Long Telephoned Poems
Long Telephoned Poems. Below are the most popular long Telephoned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Telephoned poems by poem length and keyword.
There are not one but too many opinions and views.
Not promoting self-growth, but more what you'll lose.
An imagined past of wayward direction.
Now understood through intimate reflection.
Sought after days of laughter and vitality.
Produced by a substance to the pending reality.
Waking up resentful, with dignity scorned.
Wishing you picked up when your conscience telephoned.
Remorse rears its head in numerous ways.
Mainly anxiety-driven for hours and days.
Self-deprecation then societal acceptance.
To atone and excuse our own self-neglectance.
Internalising the notion 'it's just what we do'.
Realising they know a version, non-existent, of you.
They look for that person they created and yearned.
But what was constructed and taught can then be unlearned.
I had over planned this meal, but it did not slow me down.
Decided to grill Iowa home grown steaks with my special sauce.
Threw the potatoes into the oven to bake, big ones I found.
Knew this would be fabulous, a meal to tantalize Joe’s boss.
He and his missus were coming in an hour and a half to dine.
We would have scalloped corn and a fine wine I would chill.
My husband was coming home late, no problem, fine.
I could do this myself, I had done it before. We would eat our fill.
I chopped up the onions and began mixing the scalloped corn.
When finished I notice the oven’s red lights were on the blink.
I opened the oven and it was cold, but I was not yet forlorn.
No problem, I would just jiggle the electrical wire under the sink.
Lights went out, so I revised my plan. We would grill the corn this night.
I telephoned my man and told him to bring home a cake already made.
I would throw the corn onto the grill in patties of aluminum foil, right?
Was anything wrong? I assured him the dinner would be well played.
Time to place the steaks on the grill. I ran out the door to heat it up.
Walked around the yard twice looking for the grill; called my man.
Where is the grill? I asked. Easy. We never used it; I sold it to McChup.
He arrived with guests and cake a few minutes later to my chagrin
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.
I have a horrible secret my 13-year-old best friend confided to me one day at school.
We were between class, and we had two minutes to sprint to our next class, as per the rule.
In opposite directions off course.
I did not hear anything the teacher said that day,
I had wanted to hear my friend, not hear him drool, or look at his hair of fuzz.
He called on me once, and everyone laughed. I had no idea what the question was.
Leukemia? Cancer? My mind was in overdrive.
After school I caught up with her right before she dove into her mother’s car.
What is it? I demanded, eyes big and wide. “Not here,” she told me. “Maybe inside.”
I tried again after I climbed in the car, but she shook her head ‘no’, hushing me.
My mind was going haywire, with the things it could be. Drugs? Her? Could not be.
I telephoned her the second I got inside my house.
What is it? I hollered. “Are you okay?” I was thinking thief, convict, killer, by now.
My imagination was going absolutely a hundred percent berserk as only it knows how.
“I’m a…..”
I pressed my ear harder to the phone. A what?
“A sleepwalker,” she whispered.
I thought I had heard wrong.
A what?
“A sleepwalker,” she hissed.
And I began to laugh.
Sleepwalking is so common in my family, we thought we had invented it.
We sometimes bump heads in our family before we wake up, and I told her this too.
“Sleep walking is nothing,” I shared. “Wait until you have what I have, then you can really boo hoo.
I’m a sleep fighter.”
Ever since I was little if anyone tried to pick me up and carry me to bed,
I would come up swinging fists, straight toward their head.
My dad got a black eye once, when I was about eight,
Because he tried to pick me up in full sleep mode.
Mom tried to signal him, give him a code.
But by the time he caught on, he had a shiner from me.
I have been sleep fighting since the age of three.
We began laughing hysterically, my friend and I.
Sleepwalking is nothing when you are a sleep fighter.
If you do not believe me, you should give it a try.
Written July 19, 2018
Entered Sleepwalking Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
The convict was running from the police.
He chose the wrong woman to rob.
She had grown up with eight brothers.
When he yelled for her to “get out” of her own car
She began to whale on him. She hurt him badly.
He had been hurt less in prison during a jump.
She was interviewed on the news after she hogtied him
And telephoned the police, who were there in minutes.
He is dangerous, they told her. You are lucky.
The convict felt lucky when they showed up.
He was afraid she was going to continue to hurt him.
He was yelling for the cops to come and get him.
She said, “I’ve decked bigger men than him."
Her brothers saw her on TV and cheered.
Knowing they had done what they could
To keep their baby sister safe.
Feeling the pride of brothers.
The convict did not understand what had happened.
He had never had seven brothers.
For many years I have realized that our hearts are very deceptive and unreliable. I cannot imagine how many times my heart has let me down and exposed the dark and negative aspects of it. Please permit me to share just one experience with you.
Thumbing through some old material a few days ago, I came across something that I experienced over 40 years ago and more than 2000 miles away. When I read the notes which had been in my possession for more than 35 years, my soul was enriched because I was sharing about the need for dedicating our lives to God which often demands that we take the initiative to say, "I'm Sorry", not only to God but also to fellow humans, even if we think that we are right.
