Long Bologna Poems
Long Bologna Poems. Below are the most popular long Bologna by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bologna poems by poem length and keyword.
It was a windy day
My kite was practically blowing away
But I was in a good mood
Because a bologna sandwich is my kind of food
Grandma skipped the mustard, put mayo on mine
Because she knows me, and she is really quite fine.
My cousins were with me, but they gave me some space
‘Cause I had Bruto with me and he wanted a taste.
Bruto is my dog, loyal to a fault, but sneaks a bite
I had to watch him closely while I was flying my kite
My cousin Ally came over and tried to entice him away
But he is my dog through and through every single day
The grass was soft, the day was warm, but not too hot
My cousins were there, and they number a lot.
Eleven firsts, but with the seconds, maybe twenty-two.
I ate my sandwich, and there were brownies too.
It was 1967, a terrific year to be a boy in Cedar Falls.
We made a day of it, played with jump ropes and balls.
Our mothers yelled for us for supper, and there was dessert.
We were grimy and happy after a day in the dirt.
Watermelon was brought out at the end of the night.
We were dragged away from Grandma’s, it was a sad sight.
When I am having a bad day, I think back to that time.
A fabulous day, a week after I had just turned nine.
Six Unfinished Lunch Bags
(A collaborative confessional-witness lyric by Anne Winter and Daniel Henry Rodgers)
The memories of my childhood linger long,
With imaginary friends, my strong bond.
Echoes of loud and clear domestic violence,
Grief, tears, sorrow and unbearable silence.
Six years old—
six wax bags lined across the black-and-white table,
Sweet Lebanon bologna sandwiches
spread with Kraft mayonnaise.
My hands stayed pinned behind me—habit—
he reeked of beer; the metal post blessed my skull —
everything went dark.
When I woke, the basement joists
hung over me, unchanged.
Cold concrete floor.
The scar on my knee —
first thing I saw.
I cried, then finished the lunches
chips wrapped into waxed paper.
I should have died—
Why not.
No closet, no corner—only the table and all six bags.
Tomorrow, I journey into the lost woods—
blue-black comics tucked under my arm,
the only safe place my hands didn’t shake.
Flashbacks of alienation in some crowd,
Achievements accolade-worthy, no one to be proud.
Razed rage, lurking loneliness seeping stress,
Here I confess, my childhood one chaotic mess.
Adolescent to adulthood soaked in existential crises and
Decades spent begging for love and screaming with my favorite band.
O life, O dear life, what do you have for me?
If you don't care then please set me free.
Help me escape back to the lost wood.
Six unfinished lunch bags.
You can count on it
Seasons changing
You can count on it
A drip from a faucet sink
You can count on it
Ignited Flame polyester melts
You can count on it
World domination
Higher prices inflation
You can count on it
World's gone wrong
Where do Sinners and Saints belong
You can count on it
Your mind got you going
Caught Paul still snoring
You can count on it
Rain falls down
You can count on it
Depressed clowns
Mercy can't be found because everyone's too busy, Wow
Hey, man you got change for a dollar
Babies crying listen to them holler
Walk the dog wearing a choke collar
You can count on it
The air we breathe
You can count on it
Someone sneeze saying "God bless you"
You can count on it
""RAP""
"Blistex kissing lips new thing is everybody's smoking gum while drinking Listerine for fun And every fourth of July I go to the bank withdraw my money without giving thanks I set it on fire watch it go higher smoke embellished Heather's being picky Donald's dating Vicki while all along she done left the inner city birds fly high Moss die woodsy owl cries now instead of saying "who" he says
" why" you can count on it a snake is still a snake if you kill it cook it then call it steak what you know about cheap show donut holes Arm & Hammer I got a Crisco Delight chocolate Italian fries what!! that ain't right horses racing cars without engines not feeling hungry got no bologna give me a quart of ham and cheese extra mayo please going to lick that salt block rub it on my fries now it's it's time to make my blood pressure rise it's the normal things you can count on it you all get ready like a thief in the night now it's the normal things but He's not coming to steal your TV your or couch He wants to take you there to a place called heaven better be ready He's coming down
