Long Alfie Poems
Long Alfie Poems. Below are the most popular long Alfie by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Alfie poems by poem length and keyword.
I often sit at red lights
feeling like a voyeur
peering into car windows
playing a guessing game
who are you
where are you going
another Alfie in the world
What's it all about anyhow
and I wonder
Sometimes a driver catches my eye
but quickly looks away
pretending our eyes didn't meet
there's a law against getting personal
with those tethered to a smart phone
horns blow with impatience
ending my reverie
but I wonder
What do the Alfies seek
as they rush from place to place
worried faces without names
moving pieces on a board game
driving SUVs to and fro
which way should I go
and I wonder
lesson five
meals won’t be fun
alone
the clock will ring noon
i’ll hear myself say
o no, not again ~
then it will ring six
with the echo of
o no, not again ~
of course
dinner time might be
a little more encouraging
with a glass of wine
but i’ll have to make an effort
to remember to still eat something
i’ll be reminded of times
even when work was cleared to one corner
setting up the table for a tête-à-tête
being always romantic and intimate
but it will never be the same
i’ll forever miss the chatting over dinner
the winding down of us being together
needing to build new rituals around meals
reminds me of the widow who would set her best china
placing her framed photo of Alfie every evening just so
candles lit and ever gracefully pouring her glass of wine
before proceeding to dine with her Alfie ...
right at this moment that doesn't sound so crazy at all
it may be worth trying variations until something works
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~TODAY I LEARN TO BE A WIDOW~ 2020
AP: 1st place 2021
There's a lady farmer from Seattle
Who doesn't snore but moos aloud as cattle
She will only lay
On a bed of hay
Where sheep can't sleep for her rowdy rattle.
*+*+*+*
There is a woman that comes from Belgium
Who has been blessed with an enormous bum
She carries her kids
Upon her wide hips
And gets her chores done whilst they’re having fun.
*+*+*+*
There once was a skunk who’s heart was sunk
Because someone had told him that he stunk
So he bathed in perfume
Which got rid of his gloom
And started to strut feeling alike a hunk.
*+*+*+*
Pal Alfie jigged alike a raging fire
What's it all about, I had to enquire
He said he must hurry
He'd made a hot curry
And his innards were a furnace afire.
Alfie went scurrying off to the loo
I followed him to ask what I could do
He said "Just hold your nose”
“I'm ready to explode"
He did and the roof it exploded too.
We were both covered in debris and slate
And pondered how we could ever escape
Then the firemen arrived
And we’re staying alive
Now for our sakes no more curry he’ll make.
*+*+*+*
My wish is that a sweet tune I could sing
Much joy to my heart it would truly bring
I sound alike a goat
With a frog in my throat
And so I cannot sing my ding a ling.
*+*+*+*
4th November 2022
My dorm room was bright this morning. It was disorienting.
The sky outside was a cloudless, striking neon blue.
The air was so crisp and clean, I could hardly feel it going in and out.
It all sparked to create a diffused sense of well-being.
Gone, it seems, were the concrete bunker feels of winter.
There's been some loose talk of ‘spring’ lately—I thought it was fake news—but from my third floor lattice windows I could see what looked like people outside. They were walking in the sunshine, riding bikes, throwing frisbees, kicking ??hacky sacks, a couple was making out in the grass—it was a riot of activity.
Sunny skiffed out of her room (which looks like a hotel room trashed by some rock star), she seemed lighter than air. Three days ago, she announced there was someone of “particular personal significance,” in her life (translate: girlfriend).
Start the schmaltzy, string-drenched soundtrack—love is in the air.
Our challenge now is to carve out a poised and measured final act to our undergraduate years. There’s a scurrying, cynosure, beehive, hyperfocus to labs and classes, a heightened, almost cinematic quality, as if, up to now, we’ve only been practicing for some undefined ‘real thing.’
.
.
Songs for this:
Daylight by Harry Styles
Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing by Michael McDonald
Dizzy (feat. Alfie Templeman & Thomas Headon) by chloe moriondo
.
.
Skiffed = narrowly missed hitting someone
If only I could hibernate
To awaken in the spring
To see sweet swathes of snowdrops
A welcome sign as spring begins
With daffodils and hyacinths
And tulips on their way
And pretty blue forget me nots
In gentle breeze shall dance and sway
The sun she rises higher in the cloudless bluest sky
Great feelings of expectation with every passing day
If only I could hibernate
Just like my tortoise Alfred the Great
For Alfie has the best idea
Snuggling down this time of year
Tummy full
And time to sleep
Not missing winter chills
Or other seasonal ills
I will awaken to spring sunshine
When all around is sparkling
Birdsong t'will infuse the air
There will be green shoots everywhere
Melodious love songs birds shall sing
To celebrate first day of spring
So now as I retire to bed
Snuggling ‘neath my duvet
Time for me to hibernate
And sleep until that special date
When sunshine takes the chill away
I’ll open up my eyes and say
hip hip hurray ~ it's spring today
‘tis time for me to celebrate
my happy springtime birthday date
Written 14th November 2020
I did not expect
to sing
"What's It All About,
Alfie?"
with as much embarrassing 60s passion
as I did
in my urgent
pre-traumatic midlife
self-critical 30s.
