Long Joe Poems
Long Joe Poems. Below are the most popular long Joe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Joe poems by poem length and keyword.
Suspended Animation De Rigueur Among "Joe King" Six Pack
Yepper, once body functions cease
asper this ole codger,
mere seconds after expiration,
sans existential lease
immortality avails rubbery piece
of flesh christened
Matthew Scott Harris,
the legal mouthpiece
decreed by living will
after organ activity doth cease
immediate measures taken
courtesy Doctor Demento to decrease
any further senescence
till heartening no brainer
preserves jellied rolled masterpiece
wordsmith, meanwhile, I can sublease
these bag of bloodless love bones
done deal, all yours for trifle bro
pittance costing no more
than one Pinocchio
plying attached strings,
yea kinda like ma's yoyo
mine limp fingers needed to pull
performing fetes resembling
dead spindleshanks longfellow
all the while appearing as cheap trick
courtesy super tramping marionette...lo
taking me across world wide web,
where yours truly housed in Tokyo
hotel, never tiring globe trotting
performing one man deadened show
after earning so much dough...
necessity will arise to call tow
truck (mebbe more'n one),
when after bajillion years
would utter whoa
abundant flush with moolah,
a sought after Joe Schmoe
earning hand over rigor mortis fist
pile of money that doth grow
by leaps and bounds - hiho
exceeding penury, when struggling as poet
Cain and Abel to silence
those opposed to Roe
versus Wade, incumbent upon minor woe
awaiting future technology so
rejuvenating lifeless chap easily
mistaken for scarecrow
can carry on camping y'know
whaddya mean...
not to leave ye in suspense
but gotta join grateful dead, and gotta go
Adieu!
My Friend...Joe De Mino
Dedicated to a true friend here. I have but
I few.
Joe is one of them.
Thank you for your Poetry and fearlessness.
You make me have faith, there are more like
you who will make the USA sane again!
J_is for his JOY and stand for JUSTCE.
O_is for his OPENNESS, so admired!
E_ is for ENDURANCE and his outlooks
on ETERNITY.
D_is for his DEDICATION to truth.
E_ is for EMBRACING America.
M_ is for his love of MANKIND.
I_ for INTEGRITY, his words and soul so true.
N_ is to thank him for his NOURISHING my soul
O_is for being ON the RIGHT Path...you go, Joe!
Love,
Pangiota
9/9/2021
Every morning at a quarter to six, I can hear my he him trotting down the hallway to the bed where I lay, shriveled up under my weighted blanket, so fat and un-tall.
There’s a part of me that should feel sorry for my little Cowboy husband Joe, but the other part is as angry as Sophie Dog, who snarls and snaps when she hears him in the hall.
“Time to get up!” he says in a sing-songy way, being a nice guy, who truly, only ever wanted to be a child, outside, who could laugh and play like a kid with honey bun food.
“Son of a mule’s *******,” I say, in the kindest cowboy-kind of way, knowing he’s going to feed Shark next, and he’d better tip toe as I am in that kind of I-HATE-EVERYBODY-KIND-of-Mood.
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
“I saw that the baby opossum on the porch was out of food again, so I banged on the window, and he ran off with that little hop-skip he has,” Joe babbles on. “After he left, I took some cat food out. He’s eating it now.” Joe is wearing his best hat, and boots, but I don’t give them no mind.
Son of a horse’s behind, does he always have to yap like a coy dog? I think as I try to get a growling Sophie dog’s butt off of the covers I’m trying to put back over my head, so I can have some peace and QUIET; “Get OUT OF HERE!” I yell, I’m 11 minutes behind!”
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
Sophie and I get woked up three more times by him, and we chase him out each time, baring our teeth. It reminds me of my early days with my mother who used to be just this damned happy and annoying in the morning. She used to give us pancake rolls. Which means she used to jump on our bed and roll on us making us extra angry before we left for school.
