Long Jersey Poems
Long Jersey Poems. Below are the most popular long Jersey by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jersey poems by poem length and keyword.
Condo Commando Landings
They came in shiny silver saucer shaped air ships
With cylindrical flashing red lights in the night
From Planet New Jersey
Alien space crafts…. I mean .… weather balloons, (according to NASA)
From many light years…. I mean… traffic lights away
Landing in Miami first with a thirst for power
They slithered from the… ‘Weather balloons” in zombie brigades
Heads tilted, drooling, snorting and looking for trouble
Your condominium community is their new headquarters
Condo commandos are here to stay
A cruel fiduciary species without any borders
Going from door to door
Giving owners & tenants lists of rules with magnitudinal orders
Millions of regulations, line item expenses, and assessments
You must fulfill….You will fulfill…you will comply or die!
“Resistance is futile!” They cry…. Or mumble…or moan
Or whatever it is the walking dead do
If you walk on pavements you will be fined
If you have babies they must return to the womb
No plants…. No flowers… No signs on your condos
And keep your doors closed at all times
Don’t think about crime. Don’t ask any questions
And pay your condo dues or be sequestered
Here’s
a place
on the shore
of New Jersey
where many people
go to have a good time.
They are there playing machines
and many other table games
for many hours both day and night.
The giveaway gifts and the promotions.
The complimentary meals and hotel rooms
are all designed to make gamblers feel so welcome.
However, the management knows very well
for as long as they stay, the more they’ll play.
And it’s only a matter of time
before they know the bankroll’s gone.
They have used up their credit
and they don’t have enough
to leave the city
away from here
and go home
wishing
they
N
E
V
E
R
C
A
M
E
!
Grow tropical fruits here, near where I live,
harvested, immediately, travels sixteen hundred kilometres south
Then returns on that long journey finally stacked on supermarket shelf
name themselves The Fresh Food People, not so fresh , now inside your mouth
Family farm days amongst beef and wool ,one jersey cow for daily milk
goad her in, lock her head inside a bail
Sit ourselves upon a stool, clasp each hand around a teat
gently squeezed, squirted milk, to fill a ten litre metal pail
Transferred inside to kitchen bench could drink fresh milk if immediately desired
On dairy farm aged sixteen, observing milk collection styles
Twenty four hours gets to factory ,they claim its fresh, not me. We've been taken for a ride
Don't support commercial farming, grow my own,visit local markets
Lots of fresh to fill up several wicker baskets
Seek out real meaning of fresh, buy only what fills the wellness bill
nothing's fresh, if you're lined up to pay at the local "supermarket" checkout till
The only milk that's ever really fresh is what's taken, directly from the breast
Lie beneath a dairy cow, get your face right down close to it's udder
Let me know if you are satisfied with your experience and if the cow enjoyed you as a guest
Footnote: Excluded all dairy almost 50 years ago. Am now always feeling rather Fresh !!!!!
I rode my bike down Omen Road,
Knew they'd be after me, I'd reap what I sowed.
Crossed into Jersey, saw a dead bird ahead—
I prefer voices, I get symbols instead
In a pullout was a convertible with a man inside
He drew his finger across his nose, didn't approve this ride
By Greenwood Lake I smelled perfume as I climbed up the slope
I was tensing up, I was reaching the end of my rope
Heard two sarcastic guys in a parking lot
They could be talking about me, I hoped they were not
Should I keep on my course to Port Jervis Hotel?
Should I cut my trip short, heed the tolling bell?
(chorus)
For whom does the bell toll? Could it be me?
Should I surrender my rights in the land of the free?
It’s a grim kind of fate, riding this road,
Where even roadkill is a phrase in a code.
I cut through Warwick, a town old and serene
What I would encounter, who could have foreseen?
Passed a dead skunk on the road, who put it there?
Was I being paranoid, my accusation unfair?
Kept on a few miles, another dead skunk
I pinched myself, could I be drunk?
Reached a platform, but no train in the station,
Asked a bitter woman where I could find accomodation.
She sent me south, just a mile or two,
But the motel was nowhere, her directions untrue.
I asked a local man to search his cell phone
He found an old B and B that was not well known
The owners said I could stay, though it wasn't summer yet
This was an unexpected rescue, I felt in their debt
Next morning on the road, I ran into a dead fox
Does it pay to be clever, to think out of the box?
There’s a law of revenge, a law of crime,
Their justice isn’t yours, nor is it mine.
They were crusaders, but afraid of exposure
I knew too much, there could never be closure.
Got to the Hudson, got on the train
No way to tell this story, all would think it insane
How can I go against sanity's flow?
When the mundane is an omen, what can I show?
If it can be explained away, it stays unknown
And the startled realization stays alone.
I returned to the place of my birth a few months ago.
Visiting there always gives my languid soul a glow.
The house still looks good but the old barn is showing its age.
How long it will weather the storms is difficult to gauge!
Sad to say, its once sturdy beams and doors are sagging.
Its former brilliant red paint and white trim are also lagging.
Decades of tempests and searing sun have exacted their toll.
I recall so many fond memories as about the old barn I stroll!
The old barn was our playground on snowy and rainy days.
Dad placed a hoop on a beam for our rowdy basketball plays.
