Long Check off Poems
Long Check off Poems. Below are the most popular long Check off by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Check off poems by poem length and keyword.
Passion
Passion can be very good,
But it is misunderstood.
“Passion” comes from the word for “suffering,”
So, in a sense, without buffering:
It can give, but it too takes,
For every heart it lifts, it breaks!
If you feel it, then you know,
There is no other road to go
Down that gives you such a rush,
But, your dream, can it crush.
If the question were put to you,
What would you choose to do?
Would you choose to stay inside,
Alone, in the dark, would you hide?
I don't know, but I think,
To do that, would drive me to the brink!
Vote for passion, and you'll live,
With all the fun that life can give!
Vote for passion, vote for thunder,
Tho' it could tear your heart asunder!
Vote “no” to passion, and you'll see,
How truly bland that life can be.
Around you, only gray and grayer,
In the game of life, no player!
True, you'd never suffer losses,
But, I suspect that your bosses
Would make life as drab as could be,
It's not like you could be happy!
“No” would mean your “bucket list,”
Would, of a million things, consist!
If you had not the guts to try,
How would you do it 'fore you die?
Helpers would you then enlist,
To help you whittle down your list?
Would you let them have the fun,
Of the things you should have done?
Now let me tell you all about
The things you would be missing out:
Wonders in the skies above,
Colors on this Earth, and love.
Bruises there would be, by the score,
But you would gain so much more,
As a thing to check off your list,
How about a midnight tryst?
Don't wait 'til you're almost dyin'
To gain the heart of a lion!
Anything that's purely fun,
Should, today, be done!
Passion is its own reward,
Don't let your wishes become a hoard,
Live your life as if you mean it,
Your headstone, one day, they will clean it.
What will your marker say?
“Born and died on the same day?”
“Never passion, never lust,”
“Now he lies here, only Dust?”
Don't let this occur to you,
Find what it is you LOVE to do,
Then you will understand,
Today, take PASSION by the hand!
Washing and drying
Folding and clothing
Scooping and dumping
Hustling and bustling.
I follow my routine
Each tuesday, thursday and friday
Getting all the chores done
On rare occassion one is saved for tomorrow.
Yet, your never satisfied
You try to throw off my pattern
Adding new things that don't swing
While you make empty threats
That I ain't buying.
You may bark all you want,
But you don't got the bite
Even when you put on a mean face
Trying to make everyone bow before you
Just because you think your the boss.
Then you tell me "Wait until you land a job"
"Just see how hard that'll be"
That's only your opinion
Because your work is full of idiots.
So don't push your beliefs on me
You may be experienced
Yet when it comes to jobs
You don't understand
That all jobs differ.
I'm doing my best
Just like the rest
To find work out there
That's right for me.
As long as I'm happy
Relating to my field
Suiting to my skills
An environment that's just right
Then I've found the ideal job.
I love to relax and have fun,
Pausing the fun button
To get the job done
Then get back to bliss.
I know the time
Check off the chores
On the list in my mind
I get it all done.
Helping you out
Groceries and tasks
I get them done
Multitasking everything
To balance work and pleasure.
You see negatives in life
While I see positives
Think I don't use my head
I use it more than you know.
You see the grass as gray
I see the grass as greener
You see the glass as half empty
I see the glass as half full.
I Rapunzel, You Gothel
Your wrong about me,
Your wrong about people,
Your wrong about jobs.
Learn to loosen up,
Accept the things in life,
Be more appreciative of the people
That surround you that care.
Smash your negativity
With the hammer of positivity
Because I won't put up with it
So just get off my back.
I was reading in a Southern Living magazine yesterday that one thing that all great
southern writers have in their books is a dead mule. The article cited several
examples and said that their research indicated that if you wanted to be counted in
amongst the great Southern writers and join them in their private Hereafter, you
had to ride in on a dead mule. I could not help myself and got paper and pen and
wrote the following.
