Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Francie Lynch Sep 2018
I've used them on my windows
To see the clear outside,
If I read the Op-eds,
I shudder, shuttered and hide.

I've spread them 'neath my plates and cups,
My shelves all neat and tidy;
But the headlines made it clear to me
My glass is more half empty.

They had a place in the litter box
For **** to scratch and squat;
I laid them round my garden plants,
They made fine insect traps.
Rolled and twirled they'd start a fire,
I could fold them into hats.
They cleaned the grease from BBQs,
And they're safe to pick up glass.
Crumple them for packaging,
They work as school book covers;
Add water and some flour,
To shape papier mache lovers.
Fold seeds in them to germinate,
Then use them for compost;
There's many ways to employ
Your Times and local Post.

But I won't subscribe to Dailies
For the felling of our trees;
And yet I miss my papers,
And the ways they worked for me.
But when enthroned,
You'll hear me grouse,
There's no **** paper in this ****-house.

My cell works well to scroll and swipe,
But it's only good for a virtual wipe.
Joseph S Pete Feb 2018
You’re at a journalism conference
a few years back,
a welcome bit of professional development
that's become increasingly rare
in a time of budgetary leanness,
a rote exercise
whose attendance was padded
by college students, deep discounts
and last-minute appeals.

A speaker said,
look to your left and to your right.
The number of working reporters
has shrunk by a third over the last decade.
Only two-thirds of you are left.

After the last round of layoffs,
another slash of the scalpel
that seems unsustainable,
that seems to bleed off too much,
you notice all the empty desks,
all the absent computers,
how sparse the parking lot looks.
Julie Grenness Aug 2015
As the daily news  I was reading,
Here is the story that was leading,
Zombie spider slaves, wasp masters dictating,
Subsidised fake spider skills,
Wasp masters must be getting their thrills,
I sense an allegory,
Like humanity's history,
Teeming ants in a global rat race,
Pleasing some master's lack of grace.
Same scenario, different day,
Till you retire and fade away,
Who, indeed, are our wasp masters?
Come on, humans, work much faster,
Don't you forget to hurry,
Or wasp masters shall give you curry!

As the daily news  I was reading,
Is there no other news for leading?
Yes, allegory I was perceiving.
Inspired by daily news, feedback welcome.
'
Maria Klara Apr 2015
NOTICE THE POEMS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.
THEY'RE NOT JUST FLOATING AROUND LIKE CLOUDS.
READ THE **** VERSES, IT'S NOT LIKE THEY ****;
BUT IGNORE THEM AND MAYBE IT'S I WHO WILL.

POEMS, I TELL YOU, ARE NOT WASTES OF PRINT,
NOT JUST MANDATED CIRCULATION HINT.
DON'T DARE FLIP THE PAGE WITHOUT LOOKING TWICE.
I TRIED TO WRITE THIS ONE WHILE BEING NICE.

POEMS ARE GROOVY AS ANYTHING ELSE.
I WON'T LET THEM GO DOWN INTO SEVEN HELLS.
READ THESE WORDS, MAYBE, YOU'LL PICK SOMETHING UP.
SOMETHING TO FILL MINDS LIKE LAME EMPTY CUPS.

MAYBE YOU'LL THINK THAT THE RHYMES ARE BORING,
BUT I DISAGREE. HAVE YOU EVER READ GORING?
TRY TO READ OTHER THAT SPORTS OR DULL ADS
IN NEWSPAPERS, MAGAZINES, PUBLICATION FADS.

WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO CAPTURE YOUR BORED EYES...
MAYBE THESE ALL CAPS OF UNCOMMON SIGHS?
DO NOT BYPASS POEMS, THEY'RE NOT ALL SAD ****.
MAYBE YOU'LL FIND YOU SOME HUMOROUS WIT!

READ THE HERE POEMS, I MIGHT NOW SAY PLEASE.
GIVE THE SATISFACTION, THE AUTHOR APPEASE.
****, IF NO ONE READS, TO DEATH NOW WITH WRITING!
GOODBYE TO THE PURPOSE OF *PUBLICIZING.
Alright, so it possibly isn't clear that I was probably mad. I am aware it sounded redundant but it is true. I have had a history of poems rejected for the school paper, even then, I'm bothered by how poems are somewhat the least noticed in any publication. That's just my opinion. No one seems to read them. I'd like to know what my fellow poets think.
Riley Renee Aug 2014
it’s inevitable
we are two waves crashing upon one another from diverse directions
6 feet overpowering a near five
an abundance of sand collected in her toes, painted sunset in season
salt in the crevices of his cracked lips
                       he hasn’t drank since March
wildflowers on her dress and holes in his shoes

it’s faulty
we are racing towards riverbanks: barefoot, unsteady, and homely
this doesn’t feel like home
he’s a moonlit tower, prewar stairwells, and a bright white nail bed
she secretes meteors in her pockets and a jackknife
slopes and curves and hills to stumble
words and doorknobs and photographs to wonder

it’s vexed
we headline in bold faced Georgia
friends concerned themselves with each petty fight
        oh, boy did we
fight until her tongue wore out
his palms scratched to be healed by hers
her mother was on board, she guessed; his mother said yes

it’s bereft
we’re naked on the South lawn
a rose brush picked, prodded, called to question
her hazel eyes lack the ability to cry and cry and cry
his voice, stripped of rage
politics behind the scene
a young widow’s desperation for peace

it’s mass-produced
we’re political maps facing the chalkboard
colored crayons and heel-high socks
pepperoni’s dot her pizza the way she dots her i’s
                       as she writes lyrics of you
he raids the kitchen for her, prying the fridge for her
glinting sparkles in artificial light

it's submitted
we’re chipped steel bracelets
her straw bends forward at a crease
they didn’t realize what factors meant
                                     his version too close to candor
yielded, the missing L on a paper sign
a stranded guitar pick balancing atop city grates and a below ground maze

it’s whatever it may be
and may be whatever it’s
but she and he and I and you
we perch on seven lines of fact
like birds we wallow, and trees we droop
‘til the ending sunrise
where you figure the truth

— The End —