Long Born and raised Poems
Long Born and raised Poems. Below are the most popular long Born and raised by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Born and raised poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s weird…we are two peas in a pod…
I downloaded you like a Sims’ mod
Because you got me hooked on your looks…
You are as fascinating as a billion books…
You accept me, you don’t reject me…you are my constructive building blocks
I crawl on you like a weird-looking insect – I am curious of your peace and wraths
Or a mole on your skin, but I’d rather not see…your facial expression aftershocks
I dunno…we are independent, but I feel like…we cross paths…
My past girlfriend followed me on instagram…
And on Facebook…
And on Twitter…
And on other social media websites…
I barely got into social media when I was 30 years of age…
And I’m on many, many rampages…
Alzheimers, man, they have a way to trigger you
Into insanity…
Into a lane of vanity
To go up and down walls
Unknown to me at all
All y’all didn’t answer their calls
Don’t fall, don’t trip, stand tall
I was on snapchat when I was 47 years of age…
I have been diagnosed with schizophrenia and bipolar when I got hospitalized at age 13…
I am hard-working, but at the same time, there is nothing wrong with me…
I am pretty good for my age – I’m 97, going on 98…
I was a responsible adult, paying bills…nothing in the world is free
Nothing in this wretched world is free
Nothing in this crazy, physcho world is free
Nothing in this ever-whirling world is free
But, baby, always remember…
You were born in the month of December
Ooooh, now I didn’t lose my train of thot
Don’t I look hot? Oh wait, no hate, I lovin’ it…
I made progress and it’s exhilaratin’ and logically legit…
I may be materiasitic,
But at least I’m being realistic
I was born and raised rich
I ain’t no game glitch…
But, what goes around comes back around…
I am found, though my body, with gravity (which ain’t helping), has been bound…
Where’s my wheelchair?
Does anyone even care?
I am lying here in despair…
Help me, save me, everyone stares here
I am afraid; yet, I have no fear…
For God is here and there…
“Earth's Care
Though the arrogance of humanity
Insists some part of it we own,
Fragile Earth on which we stand
Is given to us as a loan.
As we impose our footprints here,
May lovely blossoms show our path.
No poisons or impurities,
Just sweet rainwater for her bath.
In robust numbers we shall march
Against pollution of our land,
Treading lightly as we advance,
Trustees of globe on which we stand.”
On which we stand, and pen while in Earth’s care,
For’er indebted for such lavish loan.
May sweet rainwater trace a joyous tear
On lovely blossom path now You, Joyce, own.
“I Am
I am: A lady-My mama saw to that.
I am: An American- So proud of my nation.
I am: A widow- I buried two husbands.
I am: A mother. I bore three beautiful children.
I am: A grandma- I have six grand children.
I am: A great-grandma- I have 12 great-grandchildren.
I am: A great-great grandma.. I have seven great greats.
I am: A Christian.. My folks were believers.
I am: A Lutheran. Same church for fifty years..
I am: A church goer. I never miss a Sunday except now in pandemic.
I am: A gardener. Formerly vegetable. Now flowers.
I am: A garden club member from local to National level.
I am: A certified flower judge. For forty years.
I am A Washingtonian. I've lived here since 1943.
I am: A North Dakotan. Born and raised there.
I am: A rural resident. I live alone on my farm.
I am: An author. I have published a book of poems.
I am: A reader. I love books.
I am: A retired person after 30 years same job.
I am: An old person. I will be 102 on 7/7/20.”
A lady by birth, her own mama vowed
That this girl will make America proud.
A devout believer, no Sunday missed -
Christian and Lutheran, you get the gist.
Washington resident, farm girl, no pun,
And a flower judge, a certified one.
Left great legacy starting with “I am”
Of many a child, a flower, a poem.
Your footprint on Earth lingers on with us -
R.I.P. Joyce, dear fellow poetess.
Written By: D. Collins 7/1/23
No one can re-write what I can regurgitate.
Which is being a Black Man in the United States.