Na na now who is this HE I'm talking about, it's none other than Jesus Christ
(End rap)
Christ coming soon
Jesus coming down
You can count on it
And in all the glory you listen to the story maybe be ready for His coming soon You can,
You can count on it
I hadn’t seen a house for an hour ; talking to a social worker, is pretty short
I’m off to a new Foster home; the Courtermarshe’s, a new Big Sister; Brenda
How much longer, Mr. Hodges I have to pee, so do I ; Behind a Mighty Oak
Harry we have to talk, I have bologna sandwiches, the family your going to today:
The Courtermarshe’s, can not have Children of there own Brenda is a foster child also
She’s going to have a hard time being a big Sister, after Alice Loved me so much
Alice and me still write back and forth, She is the Very Best “BIG SISTER”
Little did I know, how close Brenda and me would become as Black Clouds Weep
Blocking the smile of the Sun, closing the door to reality for two and a half Years
Harry, wake up there it is your New Home; Wow It’s a farm, cows, pigs, and chickens
The happiest nine year old, bolted out of the car zipping towards the Big, Red barn
Harry! Harry!! Yes Sir, Come over here and meet your Mom and Dad, Phoebe and Dan
Time for the (speech): Thank-you Mr. and Mrs. Courtermarshe, I'll try to be a good son
To be Cont.
Near the old docks in Genoa where old dwellings stand close together making streets narrow and families live is
lived rather noisily, where women hang laundry to dry on small terraces or on window ledges.
Sometimes when several street merges, the open space is called a plaza, where fruit seller, tobacconist, and cafe where men sit and smoke, drink red wine, and argue
about politics, in a gruff manner.
When the crew on his ship took a taxi up to Gramsci Street to seek the bright light, he walked to his cafe, lit a cigarette drank good wine, ate bologna or ricotta or Gorgonzola and salami
The people accept him sitting there, because even if Italians drink they are not drunks falling about being aggressive as people from Nordic countries tend to be.
On a tall wall, a placard, partly torn depicting the face of a politician, they said he had been a good man for the locals and looked after his friends and family like an Italian man should.
When the war ended and since he was on the losing side, he fled, they thought he was in Argentina, he was of no interest anymore, better not to talk about him.
This sentiment is quite true, at one point we must look to the future and forgive those, who thought they had
done the best for their country but it turned out they had
failed miserably
At the end of Winter days I escaped in a bit of a haze
From the lazy days trapped in the darkened maze
I shut the lights off in my eyes and fed myself lies
Thinking I was shooting for the skies
When I was really descending further into madness
Until at last I saw twin peaks of sadness
And the tears fell from my eyes reflecting my fears
For I threw my ruined body upon the gears
Hoping to stop the global calamity
For this insanity was bred from one soul's vanity
But in the end my sacrifice was born of greed
To plant the seed that would one day be freed
And grant humanity a sense that we can be greater
Alas we don't have to bend our knee to a traitor
But in the the Winter days I was trapped in quite the daze
When truth and justice aren't what pays
Our beliefs become prostitutes sold to the highest bidder
When it's only our own fates we consider
We lose sight of all those who suffer a burning death
When they breathe their last breath
In the prisons and mazes that fill this nation
Freedom then becomes nothing short of damnation
This is what happens when things corrode at the foundation
And politicians and actors don't know their station
This has truly become a sadistic masquerade
So trumpet out the red carpet for this faux parade
Lined by the liars and contortionists
Who bend the constitution like freedom abortionists
But maybe it was always going to end in acrimony
When we're fed the best bologna from a facetious phony
In the end we're all lost and wandering through the maze
Still dazed by the Winter haze of chilly days
Kindergarten Teacher
Kind when she shares her bologna sandwich.
Imaginative when she has to use Q-tips to teach.
Nurturing to teeter totter injuries.
Daring when rescuing an mystery object from the toilet.
Earnest when explaining this adventure to her principal.
Responsible for helping 23 children put on 23 coats and getting all 23
to the bus on time.
Gentle when covering boo-boos with impossible to open bandaids.
Aimiable when greeting parents.
