Long Housewives Poems
Long Housewives Poems. Below are the most popular long Housewives by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Housewives poems by poem length and keyword.
The Real Housewives
Sorry
Reality T.V Housewives
What's that all about
Happy Wife
Happy life
Jesus Christ
Thank God for Nannies
And Cleaner's
And Make up Artist's
Imagine any of these
Without the 3 R's to fall back upon
Rich's
Rrendering
Rhinoplastey
And a cheating Husband
All of the diamonds and all the plastic surgeons
Can't polish a turd
Even if it's covered in gold
Mutton dressed as lamb
Doesn't make a housewife
Real housewives are loved not built
Are Mother's
Not Reality Consumerist martyrs
Dressed in overpriced garters
With fake teeth
Fake smile's
Fake Boobs
And even faker marriages
With bleached and trimmed undercarriages
Slam
Sham
Film flam
Acting like there **** don't stink
Because they are so full of botox
They can't even blink
Can only be watched with the aid of a stiff drink
The mind boggles
How low can we go
Watch the show
The sun has risen and the dews no more
On grass. Birds are singing, farmers working,
Housewives cooking and beggars on the door.
Seeing unknown people, dogs are barking
And the naughty boys playing in the field
Fleeing from school. Newsreaders are reading
Warnews on TV and showing people killed
By air-attack. Some people are bidding
Farewell to someone with their cry and tears;
Some are welcoming the newborn with smile.
Someone proudly denies God, someone fears
Him with love. Leaders are like crocodile
Are dealing with men. Who are in this time
Recollecting me and my fiery rhyme?
The millwheel will not turn again till spring
for Winter’s icy cold grip holds it firm.
She squeezes it like Her private plaything,
though Her crushing power is but short-term.
As shorter days subtly lengthened; the sun
slowly began to liquefy the ice.
And the waterwheel shook, and almost spun,
while the miller posted his asking price.
Whispers ran through the town from door to door,
the ice is breaking up at the millpond.
And housewives could soon buy flour once more,
for each village, and its mill shared a bond.
The millwheel shimmies free from Winter’s grip,
shuddering as the water level peaks.
And as pressure increases drip by drip,
the pond ice melts, and the wooden wheel creaks.
(Quatrain)
6/26/2018
Grandma was a firefighter woman
For most of the 1960s--
When she was already in her sixties
You see, around about 1961
A brush fire almost burned down
Kanarraville—that little Utah farming town.
The men farmed or worked outside of town,
And there were no firehouses very near.
So the postmistress said “Sisters, volunteer!”
Housewives and mothers heard the call,
About 20 or so ladies in all
Were trained to put those fires down.
My grandparents ran the Ranch Café--
(Famous for their sourdough biscuits)
A classic mom-and-pop business.
When the old fire engine sputtered by,
Thelma would stop making pumpkin pie,
Toss her apron, and be on her way.
An all-women’s volunteer fire department
Was really unique--quite the novelty.
Papers mentioned them around the country.
Nothing could keep those old ladies down,
Except the expansion of the town;
Which eventually had a paid fire department.
Yes, the old gals put out their last fire.
The Ranch Café is gone, and so are they,
But those firefighters are remembered today.
I can still imagine Grandma then,
Riding on that obsolete fire engine,
In her fireman’s hat and waitress attire.
Form:
Another morning gone. The warp and weft
of kids and errands seems a sort of theft.
I love to listen to the phone-in show,
Peoria Euphoria K Seven, Illinois,
the kind of thing that housewives can enjoy -
Andrea Doria, Eva Longoria -
but parents don’t have rights. I’ve got to go.
Another morning spent. The spare room painted.
I poured the soup away, since it was tainted.
He mixed his caustic soda in the bowl,
with Pennsylvania always on his mind
(Bryn Mawr mainliner – guess you know the kind –)
Brainier, mania, Lusitania
and wiped it once around with kitchen roll.
Another morning done. The suit dry-cleaned.
A neighbourhood committee’s been convened.
Initial meet – the Wilsons’ brand new deck –
how was it financed? Heaven only knows.
Seaworthy credit? Like the Mary Rose!
Wegmans, Wayfair, Wakefern, Wickes …
(Let’s hope the builders wait to cash the check).
Another morning over. Turkey basted.
Last night, the almond cupcakes went untasted.
I don’t know why I go to all the trouble –
they raid the fridge for fudge and mayonnaise:
don’t call it eating. Kids today just graze.
Athletic greens, soya beans, proteins –
I sometimes think I’m living in a bubble.
Another morning down. The carpet hoovered.
The garbage bin unemptied, outmanouvered.
It looks so comfy, nestled in its cleft.
The city elders park outside their own,
so why can’t we? Is this a yellow zone?
Organic waste, paper chased, cadmium-laced.
Another morning gone. How many left?
It’s the Cocker Spaniels this time the media screams
I roll my eyes, wondering when the cats will get some blame
Or the monkeys, cheetahs, sharks or giraffes
They are diabolical, plotting your death, the announcer says
I do not plot her death, but I plot taping her mouth up.
The pit bulls were the last group to blame.
What about the housewives? Do they use environmentally friendly detergent?
or the house husbands….do they recycle their lard like grandma did?
How about the grandmas who feed their pets with Styrofoam?
We are the polluters.
We are the litterers.
We are the ones driving cars one person at a time.
But let’s blame the Cocker Spaniels.
I shut off the T.V.
