Long Wardens Poems
Long Wardens Poems. Below are the most popular long Wardens by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wardens poems by poem length and keyword.
A classroom is a lonely place
For a child who feels unloved
For a child who sees the sneers
For a child who thinks they understand the whispers
Feeling each ugly one has his name on it
The classroom is a tortuous cell for a child who has moved eight times
A child who cannot read, a child who does not understand numbers
Because they have missed the basics or see things in a different way
A classroom is a teasing place for a child who has no friends,
For a child who is not invited to parties.
For a child whose best friend moved last month.
A classroom is a jail cell for some children
They suspect their wardens are mean and unforgiving
Posing as teachers, but how can they trust them
When they cannot trust their own parents?
Time, to buy our poppies
To remember once again
remember those who died for us
And those who were just maimed
We must also remember
Those, who lost their loved ones
Mothers, sister’s, daughters
Fathers, brothers, son's
What a lot of us can't imagine
What torment that must be
But they all gave their lives for us
To make our country free
In one hundred years
Two wars some endured
lost fathers in the 1st, sons in the last
This fighting is absurd
And still we send our menfolk
To fight the wars abroad
Please end this madness
I beg thee dear lord...
We think we're in recession
But do we really know
The hardships that our grandparents
Suffered against the foe
Bombed out of house and home
Nowhere else to go
Then all neighbours rallied round
To help they were not slow
Rationing came about
For food, for clothes, for fuel
From just scrag ends of meat
Made appetizing gruel
Women took over men’s jobs
In factories, farms and such
Blackouts, sirens, shelters
Hardship there was much
Army, air force and navy
Were not the only ones
But fire-fighters, nurses, doctors
Air raid wardens, everyone
They all played some part
In winning against the foe
Many lost their lives
A dreadful way to go
Some might say its better
To die instantly my friends
For many, many suffered
In agony till the end
We can’t possibly imagine
What it's like there at the front
Many months of fighting
With no end in sight
In trenches,
Your comrades all about you lying
Water logged and stinking,
Lying, crying, dying.
So please stand in silence
Remember, remember them
They fought for our freedom
Our women and our men
He’s a modern Harold Steptoe
With his reclamation machine
Very few planets on the Galaxy
On which he’s not already been.
He’s got every known Wormhole
Marked on his Galaxy Survey Map
And he proceeds always with caution
In case the bizzies have laid a trap.
He likes to arrive early morning
An hour or two before dawn
And if it’t not well tied down
In a blink of an eye it’s gone.
Atomised and miniaturised
And stored in a stasis cell
Until he finds the right market
Where he’s knows it will sell.
He’s a bit of a cultural joker
With his sophisticated tricks
His speciality these days being
Making unlikely civilisations mix.
Archaeologists and Architects
Ponder their theories witn great care
As to how the Temples of Angkor Watt
Had suddenly been built just there.
The Galactic Culture Police Force
Know exactly just who’s been.
It’s our Modern Harold Steptoe
And his reclamation machine.
For too many eons they’ve tried
With red and embarrassed faces
To explain to Planetary Wardens why
They suddenly have large empty spaces.
He’s a modern Harold Steptoe
With his reclamation machine
Very few planets on the Galaxy
On which he’s not already been.
The bizzies want him desperately
But he’s very seldom seen
And by the time they get there
It’s too late he’s already been.
(ALLITERATION)
Cows milked: mitigated mooing in the meadows then
Weaving on the warp, some workaholic women
Harvest of hapless halibuts on hooks
Bookish book-worms buried in books
A palomino and a pony patter on the paving
Hucksters and hawkers hawking every housing.
Ravers out on the razzle raising a raucous razz-ma-tazz
Beavers busy building beaver-dams but about it quite blasé.
Doves cooing in divine chorus
Frogs frisking out of focus
Horoscopes are hocus pocus.
Tidal waves of tsunami treacherously tread
Sea-anemones scattered upon the sea-bed.
Geraniums genuflecting in jungle-like gardens
Hunters wary of wandering wild-life wardens.
All this when I ventured about videotaping
Nature's much nicer even with no landscaping
These are direly different scenes from different parts of the globe
Perhaps like a space probe's kaleidoscopic poetic probe
( this poem has every letter of the alphabet except x)
Welcome to the British isles, where cash is flowing
Where much resides, history on every side of killer
Kings and queens provide, a tapestry of style and wiles
Villan's and villein and many wreckers; rode tides; attuned to
The chance to profit as much, was all their integrity as such
These brigands did thrive, just as long as the lord wardens
Purse, got more than a song? i e; reimbursed' collaterol does open doors
As many a knight, and damsel and burghers have sworn upon
Like those who rested at saltwood; just before they got to
Canterbury grand, on holy stones they stalked a man.' And
Slaughtered Thomas saint of God, then reported to henry
Of tudor blood, and so it was..Come and see the ancient
Walls, and briney sea, here normans landed and saxons
Fought.' Celts forged metal and Romans did route, and built
The roads, as arrows straight up and out' to Yorks
City gates, where vikings shouts once rang out' along the river Ouse, they husbanded cattle, and and fasioned shoes.' Here cash is welcome
In the modern day, here freedom is valued.' Despite the
Rage and run; of hostile agents, and past lockdowns glum, some despot
Would be's are in the wings, poisened of tounge with
Readied slings, yet never mind, come in freedoms name
Unleash some cash, and get some heritage in your veins.'
