Long Hugger Poems
Long Hugger Poems. Below are the most popular long Hugger by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hugger poems by poem length and keyword.
I might be able to bring an end to all of the world’s turmoil and strife,
Because I think that I have stumbled upon the one true meaning of life.
It seems it all began a long time ago when Adam got his Eve,
Let me tell it to you right away so that you might soon believe.
The Lord made Adam fall to sleep and then He took from him a rib,
He said “From this I’ll make a woman,” He wasn’t trying to be glib.
If there’s one thing in this world I know it’s that ribs should come in racks,
And they always should come in one of two ways, St. Louis or baby backs.
I prefer the baby backs although St. Louis style has its fans,
You should be able to enjoy either one you like with dry rub or sans.
You’ll need to coordinate the type of wood you want to use for smoke,
That reminds me I wanted to remember to tell you this woodsy joke.
It seems there was this young tree hugger, who chained herself to a tree,
She told the logger who came for it that you’ll have to cut through me.
He said, “Lady, with the chest you’ve got I’ll need to get a bigger saw,
You shouldn’t be aloud to wear a shirt that tight at least without a bra.”
Now that I think of it, my own shirt is getting kind of tight,
I think that the time to start a diet might just about be right.
With what I’ve been through I’ve added on one or two extra pounds,
Maybe this weekend I should try to golf one or two extra rounds.
But golfing is the kind of sport that takes up so much of my time,
Perhaps to get myself in better shape a stair master I should climb.
When I climb the stairs to go to bed at night, I really am so tired,
Sometimes I start to think about the things to which I have aspired.
And I wonder if the things that I’ve done will ever add up in my life,
Then I turn out the bedroom lights and I kiss my ever-loving wife.
That’s when it dawns on me that no matter how my mind is leaning,
At that precise moment it’s the thing that gives my life its meaning.
That gauzy speculation may be as fleeting as a whisper from a dream,
But the next inspiration waits in line for its turn, in my eye to gleam.
So please remember that the life you have is a gift from our Creator,
Enjoy every second you’re given and live it like there won’t be any later.
I hope the meaning of your life is clearer to you now and this can be a sign,
But if you’re even more confused, at least you’ve found the meaning of mine.
We throw away everything
We produce too much
We damage the earth
We do ourselves a great harm
A wasteful society we are
We use up and pollute
Sparing no thought for tomorrow
Earth is a bountiful place
It can meet our needs
If we treat it well
The use but don't reuse mentality
Does everyone no good
The mountains of waste we produce
Are vast enough to have their own post code
An unsightly spectacle
That scars the planets face
We forget that every supply chain
Has its limit
Our insatiable appetite for the new
The latest gadget
Or a coveted hyped up upgrade
Far out paces our planets resources
Or our ability to make efficient use
Of these sort after short term objects
Economics rules the day
Ecology takes a back seat
As we wantonly take from
An overworked mother nature
The law of Supply and Demand
States that one day
With galloping use
The well will run dry
A day that draws ever close
Technologically advanced as we are
We use resources most inefficiently
New is better than recycled
Destruction is cheaper than conservation
Policies abound to offer some reprieve
They are watered down
And thus offer limited scope for viable change
Our next generation will be bequeathed
A planet on its knees
Today's actions have lasting sometime
Irreversible reactions
We may find ourselves truly humbled
When the communal larder is bare
A Malthusian implosion
But will we even care?
Use up all
That is our mantra
Controlling of nature is man’s silly goal
A Canute he wishes to be
Efficient use of resources is a must
Modern society does think
This is best for primitive man
Whose wants trail behind his needs
Consumption and Wastefulness
Are the useless badges
Of our advanced society
Man’s needs are many
But must be tamed
No need to be a tree hugger to comprehend
The dire straits we are in
Is our end nigh?
Wiped out by flood once we
Will one day go up in flames
Global warming it seems is not
Just a scholarly debate
When will we heed the warning?
When will we use less?
When will we recycle more?
No one knows
The earth is resilient
I am sure it will definitely bounce back
We all must do our bit
If we wish to continue
To inhabit this place
Dedicated to all of the guys who helped me to make this checklist that leads me to find the exact empty rib slot to where I fit, …. (as it is written in the Bible scripture of Genesis 2:22) thanks!
The Empty Rib Slot
I think I might have
A perfect checklist
Highlights from men
Gathered now missed
Yes special highlights
Each man carried some
Now added to my checklist
For a guy having it all in one
This could be the key to find
The man I’m dreaming of
Not with bits and pieces
One filled full of love
A man made for me
No it would be not
I should fit perfectly
Into an empty rib slot
Let me share this list
With every one of you
Then decide for yourself
If it could possibly be true
My first check comes from
This guy with dreamy eyes
He deeply touched my soul
Way more than ever realized
He even had a special smile
That made you want to grin
No matter if life was down
He encouraged me to win
There was the big hugger
With squeezes oh so tight
He lifted me off the floor
Like if I was taking flight
He never did grow tired
Of giving me those hugs
I never had to ask for them
He always did it out of love
Then there was the dancer
He stayed light on his feet
He loved dancing with me
Carrying rhythm and a beat
Now of course on this list
There certainly has to be
That best friend I count on
Who can also count on me
I am even going to count
The good points of quality
Generated from my brothers
And even from my daddy
From them they all carry
A very good temperament
Always being so easy going
Not looking for an argument
When I am nestled in that slot
With a perfect feel of passion
All of his glory will then shine
As it eludes from my reflection
The most important one of all
He who shares a spiritual side
Being spiritually open with me
Not allowing his beliefs to hide
I know how this all may sound
Like a crazy thing that I’ve got
I want the man I fit snuggly with
When I match his empty rib slot
Florence McMillian (Flo)
We all had homemade dresses for prom; well, nearly all of us.
This was back in 1970 while black and white Viet Nam War photos were on TV
Every night, we saw such sadness.
Prom was a reminder of childhood.
Back to the Bibbity Bobbity Boo of Cinderella.
We girls were wearing empire waist dresses.
It was the style, little bows at the top of our hair.
We were fancy poodles, primping in our two inch heels.
Not high ones like our mothers. We had already fallen off those.
Traded in our hip hugger bell bottoms that magical night
For dresses in chiffon, polished cotton, and satins.
We were so shiny, it is a miracle a murder of crows did not carry us off.
The boys had on their best suits; not tuxes.
We were in a small Iowa farm town.
Many of the couples would marry two weeks later after graduation.
I remember how hard the junior class worked to make it beautiful for us.
There were tin foil stars and crepe paper streamers everywhere.
A strobe light, and music piped in from the folk heroes of the time.
Peter Paul and Mary, Mama Cass, Simon and Garfunkel.
Sometimes a song by Cher or Bette Midler but not as often.
The food was fantastic. The company wonderful.
Our first semi-formal dinner. I have never forgotten it.
In one way it was like middle school which we called junior high.
The boys stood around talking and laughing, and the girls danced like mad.
It was such an innocent and fun time! Taking the Viet Nam War,
And the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King
Out of our minds for one magical bibbity bobbity boo night.
May 1970. A memory that uplifts me to this day.
The last time I spoke to some of my classmates.
As a few were sent to Viet Nam after graduation never to return.
Get me inside quickly and as fast as you can,
please turn the time travel dial to September 1963
Get me to a post office in Washington, D.C.,
so I can send an important letter to Jacque Kennedy.
The letter will tell her about her premature son, Patrick,
I will give her his four pound birth weight.
To prove I know what I am talking about,
I will tell her about my time travel, and warn her of the fate
And that her husband, President John F. Kennedy
is in grave danger, and that on November 23rd, 1963,
If she lets him go to Dallas and ride in an open limousine,
he will be assassinated at her knee.
Trip number two, will bring me to February 1968,
but I will stay in the same post office. Here is the thing.
I will write a detailed letter to Coretta Scott King,
warning her about the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King.
To prove that I am reliable I will tell her that January 30th,
1956 is the day that a bomb
will go off on her porch, but it will not hurt anyone.
After a little sandwich, and a drink in a cold fountain,
I will now dial up August 14th, 1969, and head to Catskill Mountain,
It will be splendid to be the first to arrive,
At Woodstock, a day ahead of the crowd
of 400,000, now I am feeling truly alive.
I will be civil, not puffed up or proud.
I will spend three glorious days enjoying the music here,
marvel at the hip-hugger bell-bottoms, and dear
black and white dairy cows, staying clear
of the braless women and the minds that are a bit unclear.
My last trip is easy. I will return to two days ago,
and from breakfast re-do that entire day.
I was pretty mean to my husband,
and I would like to stop myself from acting that way.
The flower children were in full swing, selling love, less woe.
I was not old enough for Woodstock, but wanted to go.
Hip hugger bell bottoms with navels peeking were the rage.
Boys were sent to Viet Nam, with high hopes, a surprising page.
We thought they would be back in seconds, not understanding at all.
We were innocent, sheltered, naïve, young, following no real call.
In the sixties clothing was groovy, we were allowed stripes and flowers.
Dots and stripes too, were the norm, which was just one of our powers.
White go-go boots, thanks to Nancy Sinatra’s Boots Made for Walking.
So many school lunches, where everyone was doing the talking.
Our hair was poofed up like a poodle, in the top we put a little red bow.
It might have been blue or pink, but it had to be put there just so.
We had transistor radios, and push button phones, attached to the wall.
We thought we were high tech, which now seems quite weird after all.
Dr. Martin Luther King was making his Dream speech and JFK got shot.
Not worried at all; my life was easy, in the Midwest, a tiny polka dot.
The Beatles had the first five spots in the favorite hits of the week.
I was playing “I want to hold your hand”, it was Paul that I’d seek.
Women were wearing hats and gloves, which seems silly now.
But Jackie Kennedy was setting the style, which was usually a wow.
USSR’s Valentina Tereshkova was the first woman in space.
Ku Klux Klan bombed a Baptist church, a horrible disgrace.
Zipcodes, lava lamps, and pull tabs were new at this time.
Civil rights an issue? I was more aware of a Ford Mustang in lime.
Nancy's Shrink, goddess,
Yes we write of life and all the strife,
and the mind ferrets,will want to know today,
does ya hate ya momma, dadda,
was they really nasty badder,
or did ya personality,
really blossom just this way?
Could we earn anudder dollar,
could we squeeze out, a little holler,
cos me gambling has dropped me cheque book,
lotsa smaller, this i say,
an i really need the money,
anyway:)
So ya worried that ya crazy,
but like me, ya mostly sane,
an ya thoughts a little hazy,
but ya really feel ok,
so take a look in the mirror,
and tell the bugger, coming nearer,
that its really got indigestion,
needs another hugger, yes today,
and sanity is not the poets way,
inspirations dog is yapping,
and the sparrows ever tapping,
birds are flopping flapping,
poor ole johnson's yapping
inner sanity is how the poet plays...
Don Johnson
Vienna,
The loon's in tune with the largest moon,
entertainment, hopes arising,
insanitys voice does sweetly croon,
her words so hypnotising,
a loon sometimes surprising:)
this poet thing is normal,
looney tunes installed, worm in all,
the rattle of the brain box,
mystifying in its way,
no need to bloody worry ,
just suck upon ya curry,
poetic lunatics are bloody here to stay...
Tony mate,
How i see it little mate,
who am i to gesticulate:)
using both sides of the brain,
ricocheting thoughts svelte in train,
dummy does his little trix,
sometimes seems a loonatic,
but that's the poet's price...
.........The Belly Dancer.........
Stood beside her teacher on the stage.
Young, brunette. Hip hugger magenta
jeans and a short bandana shoulder
less top...
Her young heart leapt with dreams of
dancing fame.
Shoes were forbidden, just her
beautiful feet showed.
And heavy finger cymbals from Syria
She imagined herself already in
prismatic, sequined flowing veils.
Creating licentiousness by
weaving her hips,
And the trembling waves of her torso.
Performing before colored lights.
Much to the audience's delight.
When the Moroccan music began,
she was swept into a magical
dance.
Her teacher, encouraging her to do
more so!
And full use of the serpentine stage
she made!
Imagining herself in that surreal costume
of femininity,
Designed to cover the body perfectly.
Voluptuously,just glistening with coins
and intoxicating crystals.
The blend of Moroccan-Mediterranean
sounds,indeed!
That remind her clearly now.
This was just the lyrical foundation
and introduction to the man who
is her heart's eternal vibration!
He is the music that keeps her
alive and eternal connection to
life and the stars.
She will always be his "Faiza,the
Turkish Delight."
His love of so many nights.
Till her spirit clandestintinely soars
to their Romios Star.
There she waits for him in their
celestial dwelling.
To dance for him...forevermore!
September 30, 2019
Who am I, really? I want to explore my taproot
I am h-o-m-o sapiens, by gender, one of those males
A protestant of the Christian faith, entirely moot,
A writer of many sermons, stories, poems, and tales
A pastor, a teacher, a writer/author by trade
I am a father, friend, a neighbor, and confidante
Once I was young, handsome, and ruggedly made
Now, aging fast, infirmed--I have nothing to flaunt.
I have, in my lifetime, engaged in many professions
Studied hard and earned several difficult degrees
From many lands, I have collected many possessions
I am a naturalist, a conservationist, a hugger of trees
An adventurer, a traveler, a vagabond of sorts
Now an accomplished poet I spend most of my days
Relaxing at home, nursing my ills, dressed in shorts
Need no permissions, I suppose, I am set in my ways.
Long ago, I served my country; I am a patriotic man
I am a freethinker, a liberal, hard for some to figure
For nearly eighty years I have done the best I can
Fighting bullying and bigotry—ignites a protest vigor.
I think of myself as an inveterate lover, seldom a fighter;
On the other hand, I do not “suffer stupid fools gladly”
It is my desire to make the day of everyone I meet lighter
Rather than engage in mindless debate, I walk away sadly.
So, if you have read these verses, you know where I am at
And I know myself better for having written all of that!
written May 25, 2021
Feeding off the weary
Castor oil concubines in deep hip hugger moons
Shouting to the vestibule in torrents filled with rage
Voices shriek in rampant screams, off key to every tune
Changing up a photograph that sits along the stage
Feeding off the weary as they take their morning tea
Crushing every crumpet so the crumbs collect the floor
Holding up their heads in shame for they no longer see
Flagging down the waiter just to get a little more
Hit below the beltline made of polyester fill
Break the rules on purpose so the multitudes will find
Mops now wait the drool appearing nightly in the spill
No one really cares at all what stagnates in your mind
Here’s a tip to fill your needs with eyes a squinting mess
Take this color you declare in blackened tinted hues
Paint the wall that’s just outside in all that you profess
Other’s now will take your blows as early payment dues
Find the poor in gutters strewn with all that you believe
In cauliflower camouflage beyond your garden gate
Laugh behind the foolish ones who linger lost and grieve
Fill your pockets with their fear before it is too late
Dress up for the evening in your Sunday morning wear
Push away the people dancing slowly on display
Board a train to someplace where another just may care
Wave goodbye to all of us as you go on your way