Long Homework Poems
Long Homework Poems. Below are the most popular long Homework by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Homework poems by poem length and keyword.
Not Every Day is Perfect
I took my pad to the park today.
I wanted to find an idea for a book.
I was blocked…you know… stuck.
I walked outside, and looked up into the sky.
The clouds threatened rain.
I had no umbrella, but a man in a clown suit presented me one…
immediately.
I took it, and walked on.
Down the brick paved golden street,
and turned just to the right, the bus stop on ahead.
The shuttle to Mars left five minute ago, so I hopped the train to Texas.
We arrived early for lunch with the king.
As I sat with his highness, I whipped out my pad intently...
No!
Still no ideas.
I left from there as the flamingoes were dancing and getting out of hand.
I decided to take a stagecoach to the florist shop as it would help my mood.
The soup was chicken, with small white rice, shapes of animals and crackers.
Still nothing to write about.
The day was getting late. I had to go back home.
A roller skate, a rickshaw and two hot air balloons…
The darkness came early, on my sunshine day,
But I am very happy, as my package arrived.
I have new pencils, from far away.
I will take them for a walk, instead of my pen.
Tomorrow I will try again.
Cancer, you're a real tough cookie with a long history.
You've been breaking hearts of loved ones for an eternity,
but that's okay cancer, because you just blew it,
so put up your dukes, Let's Get Down To It!
Hit her with your best shot,
go on cancer, hit Samara with your best shot.
Hit Samara with your best shot,
you'll never blow her away.
You come on strong and you don't fight fair
but that's okay cancer, see if she cares.
You can knock her down but it's all in vain,
she gets right back up on her feet again,
so hit her with your best shot,
go on cancer, hit Samara with your best shot.
Hit her with your best shot,
Fire away.
You'll never add this notch to your cancer case,
because Samara's going to put you in your place.
Cancer should have done it's homework before messing with her,
because Samara's the Samonster, The Cancer Crusher,
so hit her with your best shot,
go on cancer, hit Samara with your best shot.
You can hit her with your best shot,
but she'll blow you away.
So hit her with your best shot,
that's right cancer, hit Samara with your best shot.
Hit Samara with all that you've got,
She's Here To Stay!
*
Dedicated to my Friend,
Samara Kimiko
Born shackled with globe sized
yoked millstone around my neck
rivaling the world Atlas shrugged,
or outsize boulder Sisyphus
eternally obliged to toil uphill
steepest mountain side
in concert with
Battlestar Galactica pièce de résistance
ear splitting discordant cacophonous din.
Simultaneously analogous twin tower
of Old Faithful geyser
Googleplex times Mariana Trench
aqueous oceanic chasm amply housing
Rhode Island sized fountainhead
constantly spewed vitriol
out subterranean mouth
scalding yours truly
with deadly skull king poison
(parenthetically), metaphorically, hyperbolically
approximates, nee aforementioned
actually an understatement
how whit sir yours truly
psyche dashed, manhandled, whipsawed
post parturition mine birth
subjected to class sic
biochemical, environmental, neurological
pummeling, oft times the cudgel
inherent, latent, salient...
genetically scripted torment.
Case in point
constitutes psychosocial (mine)
extreme introvertedness,
painfully shy reticence
exiled within zapped
writhing, wrenching, wracking
emotional, physical, spiritual isolation
plaguing mein kampf,
a worse fate than death
experiencing brutal and
nasty schooling as outcast
never feeling linkedin among peers,
nor family of origin
particularly latter years
minimally functioning just squeaking
to advance from one grade to the next
hidebound by invisible manacles
weighted heavily with severe anxiety
debilitating, paralyzing, unrelenting
panic/ anxiety attacks.
Scattershot employment track record
poor credit rating
the bane of misery
bias, discrimination, prejudice
throughout hand to mouth existence
impacted two innocent grown progeny
the eldest unforgiving,
no matter this papa coped
with demands of child raising
the missus easily overwhelmed
deferred domestic duties
birthday party arranger,
chauffeur, cook, homework helper,
summer time planner,
medical appointment scheduler...
Dedicated to My Son, The Bedtime Kissy-Keeper Giver
Like a virgin to stressed messes surging,
I struggled with bridges on parental ridges
when I wore both mom and work britches.
Young years adhered pleasure steered twitches
but grown changes sewed pressure stitches.
I changed to a day and night striving
female getter-doner; an energizer twit-nit
who conquered to-do lists into done bits.
I became every weekday employee,
pay postured towards green seen garnered.
I was more a get-byer than I was a
future green funds keen accumulator.
Nightly, I morphed into dinner’s meal cooker
still dressed in work time's pantyhose stress.
I dreamed of a pajama seamed frame
before next becoming a kitchen mess cleaner,
homework tutor, tub time clean scrubber and
loving night-nighttime book reader.
I found no awakes take was sweeter
than my child’s beddy-bye kissy keepers
and prayed my son’s most precious styled love
would counter the stresses that I was made of.
Shoe prints, but no shoes.
I’m locked in.
I left my meds on the other side of that door.
I could have just brought them with me.
I could have finished my math homework.
I haven’t been in school for ten years now.
My teacher’s shoe prints, but no teacher.
I should have tried to look for her.
In this nightmare, I make wishes all the time.
But the stars are covered in slime.
I left my meds on the other side.
I think I may have died.
Shoe prints, but no shoes?
Thoughts can dissipate whenever I choose.
I think there’s something I should dispose of.
Worse than a piece of trash in a parking lot.
Shoe prints, but no shoes.
Just meds in that corner.
I’m locked in.
I know.