Did you know there’s a Hereafter
Where Southern Writers dwell
And if you’re a Southern Writer
You’ll want in as well - - - but
To be a Southern Writer
There’s just one simple rule
Somewhere in your writings
You must include a mule
And not just any mule story
If you want your writing read
This mule must be dying
And ultimately dead
It doesn’t matter if you love them
Or hate them to their core
You’ve got to kill a mule
If your writing is to score
They’ve been killed by all your heroes
In Southern stories, books and plays
Killed off by great writers
In a multitude of ways
Faulkner drowned a good pair
In his book “As I Lay Dying”
They’ve been shot and stabbed and frozen
When the writers really trying
They’ve been chewed up by a rabid dog
Or left to die of thirst
They’ve been tethered to a railroad track
Or asphyxiated first
Now as a Southern Writer
I’m wondering just who’ll
Deny me my Hereafter
When they’ve read about my mule
So here is my story of an old Southern mule
Who rode Southern gents to an old Southern duel
When they turned and fired, there formed a blood pool
On the ground at the feet of this old Southern mule
And bubbling up through the blood and the drool
Came the very last gasp of this old Southern mule
Who gave up his life for an old writer’s tool
So that I could check off this Southern Writers rule
Mom’s Night Before Christmas
T’was the night before Christmas
Downtown stores they were packed
Shoppers looking for deals
Bargains bound to attract.
My mother navigated crowded streets with care
She put off Christmas shopping until Christmas Eve
Knowing the sales would still be there
She would check off her list – this she believed!
Every year, the same game
This her habit, her tradition
Christmas Eve shopping – her claim to fame -
Like a wise woman on a mission
All parking lots said no room in the inn
Garages full, nary a spot in sight
But mom didn’t worry, slowly she grinned,
She knew the secret for parking this night.
Singing Silver Bells, her favorite carol,
With visions of gifts purchased, just in time,
She wore her mantra like festive apparel
“There’s always room at the head of the line.”
Lo, and behold, what appeared
One parking place at her favorite store
Quickly she zipped in filled with Christmas cheer
Ready to finish her holiday chores.
There’s always room, her holiday legend,
One she passed on to me, thankfully,
When finding a mall space I look to Heaven
“Thanks, Mom!” I say with Christmas glee.
Miracles happen at this time of year
In positive thinking believe
A star in the sky – a Savior appears
All of life’s burdens to relieve.
12-6-22
Contest: T’was the Night Before 3
Sponsor: Joseph May
Every year on Christmas Eve my mom would drive downtown to do her Christmas shopping. With every garage and parking place taken, she would, every year, find a place to park in front of the door to her favorite store!!!! Her mantra lives on – “There’s always room at the head of the line!” Perfect for the belief in miracles at Christmas!
I pleasure dove into my treasure trove
Of keepsakes and mementos
I snoop around here about every ten years
And am always amazed at how quickly the time goes
There are pictures and things, an old mood ring,
Ticket stubs and newspaper clippings;
Blue tipped matches, old ID badges,
Birth announcements and all the memories that they bring
When I dove in this time I found an old rhyme
That I had written but was half complete
I promptly opened it and now here I sit
Thinking to finish it might be real neat
It reads:
I am a young man but I have a real plan
About the way I wish to live my life
I hope that my stories contain lots of glories
And I can make a career out of doing things that I like
I know that I am young; my journey just begun
And it is too soon to create a Bucket List
But I hope to one day, when I am older and grey
Come back and check off the things that I’ve missed
So I reviewed that old list and all the things it consists
As a teardrop formed in my eye
For I just had to laugh, I hadn’t even done half
And I’ve only a few years left yet to try
So I folded up that poem and stuck it back in its home
Without having completed the verse
I will come back to it here in a couple more years
But there are some things that I have to do first
NOTE: I wrote this for a contest but when I went back and re-read the rules I discovered it has far too many lines ... but I like the poem so I am posting it here, I just won't enter it into the contest. Thanks for the inspiration though.
I wake up each day
With the best of intentions
So get out of my way
Because I'm a Christian
The first thing I do
Is pray of course
And with that out of the way
I check off the box
Head down to the kitchen
To put coffee on
Then search for my bible
Now where could it have gone
Right where I last set it
I read chapter and verse
I then close it up
And check off the box
Get myself dressed
In my best conservativness
Making sure not to forget
The cross around my neck
Wanting the world to know
I'm saved and not lost
In case my actions don't show
As I check off the box
I step out the door
All about the Lord's business
Looking for unsuspecting souls
To which I can witness
It's what I've got to do
Like it or not
And as soon as I'm through
I check off the box
I pray before meals
Thankful what's set before me
And thankful for not
Being like the sinners I see
With their salvation plan
I wish them good luck
Not like they haven't been warned
As I check off the box
With another satisfying day
Under my belt
Along the way I heard someone say
They had Jesus in their heart
Which got me to thinking
A lot of meaningful thoughts
But in the meantime
I'll just check off the box
I wonder how many of us in our Christian walk just check off the box out of duty. It's time we took Jesus out of the box and put him into our hearts....
