Long Boston Poems
Long Boston Poems. Below are the most popular long Boston by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Boston poems by poem length and keyword.
They say that #13 is an unlucky number
But I think it not so
My Best Friend was born on the 13th of October
So their you go
A Bakers Dozen is the #13
When you get your Donuts Supreme
All filled with Jelly and Boston Cream
#13 is on of the best numbers that be
Some people say that liking #13 is bizarre
But it's all in where intellectually you are
If you have a Superstitious Mind
Then you're behind the Time's
Back in Ancient Days
Some people were heard to say
They believed in Fairy Tales and Myths
But nowadays, we've abandoned that Craze forthwith
What we need 13 Jurors in the trail to be
That's what the Juror System needs
13 Jurors, the 13th can be a Tie-breaker
Or maybe just a Faker...
"Are you afraid of a Black Cat?"
"How about a 13 Black Cat Attack?"
"How about 13 open Umbrellas in the House?"
"Does that scare you and wanna make you pass out?"
Maybe 13 opened Ladders
To walk under them would be even badder
"Evermore..." Are you afraid of 13 Ravens?"
"Of you, that would be most craven."
Let me explain to you about the #13
To fear it is moot you see
The #13 is a good Lucky Number
This is what you should know and remember
Roll the 13 Sided Die
Go ahead, give it a try
Roll the Bones now
They'll never let you down
Now you may say, 13 Sided Die are only good for Cos Play Games
And call me lots of Silly Names
But all of this Nonsense is out of Fear
Which I will try to make disappear
The Old Saying goes, "Step on a crack
And break your Mother's Back."
Say that 13 times
And it'll blow you little Sane Mind
"Have you seen the Movie 13 Ghosts?"
"It's a very scary Show,
Usually shown in the Halloween Season."
"You should see it for Therapy Reasons."
"What do you think about Halloween?"
"Or do you think that it's too much to be seen."
"If you got Candies 13,
"Will you run away from the Scene?"
"What do you think about going to a Cemetery?"
"Or for you, is it much too Scary?"
"13 Tombstones,
All standing in a Row."
"13 Graves,
Of the Unsaved."
"I would fear that too."
"Yes, my Friend, They're waiting for you..."
"November 13th is our Friend."
"Only Good Vibes does it send"
"Say that to yourself, 13 times, over and over again."
"And you'll have taken your first steps towards Healing, my Friend."
Copyright ©? Jeff W. Watson, September 11, 2026
I crossed from Boston Common to the pub
on Beacon Street. A barstool, banter, beers
awaited me, for I was bound for "Cheers",
the suds-and-suckers landmark of The Hub.
But this was not remotely as I'd hoped.
So small and squat and square, and antiseptic!
A couple from Des Moines, and one dyspeptic
waitress in the "chow shack", neatly-roped.
The silence made me feel I'd interloped.
Six bucks a beer. As I morosely moped,
the woman I'd come all this way to see
(so blonde, so buxom, with such perfect skin)
was far too occupied to lunch with me.
Facades are only there to draw you in.
