Long Andy Poems
Long Andy Poems. Below are the most popular long Andy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Andy poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear Reader,
Greetings! I hope you are having a wonderful day, or evening if you are just reading this.
No, really, from the depths of my soul, my spirit waves a double-handed "Hi!" to yours.
Come, bring your philosophical coffee cup or tea cup or cup of whatever your favorite
beverage is and sit beside me, across the e-ther. May I ask why you are reading this? You
want to read poetry, I understand, and this is not really poetry. Or is it? Could this
count as free verse? I would not call it a sonnet or a haiku, except in the loosest
possible definition, in the way that drawing outside of the lines can be a drawing and a
de Kooning painting consisting of a chunky orange paintstroke can be considered to depict
a woman. But what makes poetry poetry, or art art for that matter? The medium? The
observer? The intent? Surely Warhol's footage of people sleeping would never be considered
art except for the presence of the camera and the eventual distribution. A man sleeping
miles from a camera or canvas would not likely be considered art, so does the camera
serially produce art? Most people would not consider home movies to be art. So is art
merely a stamp that we all carry around in our frontal lobes? Is life a form of art
regardless of what we call it? In this day and age, in which all rules seem to be broken,
rewritten, broken again, stretched like an old t-shirt, ripped, worn as a new fashion, and
then broken again, have we evolved to the point where we see rules as artificial labels,
something outside our own world that no more exist than the square root of negative one?
Is this letter a poem in spite of itself? What do you think? We may never know for sure,
and if this entry gets deleted from the site, I suppose the answer is a thunderclap "No."
In fact, after thinking it through, I am fairly confident that this is actually not a
poem. These labels are an earnest attempt to creates links in the world, without which
this entire treatise would make no sense. What would Petrarch have thought? What would
Warhol have thought? Or Andy Kaufman? Either way, I guess this is probably not a poem. But
thank you for having read these thoughts of mine, swirling like pagan revelers around my
head. Thank you for reading my non-poem which may actually be a poem but isn't. I bid you
a wondrous and blessed day. Or night.
Yours,
-Michael
from birth until this moment with your family as supporting team
the journey within your space/ time continuum stream
found trials and tribulations comprising the spool o yar existential ream
some incidents assessed in retrospect might now appear
as particularly significant undertakings – getting you grounded with clear
insight into what future dreams may become manifest with yar dear
beloved husband – I aver to when ye will endure empty nest fair
lee soon, whereby yar life will constitute andy and his anatomical gear
whose cupidity, fidelity, integrity, levity, opportunity, runneth tranquil
tiding up for gatherings or packing with his efficient globe trotting skill
bubbling with energy, harmony, synergy through his confluence he rill
lee doth possess – in my humble opinion, though less to take quill
to paper, him this brother in law applauds how he accepted any bitter pill
i.e. figuratively when the fickle finger of fate seemed to obscenely mill
a tate a contrary outcome than he desire, a fighting esprit de corps did fill
his entire being – putting forces of destruction re: no longer threat of evil
which waywardness with this poetic intent to type a birthday cheer
sans thy lovely sister activated thoughts pertaining to positive people dear
as senescence shuttles thine youngest harris heiress who everywhere
she goes affects a blessedly diplomatic, friendly holistic imprimatur
and thus tis probably apropos to attempt to communicate with mere
crude symbols i.e. the 26 letters of the alphabet to formulate the near
wrist approximating her significance in me xy z lived life a prayer
and many a broken wing, but tis necessary 4 me 2 expunge – though rear
the positive presence (most often invisible) whence shari did tear
out from the birth canal even at that early infantile stage did wear
autonomy to evince can do spirit whereby she irresistibly insinuated an air
that inexplicably captivated family, friends, romans….with no blare
ring burst, but she exhibited a magnetic trait – I now heartily cheer
cuz many stepping stones to mine current ah fair
rooted tuber remembered per the unsolicited advice aye did hear
when oft times shuttered in this man cave, hell lair
re: us lee chuckling at online jokes, which laugh tier
medicine for this bot deed father, a pro motor still sputtering each year.