The last time, the final time, the I mean it this time, he brings me my usual Chuck Wagon Caren is hungry as a giant Stegosaurus on speed breakfast. Five pounds of hash-browns, a three egg omelet with bacon, and it damn well better be the exact temp I like, he has learned the hard way Sophie and I are
Very particular about the temp of our bacon. He takes off his 10 gallon hat, sitting it on the bed, and says “anything else, my ladies?” Before we can speak, he magically produces my jalapeno peppers which we dump lavishly over our hash-browns. Yes, he is the perfect cowboy for this fool.
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
As whirlwinds in the musicscape that blow so wild,
The duo sang, played guitar, and albums compiled;
Both rocked like vigorous rocks in a rough earthquake,
Their unbreakable records they only did break...!
Played and sang at their very tender childhood age,
Like tornados they shook many a music stage;
Joseph Bonamassa, at only twelve, did plan,
Smokin' Joe Bonamassa - his band he began...!
As though birds of a feather flocking together,
J.L Bonamassa and Beth Hart flew higher;
Like poppies blossomed forth "Don't Explain", and "Seesaw",
The works of the duo made one and all feel awe...!
His works, "Blue Deluxe", "Driving Towards The Day Light",
"Rhymes", and "Fire On The Floor" are like sunlight, bright;
Adorn the altars of Harmonious music,
Cure the physically and psychically sick...!!!
14 May 2023
Joe Bonamassa and Beth Hart Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
I am your average Joe
In that I am unspectacularly unique.
Women are not turning their heads
To ogle my physique,
Nor are mothers hiding their babies’ eyes,
Fearful of my face they’ll catch a peek.
My accomplishments are many,
Though none to give me fame,
And if asked at a party,
No one would recognize my name,
Yet the few who do know me,
Respect me just the same.
I have a few traits shared by many men,
Stereotypically common of an American white male.
Raised in Anytown, United States,
In a family whose story one could not sell.
An upbringing quite familiar,
Similar to one thousands of others could tell.
And yet I have other traits that don’t quite fit the mold,
Interests and skills uniquely my own, or so I am told.
You have to get to know me, to see them for yourself,
They are not exactly on display like on a grocers’ shelf.
There are a few people who love me,
And a few others who do not,
But most if asked directly,
And put upon the spot
Would struggle for an opinion,
One way or the other, never giving it a thought.
If you took the time yourself to see,
And let an opinion inside you grow,
I am sure that you will find,
I am like no one else you know,
But if you had to describe me
You’d say I’m your Average Joe.
As men, sometimes it's hard to spit out the L word. Of course it's not so hard to do when you are conveying it to your love, father, or friend. But when it comes to siblings, sometimes it's not said as often as it should be. Every time I speak with my two sisters the conversation always ends in "I love you, sis." But for some odd reason when I am speaking to my brothers the conversation ends something like " Okay, I'll see you tomorrow" or " Okay, talk to you soon." Nine years ago my siblings and I had lost our eldest brother tragically in a motor-cycle accident. Thinking back, I really can't recall actually ever telling him outright that I loved him. If only I knew then, before his death, that that would be the last time I saw him, for sure that L word would have been heard in his ears from my lips. So today, on this twelfth day of November, on his birth date, I feel compelled, as a man, to say what I should have said to him many times. And that is- "I LOVE YOU, JOE"
Happy Heavenly Birthday, Brother!!!
let your siblings know
tell them how much you love them
before it's too late
Mister Joe, poet, jangles loose change in his pocket,
Jogging memories and garnering thoughts as he walks.
For Mr. Joe's brain washes, tumbles and dries,
his gems of thoughts in hourly cycles, with riddles, jingles and rhymes.
Each wash-up, extracted, pegged, and hung up to dry,
To taunt and flap jangles for him, his readers and strangers near by.
Mister Joe's charm icons are processed, mulled over, distilled and wrung out for meaning within.
His jangles find meaning in bumps on smooth paper, read as Braille.
His jangles arise from stones skipped over calm smooth waters,
yielding meaning in the creases and ripples created.
His jangles rattle his sleep awake each night, with sky rockets of images and flashes bursting.
His jangles are a empowering, rewarding, revealing, enlightening,
and sometimes troubling and haunting, but can't be undone.