I thought,
by now,
I would resiliently remain swimming,
singing while dancing,
swirling in abundant win/win
economic ecologies
of deep polycultural meaning
and wide multigenerational
bipartisan wisdom
And not so much stomping
and storming
to merely win/lose survive
each anthro-supremacist competition
against MotherEarth
RightBrain disenabling
openly defying golden eco-democratic health
systemic win/win game
optimization rules
Because of LeftBrain supremacist confusion
about what MeWe bicameral balance
is all co-passionately about
EarthTribe secular LeftBrain health
is also RightBrain divinely endowed
safe anthro-wealth
Panentheistically felt
indigenously green cooperative
ecotherapeutic WholeEarth
neurosystemic wisdom
CoInvested communion,
reconnecting,
Earth healing
anthro-compassionate
resonant
bicameral
bipartisan resilience
Which seems to be what loving
enlightened
empowering
Democratic health
of wealth
is all about.
The mystery
The mystery of life is enduring
what is its purpose?
A couple having sex on grandfather´s sofa
while he is out milking his two cows.
The consequences of this brief union
was far from the couple´s mind.
So, I ask again, what is life´s purpose?
Was there a plan behind it?
Winning the toughed race and be born?
Or was it only a happendash?
Something a spur of the moment encounter
Was the newborn destined to become great?
And leave behind the immensity of the human mind
So, the individual could understand its meaning
“what was it all for, Alfie?”
The devil had a good day bringing forth another loser
doomed to the lowest rung of the ladder
and bring the idiot´s genes further down the abyss.
Often in our language, opposites mean just the same
To anyone trying to learn it, confusion’s the name of the game.
People fill a form in, when they’re filling it out
As Alfie was fond of saying, “What’s that all about?
Up and down are opposites, a fact you can’t deny.
Yet ‘slow up’ and ‘slow down’ are synonymous; I’ve never worked out why.
Set fire to a house and it burns up, while it’s burning down.
Having raised it to the rooftop, you can raze it to the ground.
Now slim means the opposite of fat, so I really wish I knew
How a slim chance means there’s not much and a fat chance means that too.
There are other contradictions that puzzle me as well.
How can we sometimes have noses that run, while having feet that smell?
And if writers write and actors act why is it do you suppose
That you never see a finger fing or see a grocer groce?
And don’t get me started on plurals. There I admit defeat.
If the plural of foot is feet, why aren’t two boots called ‘beet’?
The plural of mouse of course is mice and that of louse is lice.
So why are the houses we live in not referred to as ‘hice’?
I could go on forever but time is running out.
I’ll leave the last word to Alfie, “What’s it all about?
They came from all over - Manchester, Derby
and. Connemara - icons, O'Toole, Bates and Finney,
who would believe the power of future stars,
although they spent their time fighting in bars.
RADA was a dream, a long way from country,
Reed and Marvin muscled in with Shaw and Connery,
Caine gave a sleepy-eyed look for mystery,
while Mitchum was instructed in English history.
Imagine King Henry sending 'Alfie' to the tower,
whilst Connery, Reed and Bates began to cower,
although the former pair wrestled in front of a fire,
If you didn't enjoy 'Women In Love,' you were a liar.
When Reed had his nose in a variety of *****,
O'Toole was enthralling us as Lawrence of Arabia.
“What’s it all about, Alfie?”—
Are they hedonistic choices—and the katabatic void they leave?
This cup’s clutter, this timetable of supplejack sighs.
If the moon forgets—will it ever call us back?
Are we meant to have beyond what we bestow?
Or are we required to be seraphim?
We chase glitter, blind to its lamplight and oil.
Alfie, if a fool shows no interest,
Is revenge the clever answer?
And if life belongs only to the strong—
What’s your wager on the sphinx’s ancient rule?
Our aspirations fold like creased napkins—
still clean enough for an evasive guest.
Love? A leftover coat on the wrong hook,
a name spoken softly, reshaped when no one listens.
Hope? A medium-rare object—
warm in the middle, a blush of pink.
Never raw, though.
And relevance? The hum between two clashing chords—
your laughter mocking silence.
“What’s it all about, Alfie?” then…
Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps everything.
Or simply this:
You hesitate—and maybe that’s the answer.