Born and raised, so I bring it firsthand.
Only those in my shoes can feel where I am.
Does teaching of Pangaea land a parent in jail?
Speaking of Malcolm X, will it get you no bail?
Uttering Martin Luther King might get you the maximum?
In which time handed down includes your great, grandson?
Well, if I get locked up because they want me on the low.
Generations after me will have it long, before I go.
A lot of black students won't attend universities.
Because of wordsmithing it's called "Diversity".
There were only Black Souls who died clearing the fields.
Now, newcomers are stepping up to claim the yield.
Yeah, Li'L Homey, I'm here to tell you no lie.
As long as I'm living Black History won't die.
I will teach them of Jimi Hendrix, who played upside down.
Even give them a little taste of some Louie Armstrong.
I stand convicted, willing to do my time.
As long as Black History never dies....
I was on one continent and she another.
Both of us were always writing letters to each other.
I felt that we were headed in a romantic direction,
so I booked a flight destined for her location.
She was so lovely and ever so charming,
and as we walked arm in arm, she never stopped smiling.
The evening was ending so she brought me to her home,
and that was the beginning of everything going wrong.
Severed human heads were on display everywhere,
Suddenly I was wishing that I wasn't there.
"Doesn't all these severed heads bother you?" I asked she.
"Damned straight," she said, "my sister has more than me.
Every head represents a slain sworn enemy.
Each head elevates our status in the community."
Is this woman crazy? Has she completely flown the coop?
Not at all, this is normal behavior for the culture she has been exposed to.
If your brain had better receptors than everybody,
and the tissue of your brain was of the highest quality
and if you happened to be born and raised in Nazi Germany,
all the more faster you would develop into a greater Nazi.
Blaming someone for their behavior is one of the worst things to do.
All behavior is reflective of an environment that imposed its values.
If you were raised in the Amazon rainforest, you'd be a headhunter too.
My Mom was born and raised in Sneedville, Tennessee.
She was very special and I loved her and she loved me.
She was born in an ambulance that was parked on the side of the road.
Everybody always loved Mom because she had a personality that glowed.
She grew up in a town that was once called Greasy Rock.
But it was renamed Sneedville and it's located in a county that's called Hancock.
The town was renamed after a Knoxville attorney who was named William Henry Sneed.
Some people sued to stop Sneedville's creation but William disagreed.
He stopped them when they tried to block Sneedville's creation.
Nearly 1,400 people live there, that's its current population.
Sadly, William Henry Sneed died at the age of fifty-seven in 1869.
Many people paid their last respects to my parents and that was kind.
Mom and Dad returned to Sneedville and lived there for the last two years of their lives.
When Mom died on March the 6th, it felt like I'd been stabbed by a hundred knives.
Everybody who knows me knows what my Mom meant to me.
She and Dad always loved the town of Sneedville in Tennessee.
(Dedicated to Agnes Johnson and everybody else who lives/lived in Sneedville.)
I've got to say this from the start
Hate me though, you may!
I'm from Philly, born and raised
To God and sports we pray!
When I was just a little girl
The Phillies beat them all
I wanted to marry Michael Schmidt
Sure we would have a ball!
I worked so very hard at school
To earn a bunch of A's
Because the Philly paper gave
Free tickets out as praise!
And as I grew my team has had
Its share of downs and ups
But win or lose, I like tight pants
And cold beer in my cups!
My mother was a Phillies fan
And I find it oh so fitting
That the last time they were World Champs
We at her wake were sitting.
Walked miles of dead end dirt road.
Can't shake this feeling
it won't leave me alone.
The breeze laughing at me through the trees,
Scent of long gone in the air.
Wisconsin born and raised,
corn growing earth running through my veins.
Stars burning holes through the night sky.
I thought I heard my mama call.
Somebody tell me
Is there life beyond this town.
