Long Eighties Poems
Long Eighties Poems. Below are the most popular long Eighties by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eighties poems by poem length and keyword.
A simple sonnet
The tramp, who sits on a low ledge, near the entrance of the
modest supermarket that sells basic food fruit and vegetable
and to my surprise, has a good selection of wine, is ageless
The tramp- perhaps a wrong word- has a dark brown outdoor face, his hands a dark brown too, and the rest of him is covered in an old jacket and denim trousers.
He is reading a newspaper, eating from an open packet of biscuits and drinking from a bottle of water, our tramp doesn't do begging, but shoppers often give him foodstuff, apples and
bananas; which he acknowledged with a thank you but without servility; exudes a warm friendliness that soothed the many struggling with everyday life.
There is talk of closing down the relic from the eighties, after Christmas when the nice tramp disappears for a few weeks
[Advance Apologies: Sat on this for a few months
Concerned that it may be a little OTT for Soup. If
Your gag reflex is sensitive... best skip this one]
Edible knickers were once quite the thing
For couples who fancied a little more zing
I first heard about them with Beth on her back
She said go ‘downstairs’ if you fancy a snack
Well, supper was not quite what I had in mind
But she pushed on my shoulders, ‘Seek... and you’ll find’
And lo, she was right, they tasted fantastic
Once I had managed to chew the elastic
But that night was over, I suffered such grief
I couldn't get satin and silk from my teeth
She’d heard you can score more in edible knickers
She’d thought that the ad said incredible knickers
But many years on I tried it for real
We met up again and I tried to appeal
Remembered the eighties and all of the hype
And bought her some undies... the EDIBLE type
For now we were older and each slightly bolder
She said she would do whatever I told her
So she wasn't stressed, she seemed quite impressed
When save for those knickers, I left her undressed
I headed ‘downstairs’ to grab me some ‘supper’
I had no idea that my plans she would scupper
For there I was nibbling her pink raunchy pants
I just wished she’d mentioned her incontinence
History, it has always seemed,
at least it always has to me,
Is not something to be forgotten,
For from it much is gleaned.
It strikes me as more sensible,
if I may be allowed to say,
that's history is not a dusty book,
it's an all-you-can-think buffet!
From the ancients of the Levant
Ten Commandments do I take.
From the doughty Middles Ages:
Chivalry, a fine impression makes.
From the minutemen on Bunker Hills
comes a true love of liberty.
From the trappers in high Rockies
A sense of true independency.
The cowboy age it gives me
an appreciation of the grit,
along with a strong desire
Not to take any lip.
The roaring twenties gives me
the thrill of living it up.
The thirties taste strongly of thrift,
Of how to suffer through the rough.
Of the forties came a craving
for punching evil in the jaw.
From the fifties: Domesticity,
it's great rewards I saw.
From the sixties I take little,
except maybe rock and roll.
Though I admit as I grow older
Its seems tasteless and cold.
The seventies and best not eaten,
On that most will agree.
But the eighties' flavor is the power
of man's ingenuity set free.
From the millennium I consumed the fact
that Islamism is not that great.
And the present taste teaches clearly
not to trust those who cry "Hate!"
And this is just the beginning,
so many ideas out there lay...
A bit from here, a bit from there
A plate built of every age.
You leave behind the gristle,
though it make take some time,
but eventually you plate is choice,
and free of fat and rings.
And why some folks flee from it,
I cannot begin to say.
All I know is that once you start
you will always crave the taste.
I see the closet door and I hear the theme song to Shark.
Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo
The one they used to play on Saturday Night Live in the eighties.
You know the one.
I opened it once to take a photo.
Which I sent to my twin sister.
We were bemoaning our messy spots.
So we decided to have a little contest.
I took photos of this closet, and six hoarder piles in one bedroom.
Believe it or not, she sent me eight photos and hers were better.
Or worse depending on which way you are going competition wise.
Thanks Daddy, we both said. He loved keeping everything.
Whereas Mom was a minimalist. She had a rule.
Bring one new thing in, toss one old thing out.
She had no messes anywhere in the house
Except Daddy’s area. She could not control that.
Maybe it’s Mom’s fault, I think to myself.
She is the one that never let us have a mess.
Maybe we are still rebelling.
Anyway, I cannot face this closet yet.
This is the third year in a row it has been un-faceable
It would be nice to use a closet, just not this one.
I turn and take another peek. Is it still there?
Unfortunately yes. Who knows what lives inside.
1950’s poodle skirts made a brief come back.
kids in the eighties thought it was funny, a fact.
my own daughter had some scotty dog clothes too
not knowing they were old, thinking they were new.
I half expect those smock tops of the seventies to return.
and the mushroom kitchen appendages – vases for your fern.
nancy sinatra’s white boots have made a resurgence at school.
they are worn by a teacher who clomps around like a mule.
someone said to me last week “Polyester will never return”.
we had to threaten that material, and finally match it to burn.
it will show up one of these days as a trampoline or something.
nothing is ever new, said the fabric-studying-professor king.
