Long Bussed Poems
Long Bussed Poems. Below are the most popular long Bussed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bussed poems by poem length and keyword.
(To be sang to the tune of ‘Circle Of Life’ from ‘The Lion King’)
At the age of twelve in the school,
A merger of two high schools.
Teachers bussed between two buildings,
Students learning on two sites.
After eight weeks, portacabins added,
Everyone now on one site.
Making new friends.
Moved to the new building,
At the age of fifteen – a big change.
It’s the end of an era,
And the start of a new.
Learning our way,
Around the new school
‘Til we find our class,
In the new building.
It’s the end,
It’s the end of an era.
It’s the end of an era,
And the start of a new.
Learning our way,
Around the new school
‘Til we find our class,
In the new building.
It’s the end,
It’s the end of an era.
‘Til we find our class,
In the new building.
It’s the end,
It’s the end of an era.
End of an era!!
04/10/21
“Blindness separates people from things;
deafness separates people from people.”
– Helen Keller
She sat amongst the gathering crowd.
It was her birthday, you see.
The men were bespoke so proud
and the ladies were dressed to a T.
The table was layered in muted hues
and laid with sundry hors d'oeuvres
on a linen cloth of pinks and blues.
She was a bundle of nerves.
They bussed her cheek and spoke
a greeting she didn’t understand.
She smiled and let her words choke
since hearing was not in her command.
They gave her a kiss and a hug
and whispered secrets in her ear.
She’d reply with a smile and a shrug,
masking that she couldn’t hear.
She lost her hearing months ago
and only a few close friends knew.
She hid it the best she could
for her affliction was too new.
She felt isolated, useless, and weak,
not able to hear or converse.
Looks of irritation or pity were bleak
and only made her feel worse.
Got Any Ideas For A Poem?
Ha! That catch phrase
(kid ding lee writ)
hoop fully goat yar attention
truth be told, (no...no...
no...not by me
boat some tee else of course)
mine min (yute) yen
for light banter i.e. badinage,
(this horny toad juiced ribbing...
frog git about it), yea,
I know that punning
while keying (NOT SAFE),
sometimes dill lutes
ma serious pickling attempt ren
doors an unsuspecting reader
(bajillion times out of zero) pen
ultimately probably discourages,
an increased virtual fanbase,
rectified by the following asinine
non-sequitur (a come men
dib bull double
entendre) totally tubularly
barbed with Freudian
slip age, that ken
figuratively grab immediate
interest of hen
pecked recipients (with pock marks
to prove such assertion)
might strongly concur even
without being aware how
psychoanalysis willy thrust
significance of phallus
in everyday affairs,
particularly how peppy
(even after applying
WD-40) can rust
and/or atrophy as if cell bait,
hence thee dick cree,
that intercourse a must
(as told by this husband
in a sexless marriage
as a result, I might
join a convent) as a lust
result, either that or
go set me a
watch woman as mistress
tubby integrated within
my private life
even if one
needs tubby bussed
from the outer limits of the
sterling twilight
zona pellucida ideally,
where love of c**t tree and
priapism maketh sea men go bust!
Always following company policy
you set a good example and it showed
qualified at your level of incompetence
while rather than carry the can
you continued to kick it down the road
and I'll be the first to say I'm last in line
on the lower echelon boot-licking list
but please trust and do keep in mind
by me the cheeks of your behind
are not about to be bussed or kissed
I know at work I am junior-most man
on the promotion ladder totem pole
but on the whole you've surrounded yourself
with employees who are quite inferior
and tho' overall you may be the boss
no you are not my superior
Tonight, my soul, be still and sleep;
The storms are raging on God’s deep—
God’s deep, not yours; be still and sleep.
Charles H. Spurgeon
(Streams in the Desert)
DAY OF DELIVERABLES
italian sausage with banana
peppers in a sesame seed bun.
earlier donuts,
as J Christopher’s served
plenteous tables, needing
to be bussed — no sense
fussing over customers,
waiting on me and him.
you would have given us
the day having not enough
hands to deliver the stuff.
life is rough, post-pandemic.
we will stir our coffee again
in your establishment, reputable,
but for now our brunch grab
is a half-dozen, craved, cream-
filled, and fried, chocolate covered
and glazed. my eyes. i scramble us
up some cheesy-eggs so we don’t
just fall asleep as the world calls
to memory our dead - quite likely
the reason we live. books leak
into my eyes, lips, ears — gears
turning with a one day panacea
of someone else’s lives. the other
hand free to stress over the internet
that doesn’t allow for catch up
of files. day spent riled, filled,
and not alone nor in stacks. stack
that all up to life on earth. angels
watch my ups and downs.
that is my teeth crunching, gritting,
sounding out words from Coopers’
Muskrat Castle on Glimmerglass,
and a couple chapters of Sawyer’s
Sinking Sand, with a hopeful side
of Cowman’s May 31st reading.
flipping pages, not pancakes,
nor my wig — ruminating about
many things: my mother…
6/1/2021
Books mentioned:
The Deerslayer by James Fenimore Cooper
Sinking Sand by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Streams in the Desert by L.B. Cowman