Scuffling in the mow, burying ourselves in sweet-smelling hay,
We kids spent many happy hours there, whiling the time away!
All was not play for this feckless Hoosier lad.
Honest toil was proffered and expected by my Dad.
At the tender age of ten I was milking Jersey cows;
At hay-making time I was the kid sweating in the mows!
Even though the old barn is aging its hand-hewn oaken beams,
Will bind it together a few more years weathering all extremes.
'Twould be admirable if some good soul would provide the pelf,
To paint and prop it up and restore it to its former self!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Getting up early to embark on a trip,
a snowy drive to Jersey.
Trying to quell my heart's rapid beats,
favored songs in my speakers.
"Hey man, I don't want to be alone,
not for this - not again."
"I've got you, bud -
when and where?"
Visiting his grave one more time,
now two years from the day.
Thinking of stories of him,
trying to remember his voice.
Two vets talking near a silent one;
chatting about old times and new.
I think he'd like to chime in,
and wish he could so bend our ears.
I didn't have to go there solo this round,
though it wouldn't be the first or last time.
My request for help via companionship,
so swiftly asked and answered.
Some brothers don't have the same blood
that runs through your veins;
through deed they cement the same bond,
through trials they bear the same scars.
Whenever you can, find these souls,
these spirits kind and kindred;
for when you fall, you may be stunned
at the number of hands there to lift you.
I am a mighty winner all the times;
My weapon is unique but mighty.
Weak I am, but sturdily bulletproofed.
I will always win, no matter the fight;
Injured, I dress my wound and heal.
Sometimes, I slip, fall but stand and move on.
When it makes very hot, no cold I need.
Cold it is, I need no jersey at all.
I trip over a splinter but no fear to fall.
Even if I die today, I am sure to live;
That is the foundation of a great winner
I win not because I am that mighty.
I will always win because of the prayer
Say and trust it; it will strengthen me.
It quenches fires, moves mountains and dries rivers.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
Last year was brutal for me, if it weren't for my new friend convincing me to hang around, I would have been fine just passing away and putting an end to my so-called life. I've been homeless for almost a year now and my residence is anywhere I can find a warm dry place to rest my bones. Living on the streets of Manhattan isn't so bad, that is, if you don't mind gigantic size rats sharing your space. Or, if you're okay with hanging with hookers, hoodlums and other homies. I've become accustomed to the life of a vagabond, eating whatever good meal that I can scavenge from a garbage can or dumpster. I used to live in Hoboken, New Jersey with my wife and kids but that all ended one terrible day last year when my wife and kids were taken from me by a drunken tractor trailer driver. After the accident I became a mole, my life was shattered, I was shattered, I wanted to die. That's when I started hitting the bottle, taking pills, shooting heroin and smoking crack. Within three months I went from living in a beautiful house with a wife and two kids to being jobless and homeless and having nothing to live for. Getting back to my new friend, he found me one chilly evening on the sidewalk on 14th St. in the village and showed me to his place of warmth where he lived. He was homeless as well but new the streets very well. He lived in an abandoned building in a makeshift house made from cardboard boxes and filthy rags. He took me in, and we've been living together for nearly a year now and he's been trying his best to keep me going. He too lost his entire family one sad day when his wife and four kids were swept away in the flood from hurricane Lucifer. He taught me that no matter what happens in life, there is still reason to live, because there will always be someone who gives a rats a.. about you. Who ever knew that one of those gigantic black rats could be so kind and thoughtful. He's my friend and I love him, and he loves me too!
That's my story and I'm sticking to it!
Oops! Wife just called... I got to go pick up the kids from school now. See ya!
Here we are in the village of Morristown, New Jersey.
It is September the sixth in the year of our Lord, 1833.
French immigrant Antoine LeBlanc went on a killing spree.
He took the lives of two rather prominent citizenry.
Antoine murdered Mr. and Mrs. Sayre, and their servant Phoebe.
The citizens of the town considered the deed so dastardly.
It only took twenty minutes for the decision of the jury.
With overwhelming evidence, the defendant was found guilty.
LeBlanc was afforded all the formalities of a fair hearing.
Judge Gabriel Ford handed down the sentence of death by hanging.
A crowd of about ten thousand are gathered in the public square.
Witnesses have come to see the execution from everywhere.
A rope around LeBlanc’s neck will propel him into the air.
Until he is dead, Antoine will be hanging in despair.
“That’s not enough”, cried some of the witnesses in their fears.
They wanted LeBlanc’s skin tanned and made into souvenirs.
Wallets, purses, lampshades, and book jackets were fashioned from his hide.
That is a gruesome fate that certainly cannot be denied.
Here is something else that I have to say:
Some of those relics of the infamous criminal still survive today.
I thank both wikipedia.org online encyclopedia and the website of Weird N.J. for information I obtained to write this poem.
Bleeding as purple as the Ravens jersey with pride
A city so welcoming, fittingly and adoringly...
Labeled "Charm City," and "B'more"; this city is much more!
There's no dull moment or sight
ln this wondrous place. There's so much to see!
Most definitely livable...and not "rat-infested"!
Orioles tweet for this "Birdland" at the break of dawn
Receptive to tourists with open arms. Just like...
Every American city, imperfect, yet always prosperous!
Date written: 11/10/2019
I wrote this poem about 3 months ago but forgot to post it.