Long Codgers Poems
Long Codgers Poems. Below are the most popular long Codgers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Codgers poems by poem length and keyword.
World Series, back in '56,
Against the Brooklyn Dodgers,
Will always be remembered
And not just by some old codgers.
For the Yankee pitcher did what none
Had ever done before
Or since - a perfect game,
With 2 to zip the final score.
Don Larsen was that pitcher
And, at 90, he just died.
His feat's not been repeated
Though some aces surely tried.
The ending, made immortal
In an image that still charms,
Shows the catcher, Yogi Berra,
Leaping into Larsen's arms.
I hope that record always stands,
Indelible in baseball lore -
Perfection in a Series game;
What fan could wish for any more?
Young geeks, txt with lightning speed,
Old dudes, lol, trying hard to find the next key to text,
w/e our asl may be, we are trying to convey,
our feelings, imho, in a cryptic language.
Codgers love the high from aged malt,
Whipper-snappers are already addicted to texting before they know,
You may go to jail for dui,
But you may be dead texting and driving,
Texting has its own dictionary and personalities trait,
Btw idk if still ily? u wre my og,
Nvm ‘m smh, hmu asap,
No cap, tbh Ily.
Kit w/ ur hak, ur pain and sorrow, ur social events,
I will reply you with im chat,
a chat waiting to be responded,
Is like missing ur xoxoxo.
Hungry for munchies, on his way to the lunchroom,
a rambunctious, persnickety,“fuss-budget”, elderly
jittery, fidgety, geezer, named Cassidy…
whose questionable dexterity, aghast by a massive sneeze,
teeter-tottered precariously.
at the edge of the thingamajig, ...jigging one way, jagging the other!
Minding his own beeswax, without any rigmarole,
topsy-turvy on his feet, he reached for the balustrade,
became quite flabbergasted, and very discombobulated
when the doohickey provided for his ambidextrous aid
jiggled free from its screws, and found him footloose!
It seemed the doo-dad, put there by some nitpicking pipsqueak,
some flat-footed, hooligan, who knew diddly-squat, who obviously,
recklessly, constructed a railing, only worthy for failing!
Such foolhardy shenanigans! Was it some practical joke
to lambaste aged codgers, eliminate lodgers, and boondoggle the old folks?
Cass, was an old rabble-rouser, considered a blabbermouth,
was thrown off his epicenter, while his cane went a'sailing, appendages flailing
Onlookers, were outraged, ....in stage of amazement
but laughs grew contagious, and cock-eyed hilarious!
Those carpetbagger carbuncles of society….can’t stop this old fogy
Cass, brushed off his hinny, would not be blind-sighted..
Barbaric bedevilment, won’t halt his felicity!
Some even predicted, with his acid tongue lashings, and his eccentric behavior,
he would stir up entanglement, kibosh the haranguers
and strangle the caboodles, who hooted and hollered!
His face turned beet red, but no meltdown,......instead
He held his chin high
to the dining room, ahead....he ordered French bread
Ordered some bouillabaisse, toasted with balderdash and a shot of rye
He dined with the multitudes, ordered some strudel, and one snicker-doodle
Then he told folks a riddle, "There was a man with a cane, who slipped on a noodle, a handrail came loose, he injured his caboose….and cooked his goose!"
.....................................................
For Craig's : Blue cheese and old pickles contest
15.03.2025
In the background the Ukraine War and Europe’s dilemma whether to rearm to defend itself or go to the table to discuss a peace treaty.
The odd codgers
They sit together in the shadows of the baroque church, two relics biding time, perusing current affairs. An old, furrowed face, showing the effects of blood thinners, speaks with a brashness no one asks for. His opinion cuts through the air, sharp and impertinent, daring the timorous to abscond. He braves rivalry and buildups excite him. Beside him a tired veteran, with flushed cheeks and red nose, rambles on about summers long gone when he was still a cucumber. He speaks of conservation, his acridity, softened by years in brine. He advocates for caution as he remembers the sour embrace of his own memory.
They represent a strange science of age and defiance. Incompatible, of course, however in their solitude, they have grown bolder. They both believe in time’s power to change, to whittle into something unknown yet memorable. A reminder that some things are not meant to be simple.
mature essences –
silent whispers of the past—
bitter sweetness blooms.
Who first thought to eat cornbread with chili?
And who first thought to add ketchup to fries -
Who first thought to put that bell in Philly -
And who first thought that yeast could make bread rise?
Who first coupled Abbott with Costello -
And who knew whiskers looked so good on codgers -
Who first added fruit to cherry Jell-O
And who first paired up Hammerstein with Rodgers?
