Long Transmission Poems
Long Transmission Poems. Below are the most popular long Transmission by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Transmission poems by poem length and keyword.
Misplaced but Comfort Full in this Serene Space
I Once Knew Where I was going
Now Disoriented, Struggling with not Knowing
Redirected to the Shadowy Unknown
Fallen Deity, Disrobed, Dethroned!
As I Sit on a Cloud of My Imagination
Gazing at my Reflection in an Aquamarine Stream
Surrounded by Ultra Violet Lights' Radiant Beam
I wish to stay Here Awhile
To Seek the Fragments of My Being I Misplaced, to Remember
The Gem I Concealed in The Sapphire Vale of Splendor!
Eluded am I, In this Familiar Place
Staring at my Reflection in an Amethyst Mirror
Behold My Tattered garments, Heavily Ladened, I Shiver
Am I a Piece of a Discarded Puzzle? I Ponder!
Here I choose to Stay,
Wrestling with My Thoughts until Night turns to Day!
I Regard the Citrine Sunset In the Horizon
As I Shed Skins That no longer Fit Mimicking Trees Shedding leaves
Searching, Seeking Wishing Stars Sunken In the Opal Pool Whilst Cool Autumn Breeze Tease
Soul Under Contract to Serve Brief Intermission, Yearning, Anticipating Deliverance,
Is this what I Desire or What I Deserve? Interval Transmission?
In This Eternal Dimensional Sphere, Vacant Vessel, I Patiently Await
For The Glorious Bedazzled Dew Drops Of Dawn to Replenish My Plate
She wasn't worth much
But I loved her I did
Like nothing I loved before
She was rusty and dusty
She didn't smell good
And had a dent in her passenger door
I was only sixteen
Thought I was cool
Driving around feeling badder than bad
The greatest feeling on earth
To have your own wheels
Even though she belonged to my dad
There was a tear in the front seat
And the radio was broke
It took a while to start
With a manual choke
She had a manual transmission
And the headlights were weak
She had a miss in the engine
And a slight oil leak
But I held up my head and felt like a star
Driving around in that rusty old car.
Kids don't seem to have love affairs with their vehicles anymore. This was a
black 1950 two door Ford coup. The memories were priceless.
I never thought I needed to tell you,
Thought that was something you learned as you grew,
From listening to your parents talking about what to do,
Before they go,
And you did get a sneak peek at someone with eyes
no longer able to appreciate the view.
So, now is the time to stop pretending it is not true,
And accept that there is an end date, even for you.
If you want to prolong your stay,
And see more children play,
Leaving no debts for others to pay,
Knowing you had said all you needed to say,
Then in Isolation you should stay.
I hope you have not skipped class halfway through the session,
Before I ask this question,
If you are determined to continue your mission?
While in transmission,
Who else will no longer be in a position,
To man their station,
Because you gave them no consideration,
Due in part to multiple failures to right the misconception,
That you are an exception.
Just scrap metal in your bellow?
Is your pedal, mellowed old?
Poor old friend, you've lost your wheels
You dream in color, of rubber burning,...
where coughed exhaust, was left behind.
Now we're lost, two junk yard pals
Relics, that have rusted time.
Just a pile of dented fenders,
suspended… here, in desert sand.
Jammed and stacked, we'll make a pact
perhaps the two of us can make a dime.
A part of you, a part of me.....perhaps they'll make some artsy thing
Snap, crackle, hot and Popular Mechanic,
They should come and fix us up
Woe is you! You junk yard dog,
something smolders in your trunk!
Smells of socks, perhaps a skunk?
Once so dandy, someone's bug
Not so handy, you can't move.
How many horses, under that hood...?
I would push you if I could !
Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours
I'd paint you blue, and paint you bright,
If I could, to set you right
New transmission, lubed and oiled
Anti freeze to make you sneeze
Honest Engine, we'll get our kicks,
I'll fix you up, and grab the stick
Headin' down Route 66........
Get off me blockhead......we are fixed !
_____________________________________________________
12/10/14 For The "East Jesus" contest: Image number 5
Sponsored by Roy Jergen
How has it dawn on us so soon when we hadn’t even achieved much?