I often post my poems “A I” - (AS IS)
Spelchek uses “R”s and I don’t
We us “H’s” instead
(we paahk R caahs in Haavaad yaad)
We’ve been known
To pitch a B itch
Mostly about those F-N Yankees
We “gawk at visitors from New Yawk”
We eat “bay gulls” for breakfast
Sprinkle “jimmies” on our ice cream
Buy our booze at the “packie”
Return all one fingered salutes
Drink from the bottle…cuz we know the bartenders
Believe that crosswalks are for sissy’s
That “cursive” is a language
Our politicians are as crooked as our roads
We will BOO the home team when they “piss us off”
Then call them WICKED PISSA when they do well
(we even have it on cups and T-shirts)
AI would unscrew itself if it had to listen to our conversations
We are who we are
DEAL WITH IT…
Someone from New York will tell ya where to go
Someone from Boston will tell you how to get there
"The Padded Soft Cell"
Here they cover their mirrors
with garlands of poésies
to stop billabong reflections
pooling through
the inmates
congratulate each other
walking in slow dervish circles
Boston-two-stepping backwards ecstatic rituals
Anti-clockwise,
I told them to change channels
when words become mute
and mummify themselves
in the gadaidja’s
interminably
terminally blessed loud
soapbox sermon music
they b**ched their chomping bits
about it all for a while
I suggested with a pleasant smile
keep on their side of the shine
twisting their own twine
regulated patients,
disgraced and racing
chasing love, love chasing
all intrepid actors underexposed pacing
sometimes we smile here
within our padded soft cells
if the ghosts we read through walls
entertain us from their wells
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"Films" (Remastered 2009)/ Gary Numan
https://youtu.be/6HbIGk6zH_k
Rather than put myself in the sky which is so
complete with blue and clouds, I make a space
in a line of people climbing a trail in the mountains.
All night I work on my thinking and waiting
until at dawn I see the iron clouds shift sunlight
and listen to the years changing my life with a laugh.
I say thank you to all the influences that a plant
like me goes on growing fearless as a daisy.
I need no robes, I wear boxer shorts in the morning.
By afternoon I am transformed by the light from my beard.
Some girls think I'm cute. At first I'm shy but soon
I take my wooden chair among a bench of kids from Boston.
At night I fall in love with the first person to stop
his car. Because I am a well of love for my lady.
The drone of stars slowly changing places in the sky.
When I fall asleep by the river it is like I'm dead.
This is so. I use my coat for a pillow and lay my head
at the root of a tree. Shade my eyes from the sun, white waits.
I preached to my flock, "you voted them in
"The knaves and fools who did freedom in.
"I know a new place to settle upon
The hills and the vales of Avalon."
"We'll take a stout fleet, built for you all
We'll leave our mistakes; we'll stand again tall
It's a magical place, where wishes come true
There's no other choice, no more we can do."
"You've took rights for granted, now you grieve
Come to the island, you won't want to leave
The stars will be silver, the moon will be gold
The veil will be lifted; the magic take hold."
We sailed out of Boston, and out of Maine
Took cover in the clouds, hid in the rain
Then we saw it, rising from the sea
A green pleasant land, where men still were free.
But a man rowed out in a hollowed kayak
He got close to my sailboat, shouted "turn back".
He spoke to me; his stern face made me shiver:
"Don't promise what you cannot deliver."
I said "we have nowhere to go, freedom fell
"If we must storm, we'll storm gates of hell
"We take our chances in your bay by the sea
"We've paid our dues; we want to be free."
Over the velvet land was a misty veil
We tried to move forward, but to no avail
A force pushed us back, from that life-raft land:
The wind had become an invisible hand.
Some of us made it back to a blood red dawn
We lost the dream of emerald Avalon
Almost made it, almost found a new start
So close, so far, the pain lasts in my heart.
Hillary drives a vehicle to the south pole,
Gibson gives us the Flying V.
In football we can now score an extra two points,
and Legos blocks first hit the street.
50 inches of snow on Mason Dixon line,
no one makes baseball’s Hall of Fame.
This new Velcro stuff will hold on to things just fine,
Alaska is newest state name.
Faulkner calls public schools “future babysitters”,
“Volare” named song of the year.
Eisenhower’s world broadcast comes to us from space,
his message is heard loud and clear.
Women in the UK serve in the House of Lords,
there’s moving sidewalks in Texas.
Explorer I hits space, but II is a big dud,
Ted Williams spits in fan’s faces.
In Russia, Laika’s body meets a fiery end,
when Sputnik II falls with a blaze.
Bank of America sends out their credit cards,
causing a new kind of world craze.
9000 scientists call for nuclear ban,
we test 100 times this year.