Note: "How can there have been such strife in a Morlde` filled with beautiful Music; &
how could there have been beautiful Music such in a Morlde` filled with strife?" -Soupy
Sales, 2012.
The 12 Panes Of Christmas:
_____________________________________________________________________________
___
- XMAS' RADOTER -
Yule be Xmas
afore ye know
the pag'an go
for patterned
stamped snowflakes
'bove the
Andy Williams' Shows
DVD Stufftaculate CD,
Away, In A Manger For The Happy Employees,
drivelings (no place like) home
for the Hollydayease
in
a Ford Barricade & SUG Thirsty,
Nay, the new GM Bailout.
Suffer
the little Children
new bornes, infants
what nary see
but a Semi-Claus
ere
semiclaws,
tithes for the celibre-cause craws.
Remembrances
to things past-past, of
natal assemblies
en callow chorale masse
gone
Proustikipped,
to mortitorium's
N'well
& stockings filled
with
the chimney's cold care
yet in hopes
das Geheimnis Viktoria
would
somehow brassiere...
rout despair
the Tree hovers
Cabbage Patch? Nay!,
but the oft'splayed
Perry Como - You Win!,
Get to poke Golgotha pins -
WakeUp, boorros!
Bing-Bing!
WakeUp!, Jokers
to the St. Jack Nihilis...
but ya wanna
bat 'n ball this 'round?
You a'ready donned Santa,
with a semi-
Dear G*d,
(Walsch also asked)
How're You doin' It, &
Your Son?...Tarnished
proof weighdown here, filled
with
vanilla, frozen grins &
Joyburdened smiles...
'neath
pattern-stamped snowflakes &
piney Glade heads
afore the marshed desert
Koyaanisqatsi
Like yearlings'
trotted-out
Saviormusic
whilst the other 333
like
666 -
doubled for toil 'n trouble -
employed
to savaging
One, many, or 'nother...
Christmas partidges'
riffeled feathers family?
pared, unprepaired,
Indeed, vouchsafed
an enemy sans name
on
a horse with no name, save
Internecine
AmeriKa.
For
A kiss 'neath
the mistlesilo
whilst acaroling
of the Bedlamites
(Acts, II: 2-6),
the Psalming 100?,
Screeching
like sleds in pit gravel to
the Silent Night
HeyMen!
There lies
an evergrander Light
at the Dawn, but
Hey!,
who's gonna
tear-away
from
Yawnni,
& the extra-Vaganza
of
Truth?
H.e.m.
12.13.MMviii.
(ST)
Lizzie Borden Took an Axe
By Elton Camp
Family love often will subside
When there’s property to divide
Old Andy Borden’s second wife
Came to be a cause of much strife
He allowed his two daughters no say
When he began to give money away
To his second wife’s Abby’s own kin
With them, his generosity did begin
“For you to do like that is so lame.
On the estate Abby has no claim.”
Anger filled daughters one and two
Only the youngest knew what to do
When on a trip her sister was away,
Her crafty plan Lizzie put into play.
Ugly old Abby was at home alone
Her husband was on business gone
Bridget, the Borden’s Irish maid,
Feeling sick, in her room had laid
“Now’s my chance,” Lizzie thought
Unawares, her stepmother she caught
While she was making up the bed,
Lizzie swung an axe to her head.
Alongside the bed she did sprawl
Making not a cry or a move at all
When home to nap her father came
Then she proceeded to do the same,
Quickly removed her bloody dress
Cleaned from herself any red mess
Police,“Where can Mrs. Borden be?
We very much need her to see.”
Then came a shout, all to astound.
Come up here, look what we found.
Lizzie tried to conceal a happy smile
At the two bloody murders ever so vile
To loss of inheritance she put a stop
When into death her parents did drop
The evidence proved extremely strong
That Lizzie herself had done the wrong
She cried, “Oh jury, you must see me free.