“I think the lemonade was poisoned, Sir,
he’s been murdered!” Watkins said
“I can see no other reasoning
for why the victim is lying here, dead.”
“Let’s not jump to hasty conclusions,”
Detective Inspector Bones, replied
“There’s protocol we have to follow
before we establish how he died.”
“So get on with it, my young Watkins
you know what you have to do.”
Watkins nodded, then put on his gloves
And went off, in search of a clue
The Inspector, a man revered by his peers
For his keen, analytical mind
Bent down, to examine the body
To see what evidence he could find
There were no obvious signs of trauma
No lumps, or bumps on the head
No bullet hole, knife wound, marks on the neck,
Nothing to say why the man was dead
“You can take him now,” the Inspector called
To the men, suited up, from the lab,
“Perhaps we’ll learn more from the Coroner,
once he gets him on his slab.”
Watkins returned, “I can’t find anything, Sir,
it seems our victim was here all alone
there’s no sign to say he had a visitor,
or intruder within his home.”
“Everything’s locked from the inside,”
He continued, a frown on his face
“If someone was here, they’ve been clever,
getting out without leaving a trace.”
The Inspector picked up the lemonade glass
Its smell gave him a vital clue,
“You’re right Watkins, the man was murdered
and I say the murderer, was YOU!”
“While I was here, examining the body
it gave you the opportune time,
to go around the house without hindrance
and remove all trace of your crime.”
“But you can’t put one over on this old dog,
I’ve seen it all in my day,”
He turned to the uniforms, by the door
“This is our killer boys – take him away!”
© Janette Fisher 06.04.10
This was written as a homework assignment for my writing group from last night - we were
given 'I think the lemonade was poisoned' and this is what I came up with.
"Possums on the Run - Part 1"
Well she ran away
danced the F.U.
Revolutionary Dance
Jokers are trumps
Euchre, 500,
Queens Slippers
no Deuce, no Romance
Holey holy
blue jeans torn and buried
underneath the house
with uneaten sandwiches
going mouldy in plastic lunch bags,
old unwanted items, school books
torn pages, hessian bags, burnt pots,
newspaper wrappings fading
tales of the city with
dreams of necromancy.
She’s upstairs deliberating
sitting at the kitchen table
writing her stories
Over with doing the dishes
done with Rainbow Princesses,
homework squats and
buried small town garbage runs
over strawberry jam and creamed up
Sunday Cream Buns.
A good day out
some holiday
collecting cut grass
she stands watching
red skinned motor mower man
barking orders
while the other daughters
stand en garde cross-armed
no hat, sun burnt,
barefeet, blistering in the
boiling Sun.
En Garde, patiently waiting
watching Frilly Lizard Black Boy
Kangaroo Paw Hibiscus
“There’s a tortoise under the
outside dunny!”
there’s a flaming tortoise
on the run
slow mode
totally bizarre,
wonders where
it came from…she thinks,
“run tortoise run”.
She knows better, she’s 17,
she’s the Dancing Queen,
she’s Top Gun.
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
1. .... x
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZUX3j6WLiQ
Each weekday morning, 6:15, we have to hit the floor.
We dress, have breakfast, feed the pets, and then we're out the door.
When I return from work each day, there's housework to be done;
so I zoom into clean-up mode. Now watch me grab and run.
About five thirty, kids want food, so I whip up a meal.
Then both kids do their list of chores; that’s part of our firm deal.
About six thirty, both need help with homework. We must deal
with common core curriculum! By eight o’clock I feel
so frustrated that I could scream; my tension’s at the max.
When kids are fast asleep, at last I’ll flop down and relax
for one whole hour, watch TV, and put up my tired feet.
Before I go to bed, I’ll make the house look nice and neat.
The one who should be sharing life’s responsibilities
deserted us. He said, “With you, I can’t do as I please”!
I pray for strength and guidance as I raise my girl and boy
and for the wayward father who will never share my joy.
Date: October 31, 2019
Contest Title: Anything You Want Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
I was fascinated by frogs, dinosaurs, and outer space.
Comic books, video games, and fast cars to race.
I got my clean clothes dirty and skinned my knees.
I spent my afternoons climbing high up in the trees.
Came home from the playground with shoes full of sand.
Went fishing, and held up my catch with my bare hand.
I would get on my rusty, blue bike and ride to the park.
Where we played games of tag or catch almost until dark.
After school, I would go play baseball with the boys.
Then, stay up late, listening to music and make noise.
My homework sat in my backpack and never got done.
I was too preoccupied with finding adventure and having fun.
I was the tomboy that liked building Lego block walls.
I was also a girl who played with pretty Barbie dolls.
Richard Lamoureux's Gender Bender Contest
(*This piece may have a limited audience - but don’t ALL my pieces??*)
Some of the best advice from my Fro-Co (seniors who volunteer as freshman advisors):
If you’re stuck in your room (due to the pandemic) open the windows.
Exercise every day - outside if you can (pandemic).
YOU, ain’t ALL THAT. Get used to it - maybe you were hot-crap in high school - but not HERE. You got a 1590 SAT and a 34 ACT score?
Congratulations, you’re one of the average students.
Never, ever, EVER miss a class (as a freshmen).
Visualize your morning the night before and GET UP EARLY.
Time management - TIME MANAGEMENT - TIME MANAGEMENT
Complete assignments as soon as you can.
You’re going to have 4 to 6 hours of homework every night - STUDY
Procrastination will kill you - STUDY
Go to events - be social - but leave early. “Popularity” isn’t important here - this isn’t high school.
Don’t expect to meet besties right away.
Don’t go to frat parties alone.
Hookup culture can be toxic.
Don’t date seniors - just don’t.
Never get a razor cut, your ends will split.