Long Gregg Poems
Long Gregg Poems. Below are the most popular long Gregg by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gregg poems by poem length and keyword.
I was somewhere deep in Kansas,
on a Triumph 69’
When your song came on the jukebox,
and hit me from behind
I was headed for a bad place,
and cared for nothing much
When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
my heart and soul were struck
Entranced, your lyrics captured me,
like nothing had before
When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
I headed for the door
But something made me turn around,
and grab another dime
Ten more times in that diner's booth,
still lost within your rhyme
Now back inside the bus station,
and sleeping on the bench
I scratch your words into the wood,
last dollar gone and spent
My bike outside against the wall,
the kickstand now long gone
And out of gas, my hopes have dashed,
that unrelenting song
Waking up at ten unsettled,
across the street I pushed
The sign said Triumph-BSA,
the owner Mister Cush
He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
I said “nothing—out of gas,
But worse I’m out of money,
can I sell the bike for cash
Would you please just buy my Triumph,
I know it’s old and worn
It got me here through seven states,
runs great both cold and warm”
“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
on that can we agree?”
We walked back up inside his shop,
three bills he handed me
I thought about a bus ride home,
my thumb looked more in line
Facing East on old route #50,
my heart in deep decline
The first big rig that came along,
was bound for York Pa.
The driver said “If you like dogs,”
I’ll take you on your way”
In York I caught a fast ride out,
two ‘dodgers’ going North
And got back home with hat in hand,
your song to guide me forth
Two years then passed, I met my wife,
four more and our first child
And we named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
her dad back from the wilds
Now forty years have come and gone,
my beard and hair both gray
I owe you Gregg, and always will,
your song, her name—that day
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
For Gregg Allmans- ‘Melissa’
His dad was a Commercial Traveller
Who went to work in a suit and tie
Didn’t have that weathered complexion
From daily working under open sky.
They lived last house in Mill Row
The village school not very far.
Unlike most of village families
They’d both a bathroom and a car.
He had an electric train set
Which he set up one day
Then when I’d properly seen it
Very carefully packed it away.
He was a Roy Roger’s fanatic
We’d play cowboys for fun
He had a leather belt an holster
Specially made for each six gun.
He failed exams for the Grammar
So,was sent to Commercial School
Where he learned Gregg shorthand
Tech Drawing and use of a Slide Rule.
The last time I saw him was
On one leave from Army life
We had a drink in the pub
And I met his soon to be wife.
Not an easy meeting and
I never ever saw him again
Though we’d speak on the
Phone every now and then.
I heard he’d suddenly died
While on holiday in Spain
They’d had him flown back
In the cargo hold of a ‘plane.
I hope he died easily when
It came to his sad end.
I still have fond memories
Of my not quite friend
I suddenly thought of him today
More than ten years being passed.
Of that little gang of village kids
I think I’m now nearly the last.
Gregg is greatly revered by his younger brother,
For his basketball shooting, skill and dexterity,
He was born Nov. 1996 in Leigh in Lancashire,
And is a 2.0 player with much junior activity.
In 2010 at Lord Taverners Nat. Junior Champs,
He was the most improved Under 15 player,
And at the GB Junior Summer Camp, amps,
He was also the most greatly improved player.
He became a part of the England North team,
In 2012, and they won Sainsbury’s School gold,
And at the Under 22 European Champs mean,
He helped to collect the bronze with his hold.
In Japan at the Kitakyushu Cup, Junior Men’s,
2014, his basketball team won the silver medal,
And in Rio they won the bronze, had gold pens:
Gregg enjoys playing drums for his twaddle.
I was somewhere deep in Kansas
on a Triumph 69’
When your song came on the jukebox
and hit me from behind
I was headed for a bad place
and cared for nothing much
When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
my heart and soul were struck
Entranced, your lyrics captured me
like nothing had before
When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
I headed for the door
But something made me turn around
and grab another dime
Ten more times in that diner’s booth,
still lost within your rhyme
Now back inside the bus station
and sleeping on the bench
I scratch your words into the wood,
last dollar gone and spent
My bike outside against the wall,
the kickstand was long gone
And out of gas, my hopes were dashed…
that unrelenting song
Waking up at ten unsettled,
across the street I pushed
The sign said Triumph-BSA,
the owner Mister Cush
He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
I said “Nothing—out of gas
“But worse I’m out of money,
can I sell the bike for cash?
