Long Ironed Poems
Long Ironed Poems. Below are the most popular long Ironed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ironed poems by poem length and keyword.
Elation & Vacillation a comedy
A poem
Lionel Derbyshire
Every day I want to .. but I could not
Today I must do .. I have to
Yesterday I let it go away so today
I will not run dry, I will , I must
I have done my mirror practice
And I looked so good so here goes
Cannot wait another minute
Before I bleat myself with over worry
Must not become tense this is really it
Will not plummet , will not go down
Rise I am the centre of my universe
No need to annex my courage
The time has really come
Come on now, chin is up on high
My teeth is white, my smile is wide
My shoes are polished , my shirt is ironed
I am top class.
I m a getting there after I leave here
I will swing my arms when I get there
I will stand on my own two feet
I will sway and dance with joy
Confidently I have such high hopes
Singing now, no doubt about it
I ‘ll be over the moon when Sally says “YES”
So here goes …. Shelly will you marry me ??
Whack smack ! wrong girl …
Growing old gracefully isn't about looking
In the mirror every day for a brand new
Wrinkle
That can't be ironed out like a pair of
Pants.
To some growing old it is a very traumatic
Experience.
There are some who don't want the age
Lines of time
That can't be ironed out like a pair of
Pants.
We're suppose to grow old gracefully.
There are some who don't want the age
Lines of time
Which are a part of life.
We're suppose to grow old gracefully,
Live and enjoy the small pleasures
Which are a part of life.
Go outside
Live and enjoy the small pleasures
A transformation will occur.
Go outside
Walk, greet your neighbor, and enjoy
Nature.
A transformation will occur.
To some growing old is a very traumatic
Experience.
Walk, greet your neighbor, and enjoy
Nature.
Growing old gracefully isn't about looking
In the mirror every day for a brand new
Wrinkle.
He befriended charisma, exuding charm,
He had the wit and grace with a story.
Pants were ironed, black suit with cuffs,
And a tie in all of its glory.
He wanted to be just like James Bond,
When Bond was in his prime.
Instead of sitting gun safety class he said,
“Trust me. I do this all of the time.”
Then there was the youthful wandering teen,
Showing off to all of his friends.
“Don’t worry, it’s not loaded” he said one day,
You can guess at how that ends.
And, of course, the bigoted clown of a guy,
Always drinking and joking for fun.
“Hey, hold my beer and watch this” he said,
He should have fixed that broken shot gun.
Guns easily allow death by misadventure,
Much simpler than using a knife.
Banning guns works at not killing ourselves,
At giving us a safe, happy life.
Trixie Belden was a marvelous book find for me.
She was a blonde dynamo with Encyclopedia Brown’s talent
For finding, following, and solving mysteries
delightfully female with Honey, her sidekick best friend.
Encyclopedia Brown had not been penned yet anyway.
I remember paying three dollars for each Trixie Belden book.
It was my allowance for the week if I ironed, dusted, gardened,
watched my brother, swept, cleaned the pantry, etcetera
we were not handed things for free in the sixties
We had to earn them.
Trixie Belden was worth every penny
I think I appreciated her more because I had to earn her
Once again we’re wedged in a wrinkle
of time in our lives; a wrinkle that can’t
be so easily ironed out and pressed away.
Yet the ironing board of solutions remain up
and challenging steam continues to gush out;
however, conflicting political sizing complicates
the strained ironing out process…stalling progress.
Those of us familiar with social distance look on
in curious awe at the pandemonium of the social elite
sanitizing and quarantining themselves from each other.
Meanwhile, let us not be remiss nor dismayed by the
present dilemma; let us give it inherent attention; for
before modernity, our ancestors—the help—the hidden
numbers—laid out and taught us ingenious methods
of smoothing out nagging wrinkles inhibiting our progress.
Thus, let us not forget to remember those under the mattress
techniques designed to keep us healthy and strong in our journey
along the wrinkling road towards all-inclusiveness in this nation’s
pursuit of happiness through social, economical and political equality.
©millardlowe, 2020
"The road to write is paved with good intensives."
— attr. too know won
The mourning it always do come sum-how
where they're voices brake the piece into peaces—
we was all of us promised a wright to no the truth
butt the heir we breathe has went, spent, mined out, beyond the vane/vain gnus
proscribed like a wether we cannot sea—the err of it and yeti.
Running from the lie's the money stayed, still
He, galled, gulled, lead in, shuttered—should of ironed the flood on thin eyes, thin i's
they swept the e-rupture under the rug of the volcano
lent, bent, the routes of it t'all drowned the ceiling every moan and mown
knot one sole voice cud of broke the rein of time it-shelf.
