Long Each week Poems
Long Each week Poems. Below are the most popular long Each week by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Each week poems by poem length and keyword.
As a non-golfing husband I revel at tales
Of sunshine filled days chasing small balls,
Some in the rough others in sand,
All these brave girls fighting nature's pitfalls.
I hear of the times the flock of wild ducks
Hindered a drive that was perfectly hit,
And what of those trees that magically moved
With a subsequent shout 'I just want to quit'.
But then I'm regaled with feats of great skill
Such as the time a Birdie was made,
Out comes the flask, big glugs all around,
Magical moments that no-one would trade.
They say Golf's a passion a lifelong pursuit,
One day may be heaven the other pure hell,
Neither cool mornings nor that full midday heat,
Apparently stops that will to excel.
Yet there's one thing I notice each week,
Yes the real pleasure from playing the game
And what's not to like from those magical views
But without one's good friends the day's not the same.
So to all poor Golf widowers awoken by shrilling alarms,
Then never quite knowing what time we'll see our fair brides,
There's a much higher calling we can but embrace,
'Happy wife happy life' the true gift this pastime provides.
Plastic for garment hopeful Mc Guyver
Privileged upbringing Mum funded Uni
Drooping arms self described Survivor
Sends selfies working store security
Each week forgot which time we'd set to meet
Busy cuddling cat in his hoarders house
Box obstructed rooms, pet fur pile retreat
Expensive half hour at strip club aroused
Deep thought Duncan sombre long faced hellos
Told off at new job for being morose
Six year psychiatrist compiled his woes
Used a lot of glue trying to make clothes!
Fifty eight, next door mother truest friend
Asserts he's recognised among top ten
31st January
Duncan in denial
~ for Karin ~
oh how a fair breeze of Autumn can stir
my heart with reprieves - the redolent leaves
remembrance of romance with you in a blur
soft eyes in a camber of absinthe and amber
wheaty hair spilling like corn silk to shoulders
framing two spicy bow lips as they smoldered
falling like leaves … for you
oh how this time lifts me back to a dream
our ivy-clad schools - such unripened fools
a world as our oyster, and raw it would seem
escaped to the woods - discarding our goods
we swam on a blanket of bright leafy death
straining in passions to fever each breath
falling like leaves … for you
oh how the chill always kindled our flame
pining each week for the rose of your cheek
weekends adoring the ways that you came
our fleshy memoirs ‘neath branches and stars
each mutual climax much sweeter than last
the moments exhausted like us, far too fast
falling like leaves … for you
oh Autumn yet sings midst my sinews today
the libertine flood still coursing my blood
you ‘waken my core in the most vexing way
when October flies I ache for your sighs
tho’ marrow grows icy the mem’ry remains
chaotic obsessions through prurient pains
someday I’ll surrender them - tears in the rain
falling like leaves for you …
still falling … in Deja vu.
* This is a very rhythmic and musical form I created called ‘QARINAGE’ I hope you enjoyed it. *
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with GALA AI software )
Fragile
She seems so fragile.
I imgaine you with her, touching her gently,
as she lets her slender fingers linger on your skin -
those fingers with the long polished nails
she must spend hours on each week to maintain so perfectly.
Her face, her body and her hair are smooth - so smooth and beautiful.
How delicate her features.
She’s a china doll with a tiny waist that would fit so easily in a man’s embrace -
that type of girl I suppose appears in most men’s fantasies.
I see her at my workplace, sitting so demurely,
giggling softly when she takes your phone calls.
You call her often, and I know why.
She demands so much attention
from every man I’ve seen her get involved with.
I’ve also seen her eyes well up with tears
when the boss not too severely reprimands her.
Yes, she’s the epitome of fragility.
I, on the other hand, am not a tiny helpless china doll.
I am average sized, cheerful and robust,
and I cry too, just not so easily.
My nails are not long, but otherwise, I take care of myself.
I’m feminine though not a china doll.
Delicate is not a word that would enter someone’s mind to describe me
except perhaps in the way I use my voice, for I am tactful.
Personable, practical, sincere and steady are other words
I hope would spring to someone’s mind if they should describe me.
I overhear my lovely workmate’s conversations,
for her desk is right near mine.
Needy is another word that very much describes her.
It seems to be the major attribute of this helpless-acting clinging vine.
Often I daydream of you and me together, and in that dream,
it’s I whom you caress so softly as I let my fingers linger on your skin.
Then passion overtakes us, and I become something wild,
not in the least bit fragile. I’m a woman, and my desires are strong.
I always say hello the times you come to see your china doll.
I also smile at you. Can you read the want inside my eyes?
Lately I’ve been noticing the days you come to pick her up,
how more quickly your smiling eyes are meeting mine. . . .
I bide my time.
Written Oct. 17, 2017 for John Hamilton's "Fragile" Poetry Contest
Daily there were clothes to wash
The load count was always five
Then there were the meals to fix
So her children could survive
She swept the floors and dusted
And washed dishes mountains high
Back then no conditioned air
In the hot days of July.
With a needle and some thread
She mended family clothes
And as she sewed she rarely thought
Of sorrows or of woes.
Grocery shopping was another thing
Of her chores each week
Always she wore gingham
In a dress way past antique
The hours they turned into days,
And the days turned into weeks
As the weeks went into years
They brought lines onto her cheeks
Her roughened hands and furrowed brow
Put gray steaks in her hair
Then, her children grown and gone,
She found her rocking chair.
