Long Home made Poems
Long Home made Poems. Below are the most popular long Home made by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Home made poems by poem length and keyword.
What should have been my Salad Days (but I was young, not wise)
were filled with pizza, nachos, pastries, candy bars and fries!
Many years I spent repenting when those days were through,
and there are not too many diets that I did not do!
However, in my 60’s, I found at last the key
to losing weight most healthily and effectively.
Priority I usually give to plant-based foods. My goals
are eating things organic and lots of vegetables.
Love smoothies, stir-fry, home-made soups (tomato, broccoli
and so much more). My Salad Days I’m living happily!
June 2, 2019
For Pick A Tile, Vol 5 - Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Little adobe house on 160 acres
She grows flowers. I grow corn
Tomatoes, watermelon, etc.
Peace, love, hope, and joy
Grow themselves
Porch faces orange blazes
Draped over the rugged Mules
And a barn owl hoovers over
An old water tank with a bunny
In her talons for her
So-ugly-they're-cute hatchlings
Ladder leaned on it
to climb up and see 'em
Brothers and sisters drive from town
For Bible Study
Every Friday night...
After the Word there's coffee and treats
And men load up the truck
Armed rabbit assassins
Patrol Charlie's alfalfa fields
While back at the house
Women laugh and
Children play
Extra rooms
For friends who want to
Spend the night
Saturday mornings
Coffee and bacon waffles
In Charlie's pond across the road
Bass to catch
Beautiful, glorious days
Last night I dreamed
That in this economy
Where shelter's scarce
I was back at the ranch
With a hundred millenials
All of whom, knew me
The adobe house was remodeled
Terracotta with green and red
Lots of black wrought iron
Railings, fences, and gates
Rooms added onto
Big as a mansion
Dirk came to weld more iron
With his crew
And I was trying to make everyone leave
Then I went out towards the pond
And got lost in a huge coal field
A stranger appeared and I asked
How to go back to the road
And a sheriff stopped me with his gun
We, (well it felt like you)
Took his gun from him
But you wouldn't let me shoot him
And I didn't
I woke up... missing all that we had
Your home-made bread
Love by the fire
After kids went to bed
It was incredible
What we did
What we made
What we grew
Our little boys in their cowboy hats
Playing under the giant cottonwood
Our big sprawling porch every evening
Watching the orange purple fire
Spread itself over the valley
And fade into embers
Sparkling the big black night
Like those sunsets, we raged and died
Time after time after time after time
Until we didn't
My dear, sweet,
Warm, loving,
Beautiful
Ex-
You're still so good to me after all
Praying for your family
In that little old church
Where I lost my faith so long ago
Quit being the man you used to know
Something I still believe in though
And always will
Old Soldiers
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
Old soldiers not born for war at all.
Father's brave and cold
Send into battle
And defend..
Home made men with chili courage
Gallant audacious and courageous
Very valuabe to their children
Never had a chance
To be good cuddle daddy's
They were alone and in fear
And no one near
The enemy bullet pierced them
And they bled and bled
And trembled tremble
Who sent them out there ?
Tremble tremble
Did they care ?
Quiver and shudder
They left the home
Leaving wife 'n child
Waiting their blank return
Their famliy field's are green
And their home is painted within.
Old Soldiers
Camaraderie in the war
Trenched , trampled , bruised in battle
Wounded father soldiers bravely fought
Returned in batches of boxes instead
Their courage..
Their hard fight.
Rewarded only
In memory of medals.
" the last thing Billy
done for me ...
was to paint the wall ..
and hang our portrait
above the dinner wall
before he left for war "
Only a cleft is left
In the lonely heart
Of the soldier's wife ..
And his name coldly
Embossed in marble
6 feet under in a cemetry.
Old soldier's did not
Want a war.
Rich Man, Poor Man
By Franklin Price
12/29/2018
A rich man and a poor man
Met out on a walk one fine day.
Being as different, as different can be,
What would you think they might say?
The rich man knew of the poor man
For he worked for him at the mill
And bolstered his pay making moonshine
At a still hidden up on the hill
“What are you doing out walking?”
Said the rich man to his working poor
“Should be on the job, with your broom stick,
Sweeping the lint off the floor.”
The poor man was pulling a wagon,
Covered and filled up with booze.
“I just finished a batch on the hill top.
You may have any bottle you choose”
The rich man, to chase away demons,
Imbibed of some drink every chance.
Not wanting to cheapen his image
He pulled twenty bucks from his pants.
“Here my good man is some money.
I know what you make now at work.
If I took your home made now, for nothing,
I would feel very much like a jerk”
The booze was traded for Jackson
There was nothing more left to say
The rich man opened the Bell jar,
Had a swig and he went on his way
The county was dry where the mill was,
No place to buy booze in the 'hood.
The poor man would keep his employment
As long as his moonshine was good.
Dad has ordered a new shed,
he'll site it in the shade
replacing the one put out by
the local Fire Brigade.
The wheelie bin is full of food
almost a three course luncheon
with sausages as black as coal
and harder than a truncheon.
Home made sauce clings to the sides
like toffee, not that viscous,
and burgers that could be re-used
on sports days as a discus.
Mummy's apron, holed and scorched,
no whiskers on the cat,
bare lawn where flames extinguished with
the neighbour's cricket bat.
“Will there be another one next time?
we'll have to wait and see”
says Dad as he goes to fetch Mum
from outside A&E.