Who first peanut butter'd up some jelly -
And who first thought to eat breakfast in bed -
Who made that first Reuben in their deli -
And who suggested Ginger dance with Fred?
Who first thought that tea could use some honey -
Who first put together nails and wood?
Fine folks - all; and yes, it may seem funny
But I should like to meet them if I could.
Now who first put the moon and stars together -
Who put lush green hills under blue skies -
Who made sunshine follow rainy weather -
And who first fashioned beauty for our eyes?
The same One who brought you into my life,
He knew we'd be just right for one another
He knew that we would be husband and wife
Before He formed each of us in our mother.
Great is the One who makes one out of two
Preserving them through sickness, joys, and tears
He knew that you'd need me and I'd need you
I thank Him for our many happy years.
// Dedicated to my beloved bride on our 27th anniversary in 2011 //
Machines With Madmen Groaning
Machines with madmen groaning above me at 10 thousand feet,
Grumbling and growling like maniac sky monsters slurping on bloody prey,
Those steel dragons of yore spewing fire and corpses into the excesses,
Like Rodan and Godzilla maiming each other in the frozen spasming countrysides,
Giant crazed beasts reciprocating the deafening overtures of contrived violences,
Contrived annihilations, a few math equations, and we have the Beast rising from the sea.
Here, pour me a glass of your backwashed spittle as it internalizes with basically nothing.
It’s time to find the time to describe a time when clocks will rage on like crazed moon dancers,
When the girls on the boulevard were cool and accessible in their cruising flirtations.
When tanned nomads inside their cool cars found gliding nirvanas, and a bra strap,
Amidst the midnight milkshakes and the incredible nude conversations in the backseats of time.
Machines with motorized redundancies tap into the central eye where speed finds inertness.
Life can be found below the stage on the Thames, river of history, by the Black Friars on Coffee Street.
Incense-filled rooms lie mysteriously down a long gloomy walkway around the opaque tree line.
Ghosts of codgers and spillmen greet the toothless ladies with bloody knees and rotting finery,.
A young bard shakes the hands of broggers and yeomen with dripping quills and pig’s blood.
Grind on young thespians! Read your antique lines, not forgetting your monologues dedicated to fear.
Grant that the music of the spheres above captures the relative major, with silent egresses to be heard.
Upon well-worn barstools, tales two codgers tell,
Deep in drink, their stories swell.
Reflecting how the eons have flown,
Strengths once had, now overthrown.
"Ah, beauties chased, both bright and keen,
Yet in our brews, our sighs unseen,"
One muses, his gaze alight with jest,
"Great tales spun ‘bout adventurous quests."
Yet as dusk deepens into night,
Their bawdy laments take flight,
For now, as years their passions cool,
'Tis kinship's warmth that proves the jewel.
"Lust we chased, a fierce endeavor,
Yet who'd guess? 'Tis these bonds we'd treasure,"
Laughs the other, his tone now cracked,
"In our twilight, kind gestures n’er outmatched"
Thus they salute life's jest renown,
To joy's pursuit, with trials abound,
Yet as nightfall deepens, they both concede,
'Tis the company of a friend, true wealth indeed.
"For now," they laugh, "let truths be aired,
Our liveliest nights in legends shared,
Yet of friendship, let this be told,
It's the dearest consort we'll ever hold."
Here's to these venerables, their legends vast,
Inebriated, yet together steadfast,
For though the yearn for carnal dreams persists,
It's companionship they seek, with all its twists.
And as this epic closes with a laugh shared,
Recall, 'tis friendship that has our vessels spared,
For lust may wane, and fervors stall,
But a true friend stands as the finest of all.
PS: Originally written in 2015. Another poem from my old computer
I recognize your vivacious gaze
A saffron blaze as speckled as the sun
And how you framed your lips
I despise having to say goodbye
Thus, our ethereal realm is descrying.
caused by the sham of wholeness
A nebula sparked a throb in my heart
Innocence is lost at an early age
until the moon swallows it all, I wage.
I was jolted awake when we spoke
Until her love-worn heart broke
At first light, a human spirit awoke.
Now I will tell the terrible truth
Nor exert effort, as this is really smooth
Our hapless path had been specified
It was the source of a haphazard journey.
I frequently sit and ponder
Yet I love to rhyme, – particularly to wander
On what oceans do you set sail?
However, the sun never dries the dew
on a dreary shore where no air blew
Breeze sighed amber codgers too
Whatever was lost is now null and void.
Written: February 08, 2023
Brian Strand Contest No 1183 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.