Surely you have to believe it wasn’t me.”
To think any woman might be so evil
In that distant day was too unbelievable
Less than two hours did the jury deliberate
Before making their decision as to her fate
“We find pretty Lizzie did nothing wrong.
So open the jailhouse and send her home.
It would take some libelous and stupid fool
To accuse a young teacher of Sunday school.”
It was obvious that Lizzie had much to gain
If to continue alive Mrs. Abby did not remain
Both motive and opportunity, clearly she had
But a gentle woman could do nothing that bad
But the township’s people were not deceived
The jury’s hasty verdict they never believed
In derision, it only took them a very short time
To compose and then chant a mocking rhyme
“Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks
When she saw what she had done,
She gave her father forty-one.”
Why can I not write?
I am overwhelmed
By the minutiae of everyday life!
Dawn comes, and I awake, but no!
I pull the covers over my head
And close my eyes tightly
Against the coming day.
I am not ready yet!
When I can avoid it no longer
I sit up and dress, reluctantly,
Take the dog out, bring
Him in and feed him,
Give him fresh water.
Give him his pills and
Spray his poor shaven rat tail
With anti-itch lotion,
(He has a hot spot!)
And put some ointment on it.
I fix some breakfast,
Wash it down with yesterday’s coffee.
Take the cats some fresh water,
Get them their breakfast,
And clean the litter,
Wipe Sweetie Pie’s eyes
And put drops in them.
I’ll comb out both Sophie
And Sweetie Pie later on.
I make my bed and
Clean up the dishes,
Get out my big green backpack
And put Doug’s clean clothes in it.
Oops! I forgot to start the laundry
I brought home yesterday!
It’s already 10:30, and I
Have to leave by five to eleven!
Spray on the sun lotion,
Check that I have my Patriot ferry
Pass and the SPF 50 lip balm
Doug asked me to get.
It’s hot and humid, but I trudge
Twenty minutes to the ferry
For the half-hour boat ride
That I actually enjoy!
Just me, the water, sun and breeze
For 30 minutes of quiet
For my not-so-peaceful mind.
Three hours to have lunch with Doug,
Bring him up-to-date with
All the news of friends and family,
Watch him in physical therapy
And learn what I will have to do
In a few weeks when he gets home!
Back to the van, back to the Patriot ferry,
And another brief time for myself.
I walk home, hot and tired.
Take Andy out, finish the laundry
And hang it out on the line.
I think it won’t rain tonight.
Run to the store for some
Necessities, cat food in particular,
Check the e-mail, answer some notes,
Water the parched garden
Take Andy for a walk, and
Then feed him his dinner.
Time for MY dinner, but what?
Let’s see. I sauté a couple of
Chicken tenders in the small pan,
Slice up a whole tomato,
Add some cantaloupe and cottage cheese,
Eat some of it and fall asleep
In the chair in front of the
Fan on its highest setting.
I wake up with a start and make
Myself get up and clean up the kitchen,
Afterwards, I watch a couple
Of mindless television shows
While I make mental lists
Of what I have to do tomorrow.