They see long blonde hair and blue eyes, and love me
Because I am "pretty" and "sweet"
They see that I can talk go anyone, and they love me
Because I am always so "happy" and "kind"
They see I like to draw, and they love me
Because I am now "cute" and "artsy"
They see that I play instruments, and they love me
Because I am "fun" and "musical"
They see me dance, and they love me
Because I am now "athletic" and "sexy"
They see me recite poetry, and they love me
Because I am now "smart" and "sophisticated"
And each time I wonder "What if I wasn't?"
Would they hate the girl that's not
"pretty" "happy" "smart" ?
So when someone tells me they love me,
I always ask "why?" and I wait
For them to check off one of the above...
When He told me he loved me, I asked "why?"-
He replied the only thing I wasn't expecting
And the only thing that could have made me believe him;
When I asked, "Why?" he told me, "Without reasons."
He told me that he loved me like you write with your right hand
Like you wake up in the morning and open your eyes
Like how you love the rain but hate the cold
Like how your favorite ice cream flavor is chocolate
He told me... that he didn't know why he loved me
But that he had no choice in that
And for once, I didn't wonder, "What if...?"
Autumn has dressed up in pretty auburn
by pulling all the lifeless leaves
off the dormant, cold trees;
and every bird, that once thrilled everyone's heart,
has glanced upon this scenery and sadly gone south,
and I like them...I dream of a spring in green!
Under these swift feet the dry leaves of November crack,
and my path feels hard and is visible no more;
here and there, I trip on a hidden stone
which slows me down as a reminder of the winter's whack...
when heavy snowfalls and violent storms will batter this paradise,
but who else will call upon imagination and fantasize?
Days and months I'll check off my calendar:
December with its first snowflakes and ice...
gleaming on my soft and distant meadow;
January covering everything with soft snow,
February with its constant gelid skies,
and March bringing back the songbirds to my door!
Unmerciful winter, don't let this aloneness curb my freedom,
once in a while entice it with the spurious presence of sunshine...
not disobliging my wishes and turning me into a butterfly:
to revive a vision of the of bluest skies where clouds roam;
by a riverside I will lay in comfort...glazing its flow,
until this newly found joy will end any thought of sorrow!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
When they were handing out animus- I was missed,
You know that masculine thing in my psyche;
I am all girl, you can check off the female list,
Took my bro's play truck because I was feisty.
You know that masculine thing in my psyche,
I don't like any sports and boy things, I resist;
Took my bro's play truck because I was feisty,
Did not want to be a truck driver- just him pissed.
I don't like any sports and boy things I resist,
Have courage and I am a warrior mighty;
Did not want to be a truck driver- just him pissed,
I have spirit and pride and great integrity.
Have courage and I am a warrior mighty,
Don't want to be president- just want to be kissed;
I have spirit and pride and great integrity,
Oh listen . . . I am all girl, so I must insist.
Don't want to be president- just want to be kissed,
I am all girl, you can check off the female list;
Oh listen- (I am all girl), so I must insist,
When they were handing out animus- I was missed.
________________________
May 19, 2016
Poetry/Pantoum/My Lack of Animus
Copyright Protected, ID 16-792-118-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Animus-Anima, Part II- Animus
sponsor, Tom Quigley
8th Place
If I search through old memories, shaking dust from visions long filed away, I can see scenes from my childhood. Whenever I am feeling old, I pull a few out, polish them up, and put them in a frame for a while. A constant rotation of nostalgia. They hang on the walls of my skull, eight by eleven and a half inches of glass reflecting the early morning sunlight that pours through my ears.
The vision that hangs behind my forehead now shows me a scene of green and orange on a field of sandy, shell-shocked earth.
The fox lived in that great floral house long before we moved in. From our deck, its joints creaking with each small step I took, I watched him check off things from his to-do list–grocery shopping, security checks, singing lullabies and other sweet songs to his children. We weren’t friendly neighbors per se, I never learned his name, but we coexisted well enough. From certain angles, he would look up through slatted wood and chitter an amicable ‘hello’ as he walked off in search of breakfast.
summer sunset
behind evergreen curtains–
the fox