read it
Some may say to me ‘beat it’
Wanted to get things off my chest
Since my blood pressure it did test
Almost I did this vengeful act
Based on an opinion feeling and not fact
Resulting in a meeting where the boss would give me the sack
I said I almost did something like that
Confessing to being a trolling rat
Instead, I caught myself as I sat
And cleared my mind
Decided to decline
Making that post
To the social media ghost
And in the end
No need to defend
My keyboard used instead of a pen
Work I deleted not pressing the button send
So, I will honor my duties of formal host
Giving the award winner the special toast
No telling them what I honestly felt
As they fill their money belt
Tightened in a way
Where it would stay
Silent and quiet
Not stirring any tabloid circus riot
Am I committing a crime worthy of an arrest?
Fibbing about whom was the actual best
In a situation that truly is a mess
Ready to confess
Unless
I went through
With what I was going to do
Almost
Post
About why I did not want to be the tuxedo wearing entertaining host
I’m Mz Mortenson, if you please.
I dispensed with the charade
when I went to my grave.
Life can be tricky
if you’re pretty.
My life was a role,
I couldn’t always control.
How unaware the dumb bombshell seemed.
Still, I was labeled the obscene Norma Jeane.
in reel life’s small doses,
the role was emotionally corrosive,
merely etching away my fragile identity.
In real life it proved erotically explosive
destroying my privacy, serenity, and sanity.
I thrilled in some 29 films, I took a few pills,
was a plaything for mobsters and tabloid mills.
When I started a fling with the president,
did I have any idea what I was up against?
Some free advice - beware of counterintelligence.
Homicide, suicide - what does it matter
- which one is sadder?
I knew I’d always be there for you, sensuously beckoning,
at 24 frames per second, like an eternal flame - flickering.
.
.
Of course, Norma Jeane Mortenson’s stage name was Marylin Monroe
Written for the 'Lost Poetry from History Challenge' contest.
Where you write a poem in the voice of an historical figure.
16:00.06-17