Yesterday I had a beer
In a place that was near
Soft light and music filled
The sight of you left me thrilled
Your name I did not know
But oh I loved your body so
Thick but lean, muscled and tanned
What a fine specimen of a man
I sat and sipped and watched all night
At lips that promised sheer delight
Of arms that could capture me
Unbridled passion now set free
Your eyes blue grey with such depth
Languid lust that silently crept
Arousal concealed under shadow of lash
Upon Love's shore I yearned to crash
Someone said your name aloud
I heard it float through the crowd
Andrew they said your name to be
Randy Andy I hoped to me
Randy Andy with hair so fair
Magnetism that caused all to stare
A body made for hands to explore
Leaving me yearning and needing more
I decided to try and attract you
So up beside you to give you a view
For such was the ache inside off me
Begging loudly for you to set it free
You turned your head and found my eyes
As if you suddenly heard my cries
Reaching out you touched my hand
Lust's fire burned and did so expand
I was so focused on your sexy lips
As you gently moved your fingertips
Lost I was in your touch
I wanted you so very much
So imagine my shock when you spoke
In that high pitched little girl croak
I shook my head, I didn't believe
Your voice did so absolutely deceive
My beautiful sexy dream of a man
Had a voice as scratchy as a old tin can
Lust took off and went straight to bed
Reality quickly raced through my head
If that wasn't bad enough you see
Your breath stunk and your IQ was three
Within a minute I knew you were a Neanderthal
Clearly visible even through all the alcohol
It shook me from my dreamy reverie
What had I been thinking anyway
To fall for someone from afar
Is like wishing on a blessed star
For wishes rarely turn out to be
What you thought you wanted to see
So now I know the right thing to do
Look past the looks to the inside and true
Ah Randy Andy I thought you were the one
In you I saw the rising sun
But once it shone, I found the glare
Way to harsh to sit and stare
So now my search begins anew
To find love within my view
But I will always look deeper within
For someone to spend my years in sin
Random Chance
by Rick Rucker
Should your love life be selected by Randon Chance?
Is that any way to find True Romance?
Doesn't it mean so much more,
Than casually changing your home's decor?
Tell everyone, that you are looking,
That, for one, only, you are cooking!
In the search, enlist all your friends,
Tell them what you hope for, when the search ends,
Try all of the venues, even electronic,
Sign up for the dating sites, some quite iconic.
I personally favor this method, you see,
Because it is how my True Love found Me!
I signed up, and posted an ad,
I wrote it, and checked it, thought it not bad.
I more or less expected five to ten replies,
When I got more than two hundred, imagine my surprise!
Why did I get more than ten?
Why write to me, not other men?
Now I had a problem , what could I do?
I cancelled the service, now forlorn, and blue!
Two hundred dates, more than twenty eight a day,
Seemed a more dangerous game, than I wanted to play!
I started to try to cut down the list,
Anyone that wrote an answer whose meaning I missed,
I would quickly toss in the trash,
I would do it with feeling, even quite rash!
Finally, at the end of the quest,
I had done all I could, had done my level best!
I still had twenty five that were left,
At least, with that number, a pile of letters I could heft!
I set a goal, looking back, quite naive,
To find someone, who would, my loneliness, relieve!
That might not sound that hard to do,
But I was looking for My Love Most True!
I wasn't looking for a Date,
But rather, my next Life Long Mate!
With half the applicants remaining there,
I chanced upon My Lady Fair!
Not just a feast for my eyes,
She stole my Heart, a rude surprise!
I had decided to be quite objective,
I guess my Heart didn't get that directive!
An understaterment, to say I was Smitten!
Quite Fatally, by The Love Bug, bitten!
For some time, we have been going out,
When she can't see me, I still jump and shout!
I never thought I'd be again,
The Very Happiest of Men!
Now there is but one thing to do,
To make the Fairy Tale come true.
The Hawaiian Wedding Song, Andy Williams will sing,
If I can but convince her to accept my Ring!
Sound of a song softly sung rose in the air and through windows
Barred to let air and light in and little else.
A lament sung in Gaelic tongue foreign to ears used to French,
But its meaning understood bringing tears .
Longingly she peered through the bars over the countryside and trees,
Fine they looked in their fresh green coats.
White cloud scarse in the azure blue of afternoon sunlight,
Her heart broken in myriad pieces.
In this old castle surrounded by water was this to be her fate,
To die in a stony room of shadows.
Her resolve it grew and plans were formed to escape this place,
Meeting a friend of old named Douglas.
One dark night a boy crept close holding a key for the wooden door,
Disguised as a woman of servitude she escapes.
In a small boat on the dark waters of the loch oars slashing ,
Taking her away inch by inch .
Fearful of pursuit by her captors hearing the oars dipping,
Hoping the dark night would cloak .
Was it a failed marriage that brought her here trickery abound,
Perhaps because I am a woman bold.