in a matter of unsurpassable projection she pulled the trigger
did not have a license to kill with her words but exclaimed
‘everything is wrong and it is entirely and exclusively your fault’
not quite so eloquently but she hit home whose home and why
no matter what the intent had been causes have consequences
‘I am not going to tell you where the faults lie find out yourself’
he should have packed his bags or hers right at that moment
but there were kids to consider and he took the wicked assault
to heart wrecked his mind and soul reasoned and felt empty
questioned quite perplexed why she had never voiced her concern
‘you would have and never will change just like your late father’
and that hurt like a missile propelled at defenceless innocence
he tried to comprehend and negotiate a path to mutual resolution
failed miserably got depressed and dug himself into a prison
with self imposed wardens of melancholy and moribund sadness
the years have passed and she now sits alone in her ivory tower
whereas he ventured on the hard journey of soothing his wounds
new wife new occupation happiness and he lived around the globe
one constant is that she could not turn the children against him
they remembered the hands on father whom they did not reject
today a poet he weaves verses meaning streams consciousness
learnt a few lessons smoothened a few edges of error and terror
did not think much about her attack for change needs forgetting
and that while she kept the money he had been set entirely free
she was right because she prevented him from changing with her
08th Augus 2020
Mommy, Uncle Turned Out Okay
Mommy, uncle took me to the zoo today
We tried holding hands but I ran away
My little legs ran around the elephants
Turning a deaf ear to uncle's yells and rants
Did you know his face's funny when he yells
All afternoon he kept ringing my bell
Ding dong, ding dong, come back here
Guess what, mommy, I hid and disappeared
My little legs found a bush by the lions
And I could see uncle searching and crying
Big buckets of water rained from his face
Mommy, uncle's eyes bulged as he gave chase
Mommy it was so funny to see uncle, red
That passerby's looked me on with dread
Then two wardens appeared out of nowhere
Taking me away from uncle's blank stare
I raised three fingers when asked my age
Then I pointed to my uncle drenched in rage
They kept a straight face and wanted to laugh
I then ran over to uncle like a young baby giraffe
Uncle, my cousin's been a bad influence on me
My eyes pointing to the monkeys in the tree
A rare chuckle slipped through my uncle's lip
A first of many on the remainder of our trip
connie pachecho
7/19/17
They fly around our streets in packs
We see them lurking almost every day
Don’t misjudge them in time or place
Or there will be more than hell to pay
Their beady eyes don’t miss a trick
Yellow jackets hover like pesky flies
One minute late and they will sting
The fine will be paid in painful cries
Arrive at your car in plenty of time
Don’t get there with a second to spare
Your car is marked, and they will swoop
Those yellow jackets make people swear!
Inspired after seeing two parking wardens in our village today.
(In the UK the traffic wardens wear black and yellow jackets)
08-31-17
Breaking free from collusion
A watch tower stands tall a look out in the circular prisons
surrounded by wardens laying down prescriptions and rules
with us in the centre fragmented in dead ends and schisms
mirrored glass no one inside we internalise as obedient fools
At the gate high walls conscience barriers and road blocks
imagined barbed wire where we pay fines in constant delusion
monitored in constriction we fail to walk outside of that box
abide by dogma norms lack vision to approach our confusion
Afraid of cul de sacs dead ends stop signs for individual drive
we halt and abide arrested immobilised for society’s sake
accept torturous certainty admit to all guilt and as we shrive
cannot distinguish from needs what is causing us mind ache
Roundabout’s exits guarded by our very own straight jackets
we spin around like puppets on strings to our master’s delight
The ‘panopticon’ demands obedience and we cannot attack it
for lack of conviction rebellion introspection rigorous insight
Unless we break free from chains of what others demand
disregard our dreams our beauty default on individual virtue
the road ends at a four way stop where forever we stand
disunited abolished forgotten and constant imagined taboo
4th January 2017
Written for contest: At the end of the road
the heat presses down like a drunk cop’s boot,
metal fences shiver in the sticky Florida sun,
concrete walls spit their old secrets at you,
black mildew crawls across everything,
like it's alive and goddamn winning.
men with broken teeth laugh in corners,
playing cards with cigarette ashes and dreams,
the guards walk slow, like they own death,
keys jangling like a bad symphony,
boots scuffing, breaking the silence open.
sweat pools in the cracks of your skin,
rats wiser than the wardens,
paint peels in long strips, like shedding snakes,
you hear screams, sometimes,
but mostly you hear the waiting.
somewhere far off, a dog barks—
but not for you, not for you.