Nuclear bomb can fall on a house in Morse Bluff,
but baseball players must wear protective gear.
Vanguard I is the first to measures the Earth’s shape,
Sugar Ray is now five-time champ.
George joins Paul and John to create the Quarrymen,
Elvis Presley goes to boot camp.
NASA is created to run new moon program,
Clif Notes now used in the high school.
Alan Freed gets kicked off the job up in Boston,
The Smurfs make their TV Debut.
Eddie Arcaro rides his 4000th winner,
‘Catch a Falling Star’ turns to gold.
Boris Pasternak refuses his Nobel Prize,
the Khrushchev reign starts to take hold.
An F-104 flies to record altitude,
at speeds that have never been seen.
Seawolf remains below the Artic pole longer,
than anyone has ever been.
After 26 years the stamp goes up one cent,
Huckelberry is the new TV star.
Syria and Egypt decided to unite,
Nasser heads the new U.A.R.
The world is moving along at such breakneck speed,
it’s hard to know what’s going on.
Meanwhile I’m still here in Wakenda Missouri,
crawling in diapers out on the lawn.
It’s 4:00 A.M.
and my alarm clock rudely awakens me.
As I wash my face, I look in the mirror I ask,
“Why do I do this? I don’t have to,
and there are so many things I’d rather be doing.”
As I am leaving, I kiss my still sleeping wife on the forehead,
and I am reminded of the answer to my question…
I do this to give my family whatever in life they wish.
As dawn breaks,
I make my way across town in heavy traffic.
The news on the radio dulls the monotony of my commute,
“…hot and dry today, the Yankees beat Boston 5 to 4,
unemployment reaches a record high as more families face poverty.”
Hearing the news I am reminded of the things I was taught
when I was growing up; we must always do what we can,
and help the less fortunate; that is part of being a good citizen.
At the office,
my day unfolds and it’s work as usual.
Suddenly my day is interrupted by the ringing of my phone,
“This is Bob. My wife has died unexpectedly,
I need your help, your advice and support.”
Hearing this I recalled the hard times I’ve suffered in my life,
and the friends who were there by my side to give me support.
We must always be there to give strength when needed to those we love.
It’s 10:00 P.M.
As I wash my face and get ready for bed, I give thanks for my many blessings.
June 4, 2018
What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat–set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.
What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of flame
and then had long taken up living as metal–
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.
What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up, arched and coming back again.
Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs–
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
And I supposed that no sparrow would ever crash.
And what was this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn head gesture,
a thank you for the bread I’d left on the sill? Or to say
I’d better shut the curtain and make my exit?
Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow language
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.
That morning, with the last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in an open quadrilateral,
held its position.
(Written one day before the Boston Marathon bombing of April 15th, 2013)
Floating
by Michael R. Burch
Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll;
they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night.
Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips
moist and frantic against my own.
Memories of ghostly white limbs …
of soft sighs
heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans.
We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams,
green waves of algae billowing about you,
becoming your hair.
Suspended there,
where pale sunset discolors the sea,
I see all that you are
and all that you have become to me.
Your love is a sea,
and I am its trawler;
harbored in dreams,
I ride out night’s storms.
Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning,
dreaming the solace of your warm breasts,
pondering your riddles, savoring the feel
of the explosions of your hot, saline breath.
And I rise sometimes
from the tropical darkness
to gaze once again out over the sea ...
You watch in the moonlight
that brushes the water;
bright waves throw back your reflection at me.
This is a poem I wrote as a teenager. It has been published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine and Poetry Life & Times. The poem's mermaid has aspects of a ghost, phantom and mirage. The mermaid was inspired by ancient myths of Circe, Calypso, Medusa, Atargatis, Ea, Derketo, Thessalonike, Li Ban, Melusine and of the Sirens, Lorelei, Dryads, Nymphs, Sprites, Sylphs, Naiads, Nereides, Nix, Rusalkas, Ceasg and Selkies.