I've got a wantin',
I'm sick and tired of hangin' around ,
Country living
somehow lost its charm,
I've grown restless
with life down on the farm,
I need
to feel this town behind me
I need
to go where they can't find me,
The grass is greener,
but here I'm color blind,
I had a calling
The wind sang my name on a summer's night.
I'm not burning Bridges
I'll always call this place my home
I'm just needin'
to strike out on my own
I need
to dream without a reason
I need
to be the one I pleasing
I sowed these fields
but I never planted roots
This farm's my daddy's dream
I've got gettin' in my boots.
Time to catch up with my future
Can't let another day slip by. Packed a smile in my pocket
Won't leave a memory behind
I need
to know if there's an answer
I need
to taste the sound of laughter.
I thought I heard my mama call.
BRONX SOLDIER ( this is a true story )
He was a soldier - Bronx born and raised and learned the streets at an early age .helping other people where ever he went- knowing about sacrifices and what it meant .
Sharing lunches with the homeless on the streets and speaking with the cops on their beat .
He volunteer for the draft and to Vietnam he went. He became a combat veteran who learned the ropes , teaching recruits and giving them hope .
They had a hill that they had to take , if the V.C. got it it would be too late .
They took the hill as the enemy came and cut off their supply train .
With their ammunition running low " the lieutenant screamed we've got to go " .
He was wounded in the battle that ensued and told his men to leave down the other side as he loaded up the machine gun and started to fire and was killed saving his men .
His name is on the Vietnam wall - for he did his duty and answered the call .
( this is in his honor and I won't forget )
(C) poetlou 031125
It could be a friendly wave from a stranger; Or
A "How are you doing?" from across the parking lot.
At other times, just the simple words of, "Follow me".
Northern Mississippi is where I was born and raised.
It's where I was well taught about how to behave.
After 17 years, having finished high school, I migrated North
From the delta cotton fields of Mississippi to the asphalt jungle
of Chicago and onward North to the dairy land of Wisconsin.
I was trained to be a pastor in Chicago and appointed to be head
master of a small Christian school in Southern Wisconsin,
but I was taught "HOSPITALITY" in the magnolia state.
In a grocery store parking lot, I heard a voice saying, "How are
you doing?" The voice was too far away for me to think that it was
directed at me. But as I looked across the way, I discovered indeed,
the gentleman was speaking to me.
In search of a popular grocery store in Greenwood, I asked
for directions from a local motorist. She simply said, "Follow me".
On another occasion, in search of the DMV in Greenwood, I
sought directions and he also said, "Follow me". In Yazoo City,
I sought directions to the power company, and the motorist
like his fellow Mississippians also said, "Follow me".
The prior 50 plus years I spent in Illinois, Wisconsin, and California
taught me a myriad of treasured lessons, but I learned about real
down home HOSPITALITY in Mississippi.
The Man from Darwen
Came there a man from Darwen,
In the heart of the Lancashire Hills,
A Town of industrial landscape,
Coal Mines and large Cotton Mills.
These times of hardship and struggle,
Left its scars upon the folk,
Working class agents of Victoria,
Amidst black chimney stack smoke.
Luke dear Luke, please tell me,
Of your life and how you’ve been.
Speak to me beyond the Gravestone,
Narrator paint the scene.
Born and raised impoverished,
Education for you not required.
Straight down the Pit at fourteen,
There till your lungs expired.
If it wasn’t the work that got you,
Beware of Smallpox epidemic,
Thirty-two years was no life at all,
Short lives, Victorian age systemic.
Luke dear Luke, please tell me,
Of your life and how you’ve been.
Speak to me beyond the Gravestone,
Narrator paint the scene.
Processional Cobbled Street terrace,
Mill Lords housing their forces.
Fourteen people in a two-bed house,
Sparse luxury, but Workhouse far worse.
Lancashire was built on Cotton
and its Heritage stands the test of time.
My ancestors were gritty and grafter,
Working through hardship and grime.
Luke dear Luke, please tell me,
Of your life and how you’ve been.
Speak to me beyond the Gravestone,
Narrator paint the scene.