His frizzled locks like coiled springs,
he will not need his comb,
but never mind, the family sings-
“she's coming home
she's coming home
she's coming,
Mummy's coming home....”
(* A&E- Hospital accident and emergency department in the UK)
When I was a kid, the family reunion was the highlight of the year.
Aunts, uncles and dozens of cousins came from far and near,
To meet at Memorial Park to eat, brag and enjoy the fellowship.
I was admonished by Mom to behave and not voice any sassy lip!
The ladies vied with each other to provide jello, cakes and pies,
Pertater salad, baked beans, termaters and heaps of chicken thighs,
Ham, peas and carrots, cole slaw and gallons of lemonade,
And home-made ice cream, the speciality of Aunt Clara, the old maid!
The patriarch of the clan was usually asked to bless the food.
Stomachs growled, flies swarmed, the old geezer wouldn't conclude,
Until his spouse of many years poked him saying, "That's enough!"
Then, all took a seat and elbows flew as they began to stuff!
After the meal was over, old folks would reminisce and muse.
Others found a shady spot to curl up and take a snooze.
Ne'er-do-well Uncle Wilbur would sneak a forbidden nip of booze,
While snobbish Cousin Sarah boasted of her Caribbean cruise!
The kids frolicked on the teeter-totters, swings and slides.
The older ones grabbed bats and balls and chose up sides.
Now I'm the patriarch and am usually called upon to pray,
But I make it snappy so we can get on with fellowship and play!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Entry for Craig Cornish's "The Park" Contest
Winter memories that are still so vivid and bright
Those endless days playing with your mates
Snow falling when it should do, kids shouting and screaming
"It's snowing" running out, mum's shouting "Get some warm clothes on"
Scarves, balaclavas and gloves, only your face showing
Sledging in the snow, home made by dad, the lucky ones with bought ones
And the snow was proper snow, snow that came and stayed
Snow so deep you could only see your mate's head's above it.
Snow that made you want to play, sliding down hills falling on your backsides
Soaking your clothes getting your body chilled but still totally thrilled
Digging the snow off your path with dad making snowmen, huge snowmen
Who had carrot noses and coal for eyes and mouths with an old scarf around his neck to keep him warm
No cars on the road the whole street your playground
Having snow ball fights, taking sides and ganging up, wanting to be part of the best gang
Lying in the snow rolling down hills laughing and shivering
Then the darkness comes, off home to mum, she's fussing taking your wet clothes off droping them on the floor
Towels and pyjamas hung by the roaring fire, being wrapped in the warm towel mum furiously rubbing "you'll catch your death" she's saying
Pyjamas on, drinking warm milk sat on the carpet in front of the fire
Watching TV, the Flintstones, Beverly Hillbilly's maybe Huckleberry Hound and Yogi Bear.
Then it's bedtime, going up the stairs slowly not wanting to go, mum shouting after you "I'll be up in a minute"
Kneeling at the side of the bed, saying your prayers, Our Father who art in heaven.....
"Look after my mum and dad and my sister" then silently to yourself "Please God let the snow still be here tomorrow"
THE CAT, THE DOG, THE MOUSE AND THE RABBIT HUTC>/center>
When passing the pet shop window, I saw a wondrous sight.
The pets were having a party, far into the night.
The cat was smoking a home-made spliff she’d rolled between her paws;
The dog was sipping pink champagne and nibbling petit fours.
The pet mouse jived with the python, getting ever bolder;
Until she pulled a muscle, throwing him over her shoulder.
The doe, in a slinky cocktail dress and the buck in a silk tuxedo,
Slipped behind their rabbit hutch to exercise their libido.
The tortoises, though normally shy, had come right out of their shell
And took the floor in a slow waltz, which of course they did rather well.
They beckoned me to join them and we danced at a furious pace.
And then I awoke with a tickly nose; my cat was licking my face.
30th March 2020
Cheerful Rhyme Competition
Sponsor - Line Gautier
I have another passion apart from poetry.
It's my garden, left by the gardener.
In a state of wilderness.
Two years later, with tools in hand.
I've made it into a wonderland.
Take my tea out each morning at eight.
Feed Pushcat from a plate.
Peace and contentment always come to me,
as soon as I am sitting under a tree.
With a book and a beer, or a glass of wine.
Breathing slows down, lose track of time.`
In front of the house, six raised beds.
Pebbled paths with weeds poking through.
It's back breaking work getting rid of all you.
Behind is the rockery.
Summer seats dotted here and there.
A home made swing from a little arm chair.
Peaking out or on full display,
sculptors and statues.
Gnomes with fairies trapped under glass.
Busts and torsos, with breasts to look at.
Above it all, my little den.
Buddha at the entrance, it's all so Zen.
Where I go to relax and hide.
From children and noise and the world outside.
It's not easy to live with every day problems,
Especially when someone expects you to solve them,
The minute that trouble has raised up it's head,
And balance the budget and make home made bread;
And making and keeping appointments and errands,
While setting a shining example as parents.
Sometimes I just wish I could go back to bed,
And dream a sweet dream and wake up instead,
To find I can take a day off to relax,
Perhaps read a book and not feel so taxed;
'Cause the house work will be there tomorrow for sure,
And I don't have to worry, my job is secure.
Who'd want all the worry I have all the time?
It's no bed of roses, no sweet dream sublime;
For I am a homemaker, nanny and nurse;
The one they all turn to for better or worse.
This is my castle and I am it's queen,
And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
(It's the most thankless job in the world --- or is it.)