Long Utility Poems
Long Utility Poems. Below are the most popular long Utility by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Utility poems by poem length and keyword.
Helen's brick house
was built by her grandpa James
with a specific design in mind:
the front black cross-windows
riminded one of Christ's sorrows;
when the off-white roll shades opened
the neighboors saw Helen wearing a rosette
on her blouse she herself had created
on a foot paddle sewing machine...
copying it off a Cosmopolitan magazine.
The porch's wood was cracked and faded
not a perfect dispay for begonias,
amaryllis, hydrangeas and roses
that Helen watered on drought days
to perserve them, never to be whitered
by a lack of rain when the grass yellowed.
A staircase led to her bedroom kind of mystique,
the queen bed was covered with macabre art linen sheets
and had a wrought-iron bedframe almost an antique;
often Helen heard whipers of folks who had lived
there, and she wondered if it was her imagination or dread:
" Dead people are harmelss, only living people harm others! "
No garden in that neighbohood was prittier than hers,
sweet Alyssum, purple Ageratum, white Alemone growing
under Japanese maples and strawberry trees so tempting
made it so harmonious and so lively that amazed others;
would it been complete without the merry warblings
of the canaries,of the mockingbirds and of the wrens?
The roof shingles needed replacement, they often fell down on piled logs,
and Helen stocked them up neately in a corner to save money later on;
her income was kind of low and expensive utility bills kept on coming in,
the pension her husband left her was spent on food, not on luxury goods.
When rain fell the front lawn and garden became fens able to transform
their loveliness, hundreds of leaves were left by the last tropical storm;
and Helen was saddened staring at the devastation of the lovely grass,
only the day before she got rid of those ugly weeds hiding the wild violets
and the crimson clove along the fence where birds built their nests...
I can imagine how helpless she felt seeing such devastation in minutes!
The faded timber door fought severe winters and they lasted night-long,
spring brought pleasant days, it stood open to greet their fragrance;
no thief invaded a house protected by good spirits and benevolence,
God was there and that made Helen feel at home where she belonged.
Zap wowie electricity is so safe
And dangerous simultaneously
One can generate electrons and spark ‘em up
Horde them, sell them, pay endless utility bills for them
Make the wealthy more powerful or ...
One can just gather them up, them electrons
Share ‘em and its free power for all ...
For everyone to enjoy -
Share the wealth, save the humans and Earth
Solve the riddle and expose
The biggest hoax of the Century, even puzzling us geniuses
Sending Mankind backwards into caves
The biggest failure of the industrial age
Like possibly a genocidal potential rage
That evil has cloaked as “progress”
Meanwhile, we keep on driving our caves on wheels
That pollute our air and take us nowhere important
Perhaps, to drive pass the local nuclear power plant
That too is not clean energy and doesn’t resemble a plant
And are ticking time bombs just waiting to be a disaster
Distractions of false hope with windmills, solar panels and long-life batteries
All end up in dumps with a toxic price tag not so good for us
No, the reality is ...
Electricity is everywhere, all around us
Generated for millennia by Mother Earth herself
Spinning around and around the Sun.
If you’re coming to your senses ...
Shocking the monkey on your back with both eyes wide open
Your hair should be standing upward on end
By now from this political abuse
Or you just plainly start feeling gypped
Then you’ve been teslacuted!
Like me.
It started in three thousand BC
When for survival, warning sounds were key
These utility communications
Building sender-receiver relations
Secular signs, religious ritual
The use of bells became habitual
Calling to worship or tolling the hours
Announcing events all from bell towers
Locating bells for pet rabbits and cats
For goats in the hills and cows on the flats
Such animals of all manner and form
Even the lead camel in a sand storm
What news of the ship in faraway seas?
Lutine strikes two as it sails on fresh breeze
Westminster must keep to the where and when
By the hour bell of the great clock, Big Ben
Times have changed, we live in this modern place
Technology seeps and invades our space
Now digital gizmos replace the bell
All that’s left is to sound its own death knell
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2nd place in the Bells premier contest. Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues. Contest Judged 12/12/2023.
The sequel to this poem is Bell rings which you can find in my poems.