With weary eyes I now gaze
Upon a street corner where we used to play
While reminiscing a tear did gleam
By the streetlight where Sunset and Adams meet
This is my hometown, but I recognize it no more
As another Eighties memory washes ashore
In the grey of my mind, I seek a reprieve
From how time has covered our footprints with leaves
These days you may bump into an old friend
While walking down the old paths in West Bend
But today I stand still to see where memories spawn
And in these wee morning hours, I wait on the dawn
In these moving pictures I see
The child who stumbled, a young man's foolery
Out in the streets where we once played
Seeking a sun rising fine Sunset decayed
Faces of youth now finding lines
A mirror, once friendly, does not fit for disguise
Statues remain only slightly aged
This seemed to me a comfort among the decay
Friends are somehow different these days
Tattered and torn but not out of the game
With “how do you do’s?” and “how have you been?”
Conversations closed with “I'll see you again”
“Don’t be a stranger” are the lyrics we sang
To a melody of plucked heartstrings we used to play
The streets are the same, some names have been changed
While we walked the ruins of Sunset decayed
“Where are you now?” these thoughts I revere
Since we've all grown up there's no time together
Visits happen maybe once, twice a year
Now letters are where we meet and where we hear
“Hey look who's back in the old neighborhood,
Yes, I've come back and times treated you good”
With a picture and a thousand words
I'd like to make up for the time that's been burned
It’s so long not goodbye I offer this day
With hope and tomorrow I find Sunset replayed
...Things were looking quite good for them
through most of the nineteen hundreds,
until a new plague arose out there,
left nine out of the of them dead.
An incurable blood disease
that in the nineteen eighties came,
easy for vampires to get,
it killed them like us, slow, with pain.
We got our resident vampires
when we offered a clear blood supply,
legally, they’re our employees,
and science advances all the time.
Soon we hope AIDs will be conquered,
and they all can rejoin to world,
but now just go up, shake their hands,
hear their tales of the ancient world.
Yes, we’re open twenty-four hours,
and our rates are reasonable,
coupon days every first weekend
so all can enjoy this in full.
You can even become a member,
get our magazine six times a year,
see the monsters of ancient lore,
without having to run in fear.
You’ll find no other place like ours,
come see things that most never knew,
you won’t believe all you’ll find at the
Endangered Horror Species Zoo
Don't know how many years I have left
Could be one, could be ten, could be twenty
Pretty good shape for a man of eighty-six
But I'm starting to think of it plenty
It's only natural as you get along in years
To start wondering when that day will arrive
When your numbers up, it's the end of the line
No matter how hard you try to survive
Can't imagine people who end their own lives
They know they'll be gone and forgotten
Everything they've lived for since being a child
Must really have reached rock bottom
Even with what seems like my upbeat nature
Must admit it's on my mind quite a lot
Guess it's only natural considering my years
We eventually reach the end of the plot
In all honesty don't think I'll be leaving yet
With my family history of longevity
Living to well into the eighties was common
So worrying is really not necessary
Tom’s the longest-serving member,
Of the British para-rowing squad,
Because whilst at a party, thunder,
He fell, slipped with all his quad.
He played rugby for Warwick Uni,
Because he lived for, loved sport,
But Coventry’s hospital said he,
Was paralysed, their true report.
As part of his long rehabilitation,
He took up rowing which he raved,
And so grossed the competition,
In Beijing 2008 which he engraved.
He went from the 2007 Worlds -
The World Rowing Championships,
Where he won gold, short words,
To opportune a gold in 2008 hips.
In 2009, Portugal at the WRC’s,
He took another gold medal fair,
And again in 2010 he won the seas,
And yet again in 2011, he did heir.
So in 2014 at the World Champs,
He won a silver in Amsterdam,
And in 2015 in France with amps,
He took another silver gram.
Tom was born 24th May in 1984,
As an eighties discotheque child;
He lives in Caversham, his door,
Into the world of contests dialled.
Together we were mischievous and playful
The naughty two
You….a woman in her eighties
Me….your daughter in her forties and a mini you
Singing, dancing, getting up to mischief
Playing tricks, living in moments of pure fun
Laughing until we couldn’t breathe
Both playful, silly, carefree, feeling young
You taught me so much before you left this world
The serious side of life ….the rights, the wrongs
You were such an exceptional role model
Authentic, kind and strong
The greatest lesson you taught me by example
Perhaps it was also hereditary
Was to fully and openly embrace my inner child with humour
Just let my inner child fly blissfully free
I am truly thankful and blessed for this gift l was given
I cherish the special joy and memories we shared
I know your inner child now flies with the angels
While here on earth my inner child l share