Long Jim Poems
Long Jim Poems. Below are the most popular long Jim by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jim poems by poem length and keyword.
The first two limericks I posted the other day but Sara Kendrick requested that I write a sequel so added four more, I've included the two from the other day should you wish to read it in its entirety.
Bank robber Jim was one unlucky bloke
Went to draw his gun but the holster broke
It dropped on the bank floor
And went off with a roar
The shock was too much and he had a stroke...
Though he was unconscious he hadn't died
Woke in a coffin for his final ride
In a desparate bid
Banged on the coffin lid
But all he could hear was laughing outside...
Written on 17th June 2021
Then someone shouted can you hear banging
It was quite faint because folks were singing
The sheriff prised off the lid
And he was so glad he did
Because he thought we'll have us a hanging...
Jim didn't know whether to laugh or cry
Resigned himself to the fact that he'd die
Saw sheriff holding a rope
Realised there was no hope
And for unlucky Jim the end was nigh...
He was taken to the gallows in town
Handcuffed and wearing nothing but a frown
Jim was then starting to choke
But with the drop the rope broke
The crowd screamed as poor Jim came tumbling down..
Unlucky Jim jumped up quick as a flash
As he passed the bank ran in and grabbed cash
He stole the first horse he saw
Then let out a loud yee haw
And for sweet freedom he made a quick dash...
Written 19th June 2021
I called an old friend I had not seen for 15 years or more yesterday.
It was just a courtesy call; one for old-time sake. It was a call
just to say 'thank you' for so much and for being there for me
in so many seasons for so many reasons.
Fortunately, the old phone # was still good, and I was able
to speak to one of his daughters who remembered me from
so many years ago when she was just a little girl. She informed
me that Jim was on a three-week fishing expedition.
After inquiring about the big boat that Jim built, she said that
it was still there on the property. Jim walked me through his
'still in progress' boat back in the late 80s.
It was such a thrill to walk back in time. I treasure
the memory of that big boat and the friendship
of Jim and his lovely family.
It’s amazing that a person who endured slavery…
the worst part of mankind’s inhumanity and blindness
would grow up to teach the world about humanity…and kindness.
His name was William Key and he learned to read and write
around the same time he learned to talk.
As he grew his mother taught him how to heal animals
he was so good at it…people began to call him Doc.
When he was a free man Doc raised a horse named Jim
and just by watching Doc guessed that Jim was something special…
that he was smarter than the rest.
Using only kindness Doc spent years working with Jim day and night
and when they finished Jim could make change, do simple math
cite Bible verses as well as read and write.
Doc and Jim toured the country amazing people in the early 1900’s.
When asked how Jim could do all the things he learned to do…
Doc would smile proudly and answer…with a lot of kindness
and a little patience too.
It’s amazing when you think about it how a former slave
and a beautiful horse…were the unlikely duo who…
would show the world the importance…of being kind
to people…and animals too.
In fact when it came to kindness you might say Doc was on the cutting edge
which is why when he and Jim were done performing
he’d have everyone recite the Kindness Pledge.
I don’t think its a coincidence I came across this story now
because with all the animosity, all the hateful words and prejudice being hurled…
I think we all could use a lille more of Doc Key’s kindness in the world.
So I leave you with Doc’s kindness pledge…
The more we recite it the better chance it has of finding a place within our heart….
I know It may not change the world we live in overnight…
but it’s a pretty good place to start
With all due respect to the late Mr. Fregosi,
he was one of the best infielders anyone could see.
However, his later years were plagued with injury.
Jim became involved in the most lopsided trade in history.
The New York Mets were involved in a pennant chase.
They needed a competent player to cover third base.
New York traded a right hander who could have been their ace.
Off went Nolan Ryan to the Angels in California.
He turned out to be the best pitcher in America.
With over seven thousand strikeouts and seven no-hitters to his name,
Ryan was worthy of entrance to the Hall of Fame.
This was a hard pill to swallow for fans of the Mets.
All of them look back on this trade with regrets.
'Umbrella Jim' was the sneakiest scoundrel west of the Missisip'!
Usin' the shell game and sleight of hand, of yer purse he'd gyp.
He'd set up shop 'neath an umbrella whether inside or under an oak.
Usin' three thimbles and a ball he cleaned the jeans of many a bloke!
'Umbrella Jim' was a renown huckster as well as bein' quite witty.
He'd warm up his potential victims by singin' this delightful ditty:
"A little bit of fun now and then,
Is relished by the best of men!
Select yer shell! The one you choose,
If right you win, if not, you lose!
But I'll warn ye, yer chances are mighty slim,
Of winnin' a prize from Umbrella Jim!"
'Twas his regular trade to deceive the eye with sleight of hand.
He was very adept at what he did and his every move was planned.