The children play was born into wore there bodies the pour of plague
sum-body never said nothing—the reign felled on the pane/pain like whether
emigrate, immigrate or stay, him and her and them bear/bare the same old hole
they're writes they're breastless rites to exst was pored over the alter
and the sole of it, the soul of it, they burned the maid in the mourning stair.
And now, , we scroll and sprawl and drool through the mourning of taht
sum-how the "famine" is a cantent, the "worn" is a wra, the "wand" is a wrte
end sum-one's always loosing there wright two exist, here, hear, their
too nations, to flags, two many wounds the power they powder the flood they could of ironed
where we're board-stiff wore down, the fowl foul heir of sit, the steal they steel—
the raised cities rased, razed—
interesting, someone didn't run Grammarly,
rite.
There was an old lady
Who flew like a swallow.
She weight sixty pounds
‘Cuz her bones were hollow.
She flew through the air
Wherever she went.
She slept in a tree
And didn’t pay rent.
One unlucky morning,
She fell from the sky.
Her arms were all heavy
And she couldn’t fly.
Seems she was anemic
And feeling quite sick.
She ironed her shirt
And that did the trick.
Went south for the winter,
Flew into a cliff;
It seems she’d used starch,
And her arms were too stiff.
So now she takes Delta,
When she takes the skies:
San Juan Capistrano
To see butterflies.
One bright sunny morning
The monarchs came in.
The old lady decided
To take flight again.
A bit out of practice,
She thought that she’d try;
She opened her mouth
And swallowed a fly.
There weren’t any spider,
But swallows instead.
She choked on a swallow
And ended up dead.
So now you’re stuck singing
A song that’s absurd
And trying to remember
If there was a bird.
I can’t seem to end this;
I’ll try to comply.
At least you know now
Why she swallowed that fly.
The Sowing
Upon the wind feasted hillside
The jagged edges of used rocks swell
With the fatless skin of babes and wenches
Below a field of blood, no less a Flanders Field
A continuous swell of rape roll like waves
In the pallid squalor of leaking huts wooden tales tell
The scars ironed in the backs and inner thighs
The voices crying with no listening ear
Blood shines bright in moon's glow sons birth upon the fields
For eons it seems men stack rape like barley and wheat
Small ones soft ones and inexperienced virgins too
Daughters bled away dignity men their respect
Born work and ravished in the fields
Where is their medal of bravery
Today the summer sun washes over the fields
Each ray eclipses the dark memories of sin
As the sons and daughters rise
This poem was written for Joann Grisetti's Copycat contest through inspiration of Debbie Guzzi's The Sowing, one of the Greatest writers here on the Soup
There’s a nadir of personal despair -
In feminine terms it’s - No hair, no flair!
My hairy genes caused me lifelong distress,
I longed for a look I didn’t possess.
I daydreamed of golden locks as a girl,
Blessed with neither a wave nor with a curl.
Straighter than hay mine hang in disarray,
Cradle to coffin - lifelong bad hair day.
And so pertaining my hapless hirsute
I was braided, I ironed in my pursuit.
Slept with hard rollers, a perm I did try,
And lots of hairspray, that’s how I went by.
In vanity’s name I bent backwards in vain
Since straight and straighter my old locks remain.
No quiescent coiffure is meant for me -
Distressing tresses are my destiny.
Semester finals are next week.
The ultimate study groove requires a certain ambience, like a cafe.
Nothing fancy, any shop that’ll let me grift, at a table unbothered, for six hours - with the rain tip-tapping the window, like a pulse needing auscultation - will do.
I’m on the no-sleep bus and there’s no coasting
luckily, my hippocampus flourishes in café's light.
I’m trading sleep for synapses
with drills on repeat - if I rest, I forget, if I keep thinking, I fray
but exhaustion can buy me two more rounds of flashcards
I’m pumping espresso blood
wearing half-ironed looks
Have you ever noticed how the Paris metro-map resembles a somatic nerve? On the metro, between Porte de Saint-Ouen and École Militaire - as Paris slides by - I practice diagramming the scapula on my iPad Pro. Blurry Paris, blurry neon, blurry anatomy.
And I’m starting to think in Latin - ‘os talus coniungitur..’
If I’m not memorizing something,
it’s because my mind’s been scraped raw
and I’m on autopilot - more often than not,
Peter (my bf) drags me to bed @ 2am
But salvation comes - next Saturday - in the form of Noel school break.
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A Christmas playlist for this: =]
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_18.mp3
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os talus coniungitur = nursery rhyme “the ankle bone’s connected to..”
auscultation = examination