“Would you please just buy my Triumph,
I know it’s old and worn
“It got me here through seven states,
runs great both cold and warm”
“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
on that can we agree?”
We walked back up inside his shop,
three bills he handed me
I thought about a bus ride home,
my thumb looked more in line
Facing East on old route 50,
my heart in deep decline
The first big rig that came along
was bound for York Pa.
The driver said “If you like dogs,
I’ll take you on your way”
In York I caught a fast ride out,
two ‘dodgers’ going North
And got back home with hat in hand,
your song to guide me forth
Two years then passed, I met my wife,
four more and our first child
We named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
her dad back from the wilds
Now forty years have come and gone,
my beard and hair both gray
I owe you Gregg, and always will,
your song, her name—that day
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
For Gregg Allman
I sent this to Gregg in May, 2017. It's on his website.
We spent two days together in Richmond Virginia in
a blizzard in 1982.
I was somewhere deep in Kansas
on a Triumph 69’
When your song came on the jukebox
and hit me from behind
I was headed for a bad place
and cared for nothing much
When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
my heart and soul were struck
Entranced, your lyrics captured me
like nothing had before
When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
I headed for the door
But something made me turn around
and grab another dime
Ten more times in that diner’s booth,
still lost within your rhyme
Now back inside the bus station
and sleeping on the bench
I scratch your words into the wood,
last dollar gone and spent
My bike outside against the wall,
the kickstand was long gone
And out of gas, my hopes were dashed…
that unrelenting song
Waking up at ten unsettled,
across the street I pushed
The sign said Triumph-BSA,
the owner Mister Cush
He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
I said “Nothing—out of gas
“But worse I’m out of money,
can I sell the bike for cash?
“Would you please just buy my Triumph,
I know it’s old and worn
“It got me here through seven states,
runs great both cold and warm”
“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
on that can we agree?”
We walked back up inside his shop,
three bills he handed me
I thought about a bus ride home,
my thumb looked more in line
Facing East on old route 50,
my heart in deep decline
The first big rig that came along
was bound for York Pa.
The driver said “If you like dogs,
I’ll take you on your way”
In York I caught a fast ride out,
two ‘dodgers’ going North
And got back home with hat in hand,
your song to guide me forth
Two years then passed, I met my wife,
four more and our first child
We named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
her dad back from the wilds
Now forty years have come and gone,
my beard and hair both gray
I owe you Gregg, and always will,
your song, her name—that day
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
For Gregg Allman
I sent this to Gregg in May, 2017. It's on his website.
We spent two days together in Richmond Virginia in
a blizzard in 1982.
I was somewhere deep in Kansas,
on a Triumph 69’
When your song came on the jukebox,
and hit me from behind
I was headed for a bad place,
and cared for nothing much
When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
my heart and soul were struck
Entranced, your lyrics captured me,
like nothing had before
When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
I headed for the door
But something made me turn around,
and grab another dime
Ten more times in that diner’s booth,
still lost within your rhyme
Now back inside the bus station,
and sleeping on the bench
I scratch your words into the wood,
last dollar gone and spent
My bike outside against the wall,
the kickstand now long gone
And out of gas, my hopes have dashed,
that unrelenting song
Waking up at ten unsettled,
across the street I pushed
The sign said Triumph-BSA,
the owner Mister Cush
He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
I said “nothing—out of gas,
“But worse I’m out of money,
can I sell the bike for cash
“Would you please just buy my Triumph,
I know it’s old and worn
“It got me here through seven states,
runs great both cold and warm”
“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
on that can we agree?”
We walked back up inside his shop,
three bills he handed me
I thought about a bus ride home,
my thumb looked more in line
Facing East on old route #50,
my heart in deep decline
The first big rig that came along,
was bound for York Pa.