Turned on the TV to see what they'd say
There's crowds in the streets all around the UK
Shelves being ransacked at Tesco all day
It's happening too in the U S of A
My TV depicting an end, clearly near
With Donald Trump there and Brexit right here
Then back to the masses, although it’s unclear
Whether it's panic or madness or fear
They're showing us scenes of emptying shelves
With mobs going frantic, all out for themselves
TVs get lifted from where they were racked
It's easy to see that society's cracked
Hoarders are scooping up baked beans and bread
Brand names all gone, own label instead
'Food for my family', is what one said
'I've got to provide for fear they'd be dead’
Coffee and alcohol, biscuits and cakes
Sausages, burgers, bacon and steaks
Folk grab at board games with ladders and snakes
And luxury watches, both real ones and fakes
And now the news treats us to Donald Trump's face
He's saying he's set for a nuclear race
He's gonna build brick walls all over the place
Cos the US is full and there ain't no more space
So they're panicking far and they're panicking near
The whole of the western hemisphere
The Ruskies have nukes and they're all pointing here
It seems that the mobs are in justified fear
Then back to the markets and bustling streets
Shopping bags bulging with with copious eats
Vegetables, fruit and myriad meats
All crammed into car boots and on the back seats.
Now we view traffic jammed up standing still
Ambulance racing to someone who's Ill
Drivers attempting to show some goodwill
No room to manoeuvre though sirens are shrill
Then back to the clambering hands and shelves bare
Frantic swipes reach for the last items there
Desperate housewives all pulling out hair
Their trollies still holding a square inch of air
As fighting breaks out in aisle number eight
Some fellow bought milk... An entire crate
But what made the other bloke really irate?
The last crate was grabbed by the first bloke's mate
I turn in shame from my TV
Can't bare to see the things I see
Where once we had humanity
This war has brought depravity
But as I turn, the room to leave
I hear the words I can't believe
Do my eyes and ears deceive?
This is not war... It's Christmas Eve
She comes here to PS in between breaks
After carefully giving her carpets the shakes
She's cooked and cleaned and gone out to shop
Chased after the kids till she's ready to drop
Worked at the office, then watched kids at play
Now it has come to the end of her day
He pats her bum, then passes out on the couch
She's fuming inside cause he’s such a slouch
Then it’s off to bed where he gives a quick hug
She's wondering if she can give him a slug
She wants him to woo her, initiate sex
“Oh, by the way,” he groans, “Did you feed Rex?”
She kicks the covers and jumps out of bed
“Turn out the light,” he yells; she just sees red.
She goes to her laptop to escape the scene
Words speak to her heart, the ones on the screen
"These men Soupers are... in love with words, too
They know how to please and be nice to you."
Their words are romantic, they seem larger than life
She continues to wonder, “Is HE nice to his wife?”
Or is this a world where nothing is real
There are no boundaries to what one can feel
Hubby’s in bed, and she shuts out his snore
But the guy on PS makes her heart soar!!
How can a man be expressive like this?
She wonders what he would be like to kiss
Such chivalry, charm, and such pure delight
Before she knows it…. she's up all the night
Got to get going, breakfast can’t be late
Her halo is slipping; no longer a saint
She wonders, "Why is hubby not into you?
The pressures of life have made him so blue."
But right before he walks out of the door
“Tonight, sugar plum, going to let out a roar!”
So she smiles and then giggles, “PS can wait..
Oh please God…don’t let hubby… come home too late!”
Eileen Manassian Ghali
There's no heaven above me
And the world's getting mighty ugly
I need a good heart to come and hug me
Father the world's getting ugly
And it seems there's no heaven above me
As I sit starring at the wall
From the sky, I watch the stars fall
Given this talent, this oddly balance
I never had a mother or father
Who brought into this world and why bother?
Death being a made sacrifice
Who wants to live twice in this life?
Tidal waves, mud slides, and desperate housewives
Baby girl go lay your thoughts down and get some rest
Let go of your stress & lay your head across my chest
Just let me burn, calm at sea
Just read my palms and let me be, cant you see
There's no heaven above me
And the world's getting mighty ugly
Needs a good heart to come and hug me
Father the world's getting ugly
And it seems there's no heaven above me
Granted that we are promised, "A second coming"
Blown trumpets, Reckoning of angels humming
Now maybe time won't consume my soul
Pneumonia tunes my cold
My shoulders going global
Yet when my tears got heavy, I never once faltered
Right beside me, now I'm cursed at the alter
Webster define me love
In my heart, something warm tells me to look above
My lord, you be with those acquaintance, my friends
Cause tomorrow looking foggy thru this lenses
And I miss being a kid
But how can I reminisce on the things I never did
The storms getting closer
Maybe I'll see the Rapture, through a holster
I put my life on that poster, piss on it & let it burn
No worry, It's none of your concern
Still, there’s no heaven above me
And the world's getting mighty ugly
Needs a good heart to come and hug me
Father the world's getting ugly
And it seems there's no heaven above me
I wear an apron when I bake –
It used to be my mother’s.
I like that old connection, ‘cause
I could be wearing others.
For many years you couldn’t find
An apron anywhere,
Except a plain old white one,
Lacking kitschiness or flair.
When I was younger, housewives had
A kitchen-y collection;
The aprons then were purposeful,
Not objects of affection.
But now in stores, they’re back in stock
In patterns most delightful.
A yearning back to simpler times?
Although that sounds insightful,
I think it’s just a retro thing –
To see the past as cool;
Yet batter-spattered aprons prove
The wearer is no fool!