Long Belt out Poems
Long Belt out Poems. Below are the most popular long Belt out by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Belt out poems by poem length and keyword.
Green Eyed Monster - A Love Story
So, I headed home to me flat from a hard day’s night
Working in the coal mines for a quid or two
“Just outside Londondary”, me says, when some busy body inquires
I goes right home to find me bed
Right quick and fast since I’m exhausted
I finds me ugly gal Sal with some guy there
Doing some unkind deeds upon me pillow
That I can’t rightly explain right here and now
Being a gentlemanly kinda fellow that I am and seeing red
I says to Sal, “Watcha doing deary?!” “What’s that in me bed?”
She says, “Nuffin love.” “I just finished the wash and found this bloke in here
And I’m all flustered, and as surprised as you.”
As a rule me complexion is as white as these sheets once were
I becomes hysterical, flushed and weird and fumbles for me gun
“Where’s me bullets deary!” I query of the misses.
But she’s as quiet as a mouse.
Now I’m in a frenzy and frothing at the mouth
“Don’t let me get me belt out or a knife!” I yells out to the wife
“Let’s keep it nice and easy!”
I finds the bullets, fills the chambers, shoots in their direction
I missed them both
But halted the copulation or repopulation
Which ever comes first
Created on 11/25/14 for “The Green Eyed Monster” – Poetry Contest
Anti-intellectualism may breed anti-curiosity.
Harsh reality can frustrate existential sternness.
They tied backlash against "mere" curiosity.
Yet, every human behavior has a purpose.
Conveying a full breakdown of all the key sights.
Tangling, multiplying tendrils sepia from white.
My character has changed significantly already.
Rhododendron in blooming; existentialist edgy
The moon pendulum is at its most vulnerable.
Strong, direct sunlight makes vivacity visible.
Recognizing oneself in the gaze of the Other.
Transtemporal throws ages in a shadow cover.
Romance, paraphyllium, and aurora snow,
harvest moon, opaline luster, and coral glow.
Eurasian plant calyxes with spicate bloom.
Five stars in the sky; a red glow in the gloom.
Wake up, mystery, and join me on Mars.
Latte, belt out a song that heals my scars.
Opal in black, a ruby for the crown gem,
Is that thunder? You infer my heart hem.
Is this a dream, upon a shimmering silver sky?
Antsy flow, a phantasmagoria of my avow mind.
Chimes in Venice, a piercing stare into my eye,
as though we've always been close, my kind.
Sparkle up the universe and unveil thyself.
Moon wake, I'm steering my rise from a shelf.
Who were we if not to serve the whole world?
How do we fathom where we'll be stirred?
The darkness shrouded the vision of man.
Scattering flies at dawn since they had begun.
We face the share of the world with blackness.
Having to push and shove away the darkness.
1St Place Contest Winner
Written: December 18, 2022
This or That, Vol 15 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Your Favourite Rhyming Poem From
The Second Half Of 2022 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Today, I'll do my best to teach you
the recipe, to keep Christmas true.
You'll need to start with a loving heart,
or else your plans will all fall apart.
Decorating a tree sets the mood,
so smile and indulge in Christmas food.
Eggnog and ribbon candy are fine,
but do uncork a bottle of wine.
Belt out Christmas carols with gusto,
and hug your friends when it's time to go.
But don't forget to add just a pinch
of that Santa wannabe, the Grinch.
Attend church to give the Lord His due
and thank Him for all He's given you.
Bond with the people you love the most,
gather your friends and family close.
Wrap your gifts in bright ribbons and bows,
and wear traditional Christmas clothes.
Now, add a dash of wintertime fun,
and build a snowman before you're done.
Remember failures at school in the week,
my special needs I was academically weak
over the weekend successful at sport,
my strength and my ability growing more,
You would take the prize feeling from me,
remind me that I achieve nothing at school, take the sense of achievement and show me, the things I failed so I notice them all
Aware of my struggles and punish my good game, you never actually helped me learn though just point it out complain, next week school ADHD I'm in trouble, get that belt out trousers down slap me punish PAIN, tell me it's my fault and question why I stay the same?
Never giving guidance, take my prize and violence, cook and clean and tell me your providing, the weekend come around again another sporting triumph and tell me sport doesn't matter in life, nothing, so I'm frightened, Bath Mini Rugby wasn't something to have pride in, failure on my mind then, the hypocrite takes me swimming everyday and i mean all the days because my swim coach thought I was amazing, I was as well but she would never tell or says me, selected by the county squad my god I did do well, never encouraged.. Oh no naughty at school here comes the belt and the words about the failure forcing me to soak it in and know to well, for a few years success progress and still the same at school, nothing changed the belt didn't work, one day she hit me with it and didn't even hurt, she'd toughened me up taught me nothing but my inability and what I can do is a non important thing, so those 4 sports where 4 sports with no worth no point and abandoned, and i was left with nothing left no chance to advance no plan done, believing I wouldn't achieve because after it all I never had won, wasn't I lucky to have mum
with the belt not an option the psychological abuse began as i went out into the world as a young man.... part two taught to be sad
Some people call me Kenny
Because of my resemblance to Mr. Rogers
Wish I had his enormous piles of dough
I'd sure be a happy old codger
Methinks they mean before his facelift
At least that's what I hope they meant
It made him look like a real different person
Not as charming in any event
So I'll take it that's what they really meant
When Kenny was young and virile
Instead of this ageing singer of love songs
Fame can be fleeting and so fragile
Mr. Rogers can still belt out a love song
With his familiar raspy voice
For over four decades he been charming us
Was everyone's favourite choice
So I really don't mind the nickname Kenny
A compliment is how I take it
People could have nicknamed me Bela
But as Lugosi I never would have made it
When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!
Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.
They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.
They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.
They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Eileen has nicknamed me Kenny
Because of my resemblance to Mr. Rogers
Wish I had his piles of dough though
I'd sure be a happy old codger
Methinks she means before his facelift
At least that's what I hope she meant
It made him look like a real different person
Not as charming in any event
So I'll take it that's what she really meant
When Kenny was young and virile
Instead of this ageing singer of songs
Fame can be fleeting and so fragile
Mr. Rogers can still belt out a love song
With than familiar rasp in his voice
For over four decades he been charming us
Was everyone's favourite choice
So I really don't mind the nickname Kenny
A compliment is how I take it
Eileen could have nicknamed me Bela
As Dracula I never would have made it
© Jack Ellison 2013
(MaGowen’s Pizzaland Monroe, CT 2008)
The caterwaul of the jukebox blends seamlessly with the screech of infants,
and the fumes of garlic hanging heavily in the air.
The true mama’s and papa’s are here, here where the dough flies
the glasses clink; and the Beatles belt out
Strawberry Fields Forever ....
The roar of unruly children,
bashing video buttons to Roll Over Beethoven
pounds into the diners temples, dulled with Pinot noir, Chianti
and pitchers of golden ale.
Trays, tall, saucer-shaped sit beside cherry red baskets
of pristine white bread, as the fire engine red corvettes pull up outside.
The jet-black and chrome model T’s vie for spaces on the asphalt lot
outside the restaurants doors.
Sweet-hearts wait for the cracked, green-vinyl booths
like penitents at a Sunday mornings mass.
Pizza pies fly by on stainless saucer- shaped plates
landing on cluttered Formica tables
dressed with vinegars and shake cheese
Racecars zoom around the game track;
as kids run pell-mell down the aisles.
And, only Mary Lou knows
“Who’s on first?”
A Hard Beginning
The cough continues.
My head... aches,
but there are needles in my eyes,
that will not stop poking my lids.
Everything hurts today,
that did not hurt yesterday.
Today all things that hurt
yesterday, have found new
purpose in their vendetta
against me.
It is hard to be sick,
especially when there are things to do.
I want to go and dance and play.
I want to sing, where no one can hear me,
so I can be loud and strong,
about my emotions.
That, without hurting the feelings of others,
I could belt out my favorite tune.
Yet, here I am coughing into my elbow,
wishing that my rib cage would quit,
rattling.
It is just a cold, but it has traveled badly,
down into my chest, far and deep.
I wish that I had listened,
about wearing my coat,
to the New Years Ice Skating Contest,
at the North Pole.
The place was so pretty,
and the magic all real,
that I could not face the idea,
of covering up,
instead...
I swam with the penguins,
visiting from the south.
I talked to the mammoth bear,
from Alaska, and arm wrestled for an hour.
I swam in the punch,
lifted the whole reindeer gang,
up on the end of a candy cane,
spinning in the storm,
of snowflakes...
started by the windmill,
made from holly and grape vines of candy.
I will never forget
and neither will they.
We flew two states over in a jet,
skied from Mt Hood past the fence,
where they keep the ashes.
Gray still from a long time ago.
My cough did not gain
a grip on me, until the helicopter landed.
Then it was too late,
to put on my coat,
do the right thing
and go home early.
The best New Year,
sometimes starts with a rough patch,
but the rest is all garden parties and
politics from here.
Prayers
for
your
day,
the first day,
of the new year,
the last chance to say goodbye,
and try to be okay with tomorrow.
Oh, hear the rattle of the rolling train;
yhe clap…clap…clacking rhythm,
beating like a conga drum;
every trip it sings along,
with the tracks repeating song;
such simple, inexpensive music.
Listen to that music,
of the heart-beat, of the train.
Sing along, with its melodious song.
Come, join in the rhythm;
don’t you love, to sing along;
with the clack..clack…chugging, of that rolling drum.
Run and grab your bongo drums;
we’ll play a little music.
A grand neighborhood, sing-along,
to the rhythm of the train.
Oh, what a wondrous rhythm,
is the old, Iron Horse’s song.
In the heart’s, always a song;
the body’s beating drum.
It keeps on pounding out its rhythm;
the heart beats of its Chrystal music;
beats with tempo of the train’
just clap…clap…clacking, on along.
All the people sing along,
with the old Iron Horse’s thrilling songs.
If with instruments, you’re untrained;
perhaps you do not own a drum.
Still, you can join the music;
just clap your hands in rhythm.
Revel in that rhythm,
sing and play along.
Just be part of the music
and belt out your own song,
to your own heart’s rhythm
and that musical old train.
Lighten up that rhythm and revel in the music.
Have a glorious, sing-along, to the many beating drums.
There’s nothing quite as joyous, as the songs sung with the trains.
9-9-19
Your Choice Max 333 Words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger