Long In stitches Poems
Long In stitches Poems. Below are the most popular long In stitches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long In stitches poems by poem length and keyword.
A padded cell is no place for me
Today I intend to be forever free
That caped crusader will rue the day
They locked my maniacal laughter away
No prison
No asylum can keep me under lock and key
Not even Arkham with all its security
Soon I will have my revenge on those two
Who think they have dismantled my crew
How helpless the masked man will be
When the end of Robin he will see
And screens throughout Gotham City
Will witness my gleeful superiority.
But first I must surprise the orderly
Who will bring my evening meal to me.
Once the key is turned in the door
Quickly will I bring him to the floor
Where he will end up in stitches
Relieved of his uniform and britches
Hush ,I hear him turn the key
Soon from Arkham will I be free
I reckon I'm revealing my age when about radio days I pen,
But I fondly recall listening to our Philco radio 'way back then.
What wondrous tales, mysteries and pure comedy from it flowed,
By simply tweaking the tuning knob on the dial that brightly glowed!
I sprawled upon the floor nigh the Philco letting my imagination flow,
As cowboys, pilots, pirates and comedians performed their show!
I laughed as Jack Benny struggled to play his screaky violin,
And thrilled to the music of Glenn Miller and Irving Berlin!
I followed the escapades of teacher Eve Arden as Our Miss Brooks,
And the family sitcom starring Fanny Brice as Baby Snooks!
There was Hopalong Cassidy, The Cisco Kid and The Lone Ranger,
In shootouts with the bad guys protecting the good guys from danger!
I felt tingles along my spine hearing Inner Sanctum's creaking door,
As Richard Widmark began his weekly series with scary tales galore!
Red Skelton's Clem Kaddidlehopper and Sheriff Deadeye kept me in stitches,
And the eerie episodes of Lights Out nearly scared me outta my britches!
The Life of Riley and Fibber McGee and Molly aired on Sunday nights,
And later I enjoyed listening to The Bickersons and their perpetual fights!
Happily, I have many of those old shows on tape that I play now and then,
When I tire of the inane rubbish on TV due to my short attention span!
Humor, O humor, you bring us delight
With your wit and your charm, you shine so bright
You can turn a frown into a grin
And make us forget the troubles we're in
From slapstick to satire, you come in all forms
You can make us laugh with your whimsical norms
You tickle our funny bone and ease our stress
And make us forget all the things we obsess
You can be clever, or silly, or absurd
And leave us in stitches, that's for sure
You can make us see the world in a new light
And lift us up when we're feeling uptight
You can be dry, or dark, or even crude
And still bring us joy with your playful mood
You help us cope with life's challenges and pains
And give us the strength to start again
So here's to you, humor, you bring us such cheer
Your magic is real, and that's quite clear
You help us connect with our fellow man
And make us appreciate the laughter in our plan
So let us embrace you, with all of our heart
And let your joyousness never depart
For you are the light that guides us through the night
And makes everything in this world just right
Grace was full of joy, happiness, frolicking with mirth.
Could hotfoot it across a ballroom in spite of her girth.
Her tomfoolery had us in stitches most of the time.
I believe she said she weighed four hundred and nine.
Some people were turned off by her corpulent face.
I was not one of them, I adored our friend, Little Grace.
She brought so many stories to the table, all of them great.
A fabulous guest, she never stayed too long or too late.
Little Grace is coming! I would tell the kids. Hide your dolls.
She loved to paint moustaches on them and take off their falls
Don’t get me wrong, the children adored Little Grace too.
Animated and enthusiastic, she always knew what to say and do.
I crown the missus "champ impractical joker"
Unbeknownst the wife appeared unusually upbeat,
she did pretend and succeed
to give yours truly a special treat
aforementioned item alluded to purchased
at Liberty Ministry thrift store
3841 Ridge Pike
(some miles further east
same road identified as Main Street)
Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426
I can show you proof courtesy
printed information on pocketed receipt.
Most times one garden variety generic bloke
(christened Matthew Scott Harris),
would with pursed lips think
and or mouth the words okey doke
what in the name of Judas Priest
by George, he a run of the mill
on the floss ordinary heavy mettle folk
doth thee spouse got up her (figurative) sleeve
thespian wannabe she never quite...
her constitute stardom quite a joke.
She practices April's fool day
(hoping nobody notices
as she looks askance)
every time she gets a chance
gleefully clapping her hands
while performing an impromptu (risque) dance,
when she pulls off
hat tricks of her trade
taking Europe in general and France
in particular by storm
madding crowds clamoring to prance
with said unsung hero.
The words mentioned above intended for you
dear anonymous reader to woo
allowing, enabling, and providing how I view
livingsocial linkedin with good n plenti true
without a shadow of doubt poetic license taken,
these words zealously, randomly, haphazardly
scattered across screen willy nilly I spew
trying to coerce coalescence of continuity
yet additionally trying to weave events
earlier today December 22nd, I review,
whereby yours truly while waiting in a queue
assorted merchandise fifty percent off
the spouse did avidly pursue
unbeknownst she would play a prank and outdo
pulling a doozy gag at my expense, he took netview
of utter tomfoolery, and readily admits Matthew
Scott Harris I nearly ate "faux chocolate soap"
finding wife in stitches, he too
did chuckle, cuz he knew
supposed treat smelled extremely fragrant
cocoa confection fortunately, I did not chew
but promptly spit out after sneezing atchew!
Why is that two people can tell the same joke,
Yet one will be booed off the stage
And the other has the audience in stitches.
Why is it that one persons smile
Can light up a room,
Yet another will only get a frosty reception.
Why is it that an act of kindness from one
Will be applauded,
Yet another will only have their motives questioned.
Why is it that some get all the help
Without having to ask,
Yet others get none, no matter how many times they ask.
I stopped asking these questions the day I came to realise,
Being the centre of the Universe was too big a burden to carry.
It was the same day I started to relax, have some Fun
And became a joy to be around.
How many times?
I see plethora's of well-wishers,
an entire generation in stitches-
dynamic disasters carrying the pitches,
a welcome wagon wandering the bridges,
how many times?
I see a black castle on a hill,
staring down at my will-
has Gargoyles sending its thrills,
and trained Chewies pouring the drinks
and popping its pills...
How many times?
Why would I wait for a wonderful trance?
When now has a dance,
a new job,
and a focusing stance-
gets me to my France,
I eat the food,
and pleasure my chance,
roll my dice,
and sing to the enhanced...
How many times?
Like Lewis and Clark,
I chuck darts at foreign remarks,
in the dangerous dark I part from my narks,
ease into the current date that is universe today,
seize the opportunity to meet my future mate,
by becoming a plate,
spinning in place,
dancing to a face,
racing against the blaze...
How many times?
Calloused canvas, etched with sun and rain,
A map of toil, where muscles speak their pain.
No crown adorns it, nor scepter's gilded shine,
But in its grip, a legacy entwines.
Not pharaohs' monuments, nor empires vast,
But fields that nourish, homes that rise at last.
Bricks laid true, with sweat for mortar's hold,
A city's pulse, in stories yet untold.
No artist's brush, nor poet's lyric grace,
But hammers tapping, leaving their own trace.
Steel forged and shaped, with fire's ardent kiss,
A symphony of sparks, where dreams don't miss.
Not ruler's scepter, nor scholar's quill,
But thread spun fine, with patient, practiced skill.
Garments woven, warmth against the cold,
A mother's love, in stitches neatly told.
No warrior's blade, nor priest's anointed hand,
But seeds that sprout, at farmer's wise command.
Land nurtured, yielding life anew,
A cycle's dance, beneath a sky so blue.
No sculptor's chisel, nor architect's grand plan,
But tools that mend, held by a steady hand.
Machines repaired, with rhythmic, whirring hum,
A world kept turning, never truly numb.
Not surgeon's scalpel, nor teacher's guiding pen,
But streets swept clean, where children play again.
Invisible threads, that bind a community,
A hand unseen, yet vital, you can see.
So raise your gaze, beyond the gilded frame,
To hands that build, the ones without a name.
For in their toil, a nation's spirit thrives,
A tapestry of labour, where humanity survives.
So many more. Just a sampling of favorites, per contest instructions.
For each poet I have included a sampling of titles in parentheses.
THREE OF MY FAVORITES
Gershon Wolf
Gershon lands me in stitches.
In his wise and funny hands,
I can’t help but smile or laugh.
A grin happens, belly twitches.
(Sex Sells, War is Hell; Tingles, Twitches, Creaks;
Scant Solace in the Solstice, Old Bessie)
Caron Krutsinger
Caron carries me to Wonderland.
Her muse and faeries’ mischievous.
Earthbound - school, kids and pets.
Her quaint stories, written offhand.
(Sleeping Elfin Baby, Santa Puppy Begs for Bones,
Unicorn with the Rainbow Tail, Fluffy Fat Robin)
Evelyn Judy Buehler
Evelyn’s poems’ immersed in hues.
An imagistic touch of stirring magic.
God will gift her with eternal colors -
Not one of them, she will refuse.
(Clashing Colors, Scarlet Noon, Green Door, Moonlight Blue)
12/30/2022
Who is your best PS poet or poetess Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Too big for his britches, too small for his cap
Just the right size for mama's lap
He keeps me in stitches, the things he will say
"Oh let him stay little", I repeatedly pray
A little firecracker with ***** to spare
He walks in the house and strips down bare
Not a single piece of clothing, not even a sock
Demands to be naked, stubborn as a rock
Bath time is the best if you'r ready for some fun
Not a dry spot on the wall by the time he is done
There is something about that boy that tugs at my heart
An emptiness inside, when we are apart
His little blonde curls and sweet little face
A perfect little person, thanks to God's glory and grace
I love that he needs me and doesn't want me to leave
Lord knows I need him too, more than I need to breathe