And as she sat there rocking
Looking backward at her past
She knew she’d done God’s calling
And her job was done … at last
The creaking of the rocking chair
Was music to her ears
And daily she relived the life
Of all her prior years
She had lived life fully
From childhood through her prime
Right up to when
The chair claimed all her time.
No more mounds of dishes
No more mountains’ clothes
And with a smile in a rocking chair
Her life came to its close.
S omewhere in the recent past came a show which brought the future,
T hough it was a show that would use the future to show us the past.
A nd each week when the new episode was on the tube...
R ecounting now, I remember how I wished each would last.
T he writing was some of the best fiction ever put on TV.
R oddenberry chose a cast that would memorialize his dream.
E ach week they took us to a time in another place for an hour,
K irk, Spock, Sulu, Scotty, Bones, Uhura, and Chechov were on the screen.
Even today I will sometimes "binge" watch those old shows,
Remembering how they influenced my every look up at a star.
The show created many more series and a number of movies too...
It's the one show that in our generation will never have a par.
(The extra quatrain was written only to fulfill the 10 line minimum required.)
Every once in a while, especially on holidays, I find myself wandering through my memory museum - rattling doors and fishing through those virtual hallways. That’s where I found ‘Father Lucas,’ last night, back from when I was eight or so, at (private catholic) school.
Each week, before we received that week's ‘catechism lesson,’ (religious education) from the nuns, we’d get to hear what Father Lucas had to say about the Kafkaesque mysteries of the universe. He looked very old, wise and wrinkled, like a skinny Santa Claus.
Outside of those brief lessons he was always shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Even at our age, we knew cigarettes were bad for you - but what did ‘Father Lucas’ have to fear from death? On him, the surrounding smoke seemed right and fitting, as if he were the human personification of the burning bush.
My father had just died (we were in a car crash). Before that, the biggest drama in my young life was putting one foot in front of the other, and suddenly, I had a lot - lot, lot of questions that I absolutely, positively and under no circumstances what-so-ever wanted to discuss with anyone.
Imagine, if you will, the gravitas that Rod Serling brought to the introduction of each Twilight Zone episode, and you have Father Lucas’ introducing the lesson. I felt an anticipation of answers independent of my individual situation.
Father Lucas provided context and meaning to the unknown, he dabbled in surrealism, spun out paradox and it seemed that he stood on the very edge of that dark room at the end of the maze. He was transmitting at my frequency, and I could have listened forever. Bless the man.
Ultimately, of course, there were no ‘answers’ - but that’s ok - no answers are an answer.
Somebody should start digging,
a big hole, we need a big hole.
Big enough for 300 babies, 300 children,
300 young women,
300 old women
300 fighting men, 300 just talking men.
300 charging horses and riders,
300 retreating riderless horses,
300 peace workers, 300 idiots,
300 hundred nurses and doctors,
300 politicians, 300 martyrs.
It will be an underground city,
just for Samura, Trojans, cherups, devils and angels.
We will call that subterrain metropolis:
WELL INTENTIONED.
We will plant Red Poppies and White Day Lilis
upon that covered-in mound.
On Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays
we will pray for all of the slaughtered,
read from the book of the dead,
each week,
redefining the meaning of innocence.
I'm a heartless bit-- you say
Getting my way every day
But I do not call this livin'
With the chances you were givin'
How many times did I hear
I am sorry with a tear
In your eyes so I don't leave
Always making me believe
You will try and do more
So I don't leave out the door
I beg and plead, saying please
Open up and talk to me
But your silent and emotions
Stay inside while my devotion
Starts to fade less when you lie
Saying you'll get help and try
To respect, listen and do
More for helping me and you
Make this relationship last longer
But something is really wrong here
With each week and year that passes
I'm seeing through X-Ray glasses
The hollowness in your heart
That is tearing us apart
When I ask you what is wrong
You say nothing's going on
And everything is just fine
Lines I've heard too many times
I want truth and honesty
That's the only way I'll be
Willing to give in and bend
One more chance, but in the end
I will be heartless and cruel
If you use me like a fool
You'll see then my way I'll get
When I take the kids and let
You be alone with no one
While I'm enjoying life and fun
Would you quietly watch a friend threw away a winning lottery
ticket without claiming a prize
In a way seeing a baptized Catholic neglect his faith is similar
Catholics who don’t attend mass each week
Don’t partake the sacraments
Don’t grow in their faith are throwing away the riches of what Father Christ Jesus offered
Instead
Encourage all Catholics to claim their promised prize
Listen: Perhaps (Maybe or possibly) a painful past episode
associated with the Church
A sin that is unforgiveable is keeping your friend from coming to church
Offering gentle attention
Comfort makes you an instrument of grace
Invite: Some Catholics don’t practice their faith because they haven’t found a parish home where they feel welcome Inviting your friend to attend mass with you is a first step
Encourage: Through the sacrament of reconciliation
We are freed from our sins and reminded of God’s forgiveness
Encourage your friend to go to confession and receive the piece of Father Christ Jesus
Share: When you live a joyfully Catholic life, your joy becomes contagious
Continue to grow in your faith and others will want to
share it