The fate of 'Umbrella Jim' as far as I can tell is unknown,
But I'd bet some sucker saw him hung from an oak, if truth be known!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Behind the polished brass and red cedar
She lifts the florescent bottles and glasses
At her own classy pace
She’s earned that right by now
I understand well
Her beauty a galaxy
Bundled in dark space of the Miami hotel bar
She’ll not be rushed
To chop blend mix slice our Moscow Mules
Folds her arms
Reads the mantle of faces like unfinished portraits
Propped to her easel of cleavage
Makes me read her mind
I like the game
I think she does too
She’s heard a dirty poet’s lonely old thoughts
A thousand times over
At least lust pays attention
Tips well
Passes the night time game of shells
My eyes sit on elbows
Following her Brazilian-French silhouette
Like wind atop the Eifel Tower
Mardi Gras in Sau Paulo
I’d like her to take my hand
For a long autumn walk
To find Jim Morrison’s grave in Pere Lachaise
Ask her name
Strike it like a match
Steal the bourbon
Left on the Lizard King’s sad defiled headstone
Ask her what she really thinks.
Fifty years ago...the age of self-reflection
Hollow crumbs, shadows of proud vestiges
As minneapolis' jim crow vanished slowly,
Painfully, no longer admired at country club
Cocktail parties celebrating ribbon-cuttings
My family was inside and unaware of history
Working class achievement,
First deli in marble edifice
To corporate greed,
Connecting the longest Minneapolis
Skyway North to Washington Ave.
Dallas barons, puppet-masters
Guilding their empire on the backs
Of working class talent, eager to eat the
Crumbs of capitalism
Spoon (Mr Witherspoon) slaved to achieve the
Pinnacle of jim-crow "shoe-shine" stands in
Pillsbury's new world headquarters
Admired in his community
Proudly placed out front, then moved
To the back of a hair salon, ignoble-crushed
Under the weight of boardroom glare
jim-crow lost it's shine
Spoon
Lost
His
Leg
4-18-25
5:55am
Though he is quiet and meek,
The spotlight he shall not seek.
His light glows softly, inviting,
So many hearts he is igniting.
With poetry that lives on and on,
To his poems my heart is drawn.
His work will never fade away.
It leaves my heart content to pray…
He is a blessing to those who read,
Feel the kindness and it tis’ agreed,
I’ll always be charmed by his light,
It reflects God’s love, be it day or night.
I’ll never hesitate to read his words.
They’re more graceful than the birds.
While I may never meet him face to face,
I hope I meet him in God’s heavenly place.
When I read his tender tales and verses,
The worst there is, it simply reverses,
Reminding me that Jim Yerman stirs hope
Teaching that, whatever comes, we can cope.
Jim is like a modern day Mark Twain,
Forever showing souls who know such pain…
The way to quiet the ache, the despair,
With assurance that love can repair…
Give a second chance, a new meaning –
A promise that God’s grace is intervening!
With this ode meant to praise my fellow writer,
Who is guided by an marvelous muse, and sometimes despite her –
Writes more and more – the heart an open door,
From where his poems will pour, so we may all explore…
This exciting addition to our soup, the spice who seasons
With just the perfect amount of zest – and I’m sure he has his reasons
For sharing his heart and soul,
With tidbits of light to console!
He’s one stunning writer I follow
Because he’s never been hollow!
There is the family by blood,
There is the family of choice.
The one a work of nature,
The other born of the valued voice,
The manner and the measure
Of the long trusted friend;
From whose welcome wit we gather our souls' true treasure:
Our conduct's guide, our action's end.
Our friends define the best of ourselves,
Bringing all our gifts to light.
Sharing cares and joys alike
They complete our days and soothe our nights
With their banter and their familiar ways.
They serve us as the living mirror
To our improvement through our numbered days,
Through the act grow ever dearer.
No friends match the oldest,
Those who know and love us best.
These are the ones whose truths are boldest,
Whose honest vision stands the test
When we would fain dissemble to ourselves;
Who make us see what most needs seeing,
Whose faith in us undaunted delves
Within our depths, intent on freeing
That inner self we were born to share,
That common spirit that resides somewhere.
Though we grow old and older still
Youth's boundless strength can never fade
From out the bounds of common will
Our shared experience has made.
Let us then spend our hours in close companionship
However best we may, my dear comrade,
Reflecting one another as the hours slip
In sharing all we have, and had.
Grandpa was a Bowie.
A tight-lipped protestant Ulsterman
who drifted into the Poblacht na hÉireann
in search of a cure for his cold heart.
His thin lips wed a soft Catholic girl.
He joined the Garda Síochána settling down
to breed Kerry Blue’s. After he retired, he still
wore his uniform, his neck as stiff as ever.
Grandma wrote letters to the Pope
begging for Papal forgiveness
for her heathen husband.
I have not been to Hidalgo County,
but if I were one day to go, I might try
to convince the Daughters of the Alamo
of my credentials to be worshiped
in a mild, concessionary way.
A complimentary burger, a free pass
to the museum, a photograph
of myself brandishing a big knife
at a picture of Generalissimo Santa Anna
that would suffice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Poblacht na hÉireann" = Republic of Ireland (Éire).
"Ulster' (Northern Ireland).
"Garda Síochána" Is the Police Force of the Republic of Ireland.