On January 2, 1983, I referred to an encounter I had with a nurse in or about 1975 in Memphis, Tn. Now, 40 plus years later, I remember being in Memphis, but I don't even remember such an encounter. Had I not recorded the incident, I would not be speaking of it today. My notes reveal that a point was being made about changing our minds and taking the initiative to apologize. My notes also revealed that I was indignant toward the nurse, after which I left the scene and was heading home. Somewhere between that nurse and my home, The Holy Spirit convicted me of my actions and attitude.
Again, presently, I do not remember what really happened, but not only was I convicted by The Holy Spirit, I was compelled by Him to find a public telephone. Before I reached home, I telephoned the nurse and apologized for my behavior.
God knows every detail of what happened that day in Memphis, and I suspect if shown a video of my behavior, I would be embarrassed, to say the least, and perhaps surprised by the anger released from my heart. For many a year, we have heard it said, "Follow your heart". Technically, I do not follow my heart, but I lead my heart. And but for the grace of God, the cleansing blood of Christ, and the compelling forces of The Holy Spirit, I would be forever lost.
02162019PoSpMTFB
Tell Them What You See
Proverbs 25:11 KJV
There once lived a son who at the age of 30, telephoned his 58 year old father.
The son was distraught, dismayed, and depressed. He was unhappy, unable, and unsure.
He said to his father, “Dad, this world is an awful place and so messed up”. He was figuratively seeing dark clouds through dark glasses, and was surely disenchanted and disillusioned.
As he was describing to his father how he felt, and what he saw from where he sat, his father said to him, in a manner to offer a little hope, “That’s not what I’m seeing”.
In figurative terms, what was it that the father saw that the son could not see? The father continued to give him comfort and advice. After they were off the phone, these words came to the father:
“I see rain falling in season, filling all available reservoirs.
I see snow capped mountains, retaining snow in Winter, to be released in Spring, sending water to all”.
The father knew that he could not always rescue his son from bad decisions made, nor even shield him from life’s stinging bees. But he could always be there providing, a “fitly spoken word”, just to tell him “what he sees”.
The father was then refreshed with the understanding, that when a father has done all that he can do to help his sons and his daughters, and there is little else or anything left that he can do, he can always “tell them what he sees”.
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No one understood her at my school, so they came for me
Not the adults in the building, rather the children
Who know me, and thought I could help
I was out of my element.
I know no Spanish,
but I know tears, and recognize sadness.
I took the sobbing woman’s hand and showed her my eyes.
She understood and followed me to my office.
She was weeping, as I have never seen anyone weep.
I telephoned my friend, who works at an abused woman’s shelter
He told me to put her on the phone.
He speaks fluent Spanish
She could not quit sobbing as she cried into the phone
Trying to tell him what she could not tell me
She began to calm down.
He told me to keep her there, to protect her.
Mama Bear me kicked in. I was ready for any battle.
He was there in ten minutes and he whisked her to a safe place.
I do not speak Spanish, but I do speak kindness.
The children knew this, which is probably why they chose me.
My uncle is dead.
Funeral or no funeral?
He was a blue baby; born dead.
Oxygen did not get to his brain in time.
The doctor worked on him too long.
He had multiple mental, social and emotional challenges.
He was sweet talked into a very expensive pre-paid funeral
by a cagey greedy funeral director with no morals.
He signed a contract.
The family could not get the contract annulled.
I have not seen this uncle for fifty years.
He was in a group home for most of that time.
Four people are attending.
I will not make the fifth.
I loathe the funeral home director.
Not relishing spending, one second trying to exchange niceties.
Update
His funeral was not attended by four.
Only two showed up.
That is two more people than he would allow to visit.
The last few years of life he was afraid of people as well as electricity, lightning, thunder, electrical cords, knives, brooms, and sixty other things.
Sadly the two who showed were not speaking.
One being a non-vaxed non-masked niece.
The other being a masked niece wearing a mask.
They both telephoned me to complain about the other.
I truly am glad I did not attend.
Work is my play.
It's a time to be with people and laugh and sing, and teach children how to love themselves.
Work is my sword.
It's heart-felt, and natural, and exciting as things are always being thrown at me.
Work is my life.
Here is an example of what could happen and did:
One time a particularly needy urchin wanted to see me on a daily basis and probably on weekends.
His teacher was eager to send him,
for when she did, she could get a little teaching done.
He was darling, but he did not know it.
No one at his house had told him.
The nineteenth day he showed up, I said, "I'm sorry, but unless someone in your house died, I cannot see you today."
A really smart thing for a school counselor to say, for guess what? He said, "Someone did die."
I apologized profusely, wrapped him in my arms, and plunked him onto my lap as we fell into my office chair.
"I am so sorry, I said. "Who died?"
"My uncle."
"When did this happen?"
"I don't know. We haven't found the body yet."
"Then how do you know he died?"
"We went to his house on Saturday and we knocked and knocked. Then we looked down and Mom said, "See that cat food dish? It's empty. Your uncle must be dead."
Try to keep a straight face now, folks, because that is what I had to do. Then I telephoned Mom, and let her tell her son the miracle, that Uncle was alive.
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