The Common Good
Rice pudding with cinnamon serves the common good
Razor blades on wrists do not
Utility of perfection is perfected knowing God and nature
Playing with the devil and dark forces ends in dread
Of course ice cream is still delicious when served cold
Arsenic is not nutritious or so we’re told
Naturally sex is fun and should be taken under advisement
Leaping from a plane without a parachute has unpleasant consequences
Walking on pavements is a solid, concrete and more constructive thing to do
Leaving babies in hot cars to fry is still a crime
It is better to sleep through life if you are so inclined
Doing good, being well, is always within your grasp
But someone, probably you, will have to cut the grass
It is keeping up the neighborhood
For the common good; like cinnamon and pudding
Agnevee was particular and pertinacious.
People avoided her on the street.
She always had a cause, a candidate, a platform, a drive or a charity to talk up.
Agnevee’s pertinacity was well-known. She would not budge from any position.
It was laughable, silly, deemed crazy.
Her own relatives gave her the wrong time so she would be an hour late.
Agnevee’s neighbors cringed when they saw her come to her window.
They got in their cars and drove off when they saw her through her front door.
When she entered a store, utility company or post office, people scattered.
Conversations quickly dissipated, ceased, and were not resumed
upon Agnevee’s arrival. She had one friend, Bella, and she asked her about it.
Bella was new in town, and had no idea what was happening.
But the longer Bella and Agnevee were friends, the easier it was for Bella
to see what the trouble is. If she said brown, Agnevee corrected her, and called it copper.
If she said something nice about a candidate, Agnevee handed her pamphlets disparaging her.
Her fervent opinions were so deeply rooted, that she soon was not welcome
in Bella’s home either. So she wandered around, in her own nightmare, of her own making,
waiting for the next newcomer to move to town.
God is watching you. He is watching me
Whether you are a believer or godless
He is ringing the dinner bell, come home
Heaven's table is crowded with the dead
Stay away a little longer to make room
Don’t do anything to shorten your life
Don’t be in the wrong place at the wrong time
He doesn't seem to care if you run away
Your grave will be your seat at the table
Watch me head to the liquor store instead
How can a Father not see, I need rescue?
I guess that’s what 5150 is for when lost
A shot of Zyprexa to take away loneliness
Is He tempted to reach out to innocents?
He's all powerful, but sent out his broken Son
Leaving me with a devil who watches over me
Making me wonder if its eyes are mine
Shut off my brain calling me home
Perhaps that’s why I reach for the bottle
A pacifier for grown-ups without a guardian
Accept us however we crawl, do more than look
This day has already gone to hell, intervene
I’ll wake up tomorrow fresh as a wilted daisy
Will He look for me when I'm wasted?
Perhaps He'll applaud silently from His last supper
How well I walk to the gallows, weighted down
Tear off my nametag. His touchless gaze maddens
Everyone comes home when their sentence is up
I look up at the cruel sun, but don’t see Him
I just hear the damn triangle banging faith
I begin to see like He does, the utility in a vapor
Why does He make faith so impossible?
I guess I’ll watch my water fall and rise
Like His favorite Son's blood on the cross
Feeling abandoned by his gaze
The howling wind without feather or crown
Swept through the town like madman on a ladder
Huffing and puffing and inflating its gut and breath
Stagnant air all over the prosperous town,
zinc start flying like bullets from the roofs
chopping down trees in the outrageous breeze
Smashing windows and tearing down houses
and the wind and water mixed with earth
choaks the life out of the destitute town.
Broken bridges falls into the sea and
And homes that once stood firm are buried in the ground
Boats are floating around the broken towns searching
For their owners all around but they are nowhere to be found
They are all washed away and drowned a hundred miles down south
Nature has erupted once more scattering the villagers on the
Ocean floor, no one is breathing, no one is talking,
The ferocious wind has battered the town and not
a sign of life can be seen around,
The water is rising and utility poles are on the ground
With twisted wires wrapped around uprooted trees and transformers
On the ground waiting to explode
What on earth have they done to deserve this beating from nature?
The entire city is blown away and all the animals have gone away
They have lost everything and they have to start from the beginning
The city that once stood firm in the ground has been spotted in the
Middle of the sea with a pile of rubble moving towards the shore.