Resourceful when finding uses for 75 popsicle sticks.
Tactful when explaining Timothy's new permanent marker freckles to
his mother.
Energetic when chasing a dog off the playground.
Nose blowing expert.
Talented when using a pipe cleaner to replace a lost shoe lace.
Elated with a new set of blocks.
Afraid of itchy heads.
Capable of jumping rope in heels on the playground.
High spirited when there is a snow day.
Excited about caterpillars.
Ready for nap time!
She has the 'screws'.
Her hips gripe,
her leg is 'playing up.’
I yell into her good ear.
"Nice Morning Freda!"
"Gout." She says,
still following a conversation in her head.
"I don't even drink!"
I know this is a stretch
for I am her secret `pusher'.
"I'm going out later, can I get you anything?"
She looks directly at me at last.
She has been studying the obituaries
in the local paper.
"Isn't it terrible?"
"Yes Freda it is."
We never discuss specifics,
agreeing tacitly
that most things are `terrible.’
"Just the usual"
I make a note to buy,
sliced white bread.
Laughing Cow cheese spreads (original flavor).
Bologna sausage (which she calls Baloney).
"Little Debbie" Frosted Fudge cakes
and a bottle of sweet sherry.
Her list of wants is not far from mine,
except for the sherry,
and I have recently broken up
with 'Little Debbie'.
At the supermarket, screws and gripes
jab my bones.
I limp down aisle three
ignoring a picture
of a smirking 'Little Debbie.’
I remember the joy of
the weekends, no school
No home work, feeling good
I have memories of my family
Sitting around the table
On a Friday, eating fried fish
and grits or fried bologna
After my grandma went
Fishng and caught a
Mess of fish for dinner
Or when my grandparents
Had to much to drink an
Ended up rolling around
On the floor, tussling
I can laugh about it now
Or the time we were at
A cookout, my grand-dad
Was watching the barbecue
Chicken on the grill so, hard
He felled, face first in the dirt
The man who was grilling said,
There's plenty of chicken left
Or the time my Sister cooked
Her very first turkey an
It wasn't done on the inside
She cried
Those are the fun memories
I'll never forget
Rainbow Winkin’
by Odin Roark
Sitting atop worn tires,
We remove wax paper,
Positioning our Wonder bread sandwiches,
Cheese,
Bologna,
Mayo,
A canned pickle,
Each with a note.
Dad’s: Have a good day.
Mine: Mother’s thinking about you.
Scrawny rib-bare Brutus,
Junkyard dog with a heart,
Pants patiently,
Knowing my rejected crusts are his.
Welding sparks fly across the yard.
Bertha, another earthmover in repair,
Readying for tomorrow’s needs
Rests silently a few hours before
Diesel-noise-hell fires up,
Chalking up another rugged workout,
Shortening its life another day.
We pass the bottle.
Only one soda pop today.
Dad ran out.
We share.
Bite of sandwich.
Gulp some burp-ola.
We both sit silent.
10 and 55 with little to say.
Age separation’s itch
Hesitant to scratch.
We chew and stare.
Oil slick puddle
Holds our attention.
We smile.
“Pretty ain’t it?”
He says.
“Yeah, I guess,”
I says.
“Gotta ‘preciate rainbows son.”
“Yeah I guess.”
“Oil’s from Bertha over there?” I ask.
He nods
“Yeah. Her crankcase be hurtin’ lot lately.”
“Bad, eh?”
He nods again.
“Yup. Might be on her last days.”
I look back at the puddle.
“It is pretty.”
“You bet it is.”
He wraps part of the sandwich back up.
“Have the rest later.”
“Why does oil get all rainbowy, Dad?”
He flashes his grin.
“Earth’s way of winkin’, son.
“Sharin’ some buried history.
All them bones,
Leaves,
Trees,
Relatives,
Soon us.
Just old life winkin’.”
He stands,
Adjusts his bib overalls,
Looks down at me.
I gulp the last of burp-ola,
Stifle a belch,
And take a last glance at the oil slick.
“Thanks.”
He looks down at the rainbow changing colors.
“It hears ya. Yup.”