Why has the marketplace ceased to buy and sell so scanty the streets wither away
The clouds becomes more darkened as smokes ascend randomly our fields are on fire
We can feel the rain but it has lost its coldness
I hear more voices than I usually heard
This time of crying and wailing rather than chatting and hailing
Voices
chanting and singing songs of war
Dust and gun powders like fog fill the air,
with great rumble the battle rages
The long night tarry on nobody has awakened
Some privileged to pass on to the other side
Total transmission from what we see now
Carcasses litter the streets as we run from pillar to post
Yet not so sure where the lot may fall
Great assets lost in hot zones, they shouldn’t have taken the guns,
Gravesides more frequent than bedsides
When did we become such serious foes?
That tears can’t seem to mend?
We let our children die by our own hands and still squeeze our sorry faces
How valuable is this trophy, hope it’s worth the pains we are feeling now?
We match in battalions, onward we go
Faces brimming with boldness and courage,
Though fear still takes its partition
We leave behind loved ones not so sure,
like walking into the lions cave to kill or be killed
Jumping over strip wires, nice try
Only to step on landmines
A time to team up with death taking from one end
While it continues from the other side in its own way
Orphans, widows and widowers we make at will that which we had once pitied
What caused this sudden change?
So unfortunate many fighting ignorantly yet arrogantly
Now we pull down our once fancied walls to build more refugee camps and fill them
We overstretching science and make of men expendables
A time we show how much we can take
What we depict now is wickedness rather than strength
In this game
Winners are
Always
Rude
in the fragility of dreams lies their opportunity
to chose between the royal road to consciousness
and a random clutter of misfiring synaptic transmission
cotton wooled clouds harvest seeds from a fallen day
gift a single candy apple or fruit basket case assembly
grow roots as they float into visions and fanciful exposure
at their will they dare to collect a soothing fragrance
of cinnamon and lavender perfume and scent at slumber
evaporate in doubtless measure a myriad of sacred rest
as harbingers in disguise even nightmares offer redemption
once taken to the task in search for terrors’ cause and signs
they speak uncomfortable truths like courageous guides
delicate in their ephemeral essence they tease illusions
highlight unspoken boundaries and sound divisions
which interpolate conflicting reason with emotions
frangible reliability enters realms of disbelief and faith
when morpheus wanders paths of underworld’s mystery
and that fragility reveals the strength of passing dreams
18th May 2020
I want to be that guy
that knows how to fix a transmission
or put a cabin together, with only an axe.
However, I am that guy
who wanders hardware stores
picking up Swiss Army knives
and dreaming of conquering nature
by whittling a thousand sticks,
or of constructing furniture
using only an awl and a spokeshave
not having a clue what they are
or do.
I am that guy
who hunts for the perfect tool box
for his Swiss Army Knife and Screwdriver,
who dreams of working in the garage
on a project so diabolically engineered
that it only requires
a Swiss Army knife and a screwdriver
to take it apart.
If society ever breaks down
I hope I will know
how to create a preppers kingdom
defended by boobytraps.
In any hardware store I can be seen
searching for boobytrap kits
traps that can be easily assembled
with a spokeshave and an awl.
Florida’s virus guidelines are available on demand
stand a little closer, they’re written in the sand.
Houston’s completely open - we have been for a while
Infections are really up here - but resisting’s not worthwhile.
Infection transmission science has a glossy magazine
full of sexy models to stoke the immunologist’s dreams.
Diseases follow patterns that are easily explained
but science can only help us when rationality is maintained.
Trump insists it’s over - the Pandemic was a fake.
The President even lies - when his supporters are at stake.
You have to sign a waver to participate in the show
so if you get infected - you can’t pretend you didn’t know.
If California may hear
In between eyes clerical
and Justices Repeal
Both names
Have been titled
Titled as an altered code
and violation of building standard
Becomes currency
Contempt of Congressional Ledger
Perhaps suffices
3650 characters left
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This is a law
Poverty law
Poverty of dwelling on a matter
A matter of worth
Creating a slaves hide
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Email verification of transmission between The Supreme Court
And myself
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is a date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.