I wonder
How far we’ll go
So desperate for heroes who are first
Criminal enterprises
Romanticized as rebels
Lies wrapped in a maybe-he-could-make-it-all-better?
From what?
To what?
We do not consider
Perhaps for lungs
A bowl of water
A slice of sun shone through a winter window
If I had fingers
I’d perch atop an Oak
Squawk to the mountainous clouds
Construct a nest from its torn cotton
If I had wings sharpened by a falcon
I’d drink the egg-rims of Saturn
Return to Earth
A different person
My milestones of shame truly forgiven
But that is as impossible
As utility pole lines heavy with crows of time
My descendants already cupped from the sand
Castles
Moats
Draw bridges
Guards lined along the walls with weapons
Drawn
A priest edging the ear of the new King
But not for purposes of truth
He seeks his own hold on power
Will deliver the masses
Who will suffer oppression
And poverty
Hunger disease and war
The remembrance of a once-was-my-house
With laughable heat and light and glass and wood
And brick mortared together in order
As it always is
Cities inside the walls will crumble
Into utter shocking misery
From our neglect
Our blindness
Our mute swan unfolded between our legs
It never seemed possible
But neither did the aftermath of a starved body
Reduced to caves and scouring ants
Ribs gathered by an archeologist
Ladders
Lowered
Into our graves
Of blame
When greed
That original hunger
Was both the first and final hour.
Character.
That's where the biggest measurements,
truest tests of worth
should lie.
And yet, 'tis not so.
Sometimes, mostly, I believe
that it's indeed enough.
That being a good man
is enough to keep me afloat.
Sometimes, rarely, . . .
I don't.
How many good men die?
How many great people, nice guys,
saintly women, shining paragons of humanity -
are shunned?
People don't always look at you
with virtue in mind,
don't gaze through honor's eyes;
too often they look through you, into you,
to what you can do for them.
Too often they choose,
not to see the real source of light in front of them,
but instead just the glow of fool's gold;
warping your worth to mean usefulness
instead of selflessness,
utility instead of altruism.
Or they misread you entirely;
focusing solely on your looks,
or your wealth, or your mannerisms,
your attitudes;
one is chosen, only one is seen -
the one made to blemish and demean.
Very few gaze on the whole picture,
take in the whole work;
these are those you treasure.
The ones, also, of value,
the ones who are what they claim
and claim little more than living
in a respectable way.
But still, in this life,
character matters oft too little;
gathers all but nothing corporeal.
In the end, one must make a choice;
tangible wealth, or wealth of pride?
What matters to one more -
the character of the substance,
or the substance of the character?
I strive to continue
to believe that great people are there;
that who you are
makes a damn bit of difference.
But throughout that strife,
ever am I haunted, shadowed,
by one ceaseless question.
How many good men die?
That's it. That's what I want to know.
That's what follows and taunts me.
How many of them fall, without ever knowing
just what they've meant to those they've helped -
those they've served, protected, assisted, befriended?
Whether it was a much-needed pat on the back,
picking up a dropped cane, searching for something lost;
or something bigger -
a life given, an oath fulfilled,
a love or a friendship began and striven for -
how many never believe they've made a difference, however slight,
never realize what they truly were?
How many good men die,
having once or more asked a question of their own -
am I a good man,
was I a good man-
without their answer?
The Damnable Sin of Self-righteousness.
All of our leaders have their different views of human rights.
Our leader has repeatedly resisted calls to assume the moral leadership that is expected from. Rage, hatred, and bigotry are spreading like a wheat field on fire. Lie after lie, has cemented like and ant hill filled with fire ants. Do we want to live in a country ruled by a ruler with total power over our country; with maybe a result of genocide in our nation? Thousands of children might now become homeless orphans.
manipulation
sorrow, tide of fury grows
where are the children
His self-righteousness is destroying the future of human lives. People are out of work, which adds up to, no food on the table, no insurance for healthcare, car, or home. Not enough money to pay the house and utility bills. Will they be out on the street joining the thousands of homeless people!
When is this going to end?
I look at my hands
dark brown, green, black, red, yellow
with each heartbeat felt
6/28/2018