A queen she was of royal descent staunch in her beliefs
Castigated by a bitter old man .
Tricked and used by men of power abuses beyond her ken,
Unable in accepting a Queen especially o a different faith
Gaiety an sobriety wurnae fur them.
Allus dressed in black lukin like giant craws
Strutting aboot as if they themsells were yon creaturs o the Earth,
Using their Holy Buik tae tell ithers whit tae dae,
Nae room fur forgiveness frae them big craws.
They plotted oan weys tae rid themsells o this decadent Queen,
Ne,er mind that she wus Queen o their laund
Rather be under Eglish Liz she wis a protestant efter aa.
How foolish ur the plans o men who hae a conceit o themsells.
Who wid use ithers tae dae the durty work
Aa tae keep therr ain hauns clean an free o blud,
But a budy kens who they wur especially therr Goad abune
Lookin doon oan those who plot tae kill,
Tae further therr oan station an fortune.
Gawin agin whit the Guid buk seys deceived intae
Daein the work o the deil.
Shame o these guid men o Scotlands past,
Shame oan therr deceitful weys
An tae thie dey their descendents dae the same,
Selling an betraying therr kintrey for profit an gain.
Andy McIntyre 16/05/2021.
To me, a Man-child is an adult male who acts like a child: immature, lazy, unkempt, idiotic, silly, annoying etc. Usually it is someone you either work with or live with. This poem is a nod to the poem Monday's child is fair of face, but with a twist.
Monday's Man-child is a total disgrace
(A drunken stupor with open arms he will embrace)
Tuesday's Man-child got a gob full of mace
(he tried it on with the wrong pretty face)
Wednesday's Man-child has to go and get his Giro
(cos his bank balance is now showing a big fat zero)
Thursday's Man-child is feeling kinda low
(so he stays in bed stinking of tabs and B.O.)
Friday's Man-child is all about chilling
(a lads' night in where zero f@cks are given)
Saturday's Man-child is off to the footy - 3 points he's a wishing
(then off to the pier for a couple hours of fishing)
And the Man-child heads back to the pub on Sunday
(A few beers and games of pool he'll play)
A Man-child's week isn't very nice
(It's fair to say it's hardly one to suffice)
It might just be he's in a rut - with a lack of support or understanding.
(He's in a repetitive cycle; a tornado that keeps on turning)
One week to the next, it's the same old routine
(It's a shout for help - one that remains unseen)
Salvation came just as he was to give up all hope,
(A merry band of guys, who help each other to cope)
For Man-child now, a Monday is one to look forward to
(He knows he can speak his mind as do all the other guys do)
Man-child goes to Andy's Man Club, and this decision was the best
(Cos now he shares a positive or anything to get off his chest)
this sets him up for the week ahead, last week's woes now a line in the sand
(Andy Roberts, your story has saved hundreds across England, Wales and Scotland)
So if you see Man-child in yourself too, and you don't know what to do
(get yourself to your local AMC, and be part of a special kinda crew).
The original poem is below:
Monday's child is fair of face.
Tuesday's child is full of grace.
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go.
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living.
And the child born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, good and gay.
Shark art, the romance of nothingness Homeless vagabond’s discuss the emptiness of soup cans A frenzied race of little Benny hills playing, king of the mole hill Three bums decide, to see who is the most eloquent, at saying nothing at all. Like, what would Andy Warhol and Woody Allen’s children look like. That’s not funny at all but Tom waits his turn, peeping over the wall like Kilroy, if he existed. Laying on his side looking, at the mole hill Yep, little ants are trying to climb a mountain, as a passerby steps on it and the candy mountain police officer, wipes the stuff of His nightstick, saying all the world is a stage. A little boy would rather eat shoe leather, than turn that page. Laughter erupts from the soup can, when raising the leg is abrupt Echoes of humor, as the puppy kicks the can, placing cheese, on an already disturbing content. Chum, the can was indeed empty. We got are fill. The Lord knows you are homeless, wait for Him.