His jangles are his rhyme and reason, his friend and confidant, his mater and aether
His jangles are really what he's all about as a poet,
as a miner and peddler of ideas, and as a prophet and revealer.
Mister Joe's charms jangles the minds of his readers
His words cast nets to trawl up memories and concepts,
lured within the reader's mind with word play and twists.
Seas of dreams and memories are netted, prodded and poked
To yield twinkles, sparkles, hums, grunts, and nods of appreciation and delight.
His jangles finding meaning and echoes with links and associations, never before conceived nor considered.
Mister Joe's catch of memories once jangled, are returned to reader with care
Embellished and enthralled by meaning, relevance, word play and twists.
The reader now has new jangles to add to charm bracelet on wrist, or to jingle with loose change in pocket.
Mister Joe, the poet, and his reader, now walk and dance with jangles, jingling echoes within.
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth,
and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom shall I fear?
Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet,
and a light unto my path.
It is sharper than any twoedged sword,
piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters,
He restoreth my soul.
Behold the Lamb of God,
which taketh away the sin of the world.
Surely He hath borne our griefs,
and with His stripes we are healed.
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?
Neither death, nor life,
nor angels, nor principalities,
nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come.
The Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout,
with the voice of the archangel,
and with the trump of God:
and the dead in Christ shall rise first.
Then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written,
Death is swallowed up in victory.
O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?
Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty,
which was, and is, and is to come.
Worthy is the Lamb that was slain
to receive power, and riches, and wisdom,
and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing.
And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes;
and there shall be no more death,
neither sorrow, nor crying,
neither shall there be any more pain:
for the former things are passed away.
"When your down and out you need some Joe Bonamassa."
Quote by _ Constance
His music is raunchy and moody, his voice raspy yet smooth. If I close my
eyes I am in a rundown bar in the middle of nowhere down and out on luck.
His name is Joe Leonard Bonamassa, an American born blues rock guitarist, singer and songwriter. Born in 1977, he grew up in Utica, New York, USA.
His parents Len and Delia were avid blues music fans and owned a music
store and this is where Joe got his love for guitars. He started playing guitar
at four years old. At twelve he was playing with B.B. King and has played
with many notable artists. He has fifteen solo albums, and eleven of them
have reached No.1 on the Billboard Blues Chart. He has been nominated for
three Grammy Awards. He has his own record label called Keeping Blues
Alive Records where he supports blues musicians and their music.
Something interesting about Joe is his vast collection of guitars and amps,
four hundred or more. Most are vintage. He has been buying them all his
life. A room in his home is called the Bona-seum ! He loves his Fender
Telecaster that he nicknamed Bludgeon. But, there is another rare and
valuable guitar that he uses in concerts, a 1958 Gibson, Flying V, he calls
Amos after the original owner Amos Arthur. I love this man, his music, his
message. He can play the blues for me anytime. He keeps his private life
private, I like that about him !
random lyrics from
Mind's Eye
Joe Bonamassa
help I'm going down
need someone
to slow the spiral down
reach up, dig deeper
I'm haunted by memories
you can'nt see
_____________________
May 07, 2023
Poetry/Bio/Joe Bonamassa - Blues Guitarist
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1545-662-07
All Rights Reservered, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Joe Bonamassa Inspiration
sponsor, Robert James Liquori, Judged 05/07/2023
First Place
Joe and Shelly’s house is on fire!
It is simply and surely ablaze!
The flames are incessantly higher.
Yet we see him sitting there, in a daze.
Mr. Hamilton runs straight in there,
We see him through the transparent window.
He runs promptly back out with burning hair,
Did you get our neighbors Shelly and Joe?
You will not believe it he tells us.
A mannequin was in Joe’s chair.
Firemen come without a fuss.
The smell of smoke permeates the air.
Tables, computers, cherished photos too
Quickly curled up and died that night
Made Joe’s almost ex a little blue,
What he might do next gave her a fright.
Revenge Joe never came back, that conniving scamp.
He had cancelled his home owners’ insurance a month ago.
Enjoyed the rest of his days playing a guitar in a hobo camp
Making his fearful wandering wife a pauper, that little ‘ho.