The driver said “If you like dogs,
I’ll take you on your way”
In York I caught a fast ride out,
two ‘dodgers’ going North
And got back home with hat in hand,
your song to guide me forth
Two years then passed, I met my wife,
four more and our first child
And we named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
her dad back from the wilds
Now forty years have come and gone,
my beard and hair both gray
I owe you Gregg, and always will,
your song, her name—that day
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
For Gregg Allman
I Sent This To Gregg In March 2016. It's on His Website.
We Spent Two Days Together In Richmond Va. In A
Blizzard In 1982.
she said if you tell me about it
there's a chance i may well forget it
but if you involve me
i most likely will become part of it
and whatever the endeavor
we will most likely see it to fruition
and in one stroke she eliminated Cupid
in one suggestion, she moved into my life
here i sit alone on our park bench
where i used to read her poems
some from the masters
occasionally one from my quill
lost in the sweet remembrances of years
where we stood at the helm together
sails full, in a course set for fruition
alone, yet never alone
where i wait in God's grace
for the veil to drop
and like Lucy waiting for Captain Gregg
her hand to take me from this bench
walk me out of this park
into the forevermore of the fruition we are
Oregon 8/28/26
Nikki Haley, Sean Spicer,
Trey Goudy, Richard Grenell,
Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly,
Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin,
Rick Santorum, Tucker Carlson,
Rupert Murdoch, Kimberly Guilfoyle,
Ed Rollins, Eric Trump,
Ivanka Trump, Donald Trump, Jr,
Brian Kilmeade, Laura Ingraham,
Dan Bongino, Raymond Arroyo,
Steve Hilton, Kayleigh McEnany,
Maria Bartiromo, John Gibson,
Andrew Gilligan, Steven Milloy,
Karl Rove, Bill Shine,
Eric Bolling, Ed Henry,
Jared Kushner, Tomi Lahren,
Alan Dershowitz, Elizabeth McDonald,
Stuart Varney, Dagen McDowell,
David Asman, Gregg Jarrett,
Ashley Webster, Jason Chaffetz,
Candace Owens, Bo Dietl,
Judy Slater, Greg Gutfeld,
Steve Doocy, Harris Faulkner,
Dana Perino, Mark Steyn,
Leo Terrell, Jeanine Piro,
Dean Cain, Scott Brown,
Charles Payne, Jay Sekulow,
Lou Dobbs, Rick Scott,
Trace Gallagher, Newsmax,
OAN and Real America.
I didn’t know it at the time,
but my misspent youth was planned
The training ground for what I’d write,
then hard to understand
The many schools, the teachers chides,
expulsions my reward
Postgraduate work for future truth,
all voices untoward
The risks were high, survival mined,
Shangi-La, a vagrant’s room
My pen disclaimed, all actions shamed,
flat broke one afternoon
From the diner’s window I heard the song
that turned my life around
As Gregg Allman sang ‘Melissa,’
my true destiny was found
And today I harbor no regrets,
there’s no one left to blame
As I write the words for me hard one
—my sinful past reclaimed
(Strafford Pennsylvania: July, 2019)
‘Thank You, Gregg—I Miss You’
Edwardo Badia
1856-1914
That low bred confidence man!
That snooking swindler who took me for a fool.
“Hey Gregg, you thief!
You owe me still, even as I rot here,
Regrettably ensconced inside this bursting old boneyard,
Final resting grounds of a thousand parted pilgrims,
No doubt suffering in claustrophobic hell,
Like this old besotted soul,
Decades and repeating weeks of years,
After Mister White planted me in this dusty earth,
Next to the famished broad oak over here,
A few yards from the stone crosses of the Luetweilers,
Buried and cushioned in the wrong grave,
Stuffed inside the tomb of a swindled corpse!
Sir, we shook hands on that deal!
I was to be transferred to Whittier Heights,
My new spacious home for these dusty old bones,
In exchange for the procurement of land there,
Burial land with pleasant vistas, green grass, and
“Eternally sweeping views of the Pacific,”
Fitting views indeed, for my sweet wife and loving mother;
And although my family was ceremoniously exhumed,
And taxied there by a duo of horses and a trio of men,
Sir, you forgot me here, forlorn and alone,
And still in this detested grave!
How could you knowingly leave me here,
Separated and apart from my sweet wife,
And my loving mother?
Sir, I demand a refund!