Long Lawnmower Poems
Long Lawnmower Poems. Below are the most popular long Lawnmower by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lawnmower poems by poem length and keyword.
Sunday Morning
I try not to wake him, though he stirs slightly
As I crawl out from the warmth of the covers.
I'm tempted to change my mind, and stay awhile longer,
But a glint of sunlight peeks through the blind and calls to me.
If I burrow down again, and drowse too long,
This glorious time of day will be gone...until it comes again tomorrow.
I tiptoe quietly and begin the morning ritual.
The splashing of water on my face, of letting the dog out,
Of brewing the dark, hot liquid that will help to
Open my eyes and recharge my reluctant brain.
The inviting aroma finally wakes my senses, and after
The first sip, I begin to feel the desire to join the world again.
I go outside, step onto the weathered porch, down the steps,
Onto the wet grass to retrieve today's bundled news.
Within it comes a page-by-page account of disasters, obituaries and comics...
I decide to forego all that gloom, and lay the paper beside the front door.
Instead, I drink in the morning air.
The new day is slowly coming alive. There's a slight chill.
This coolness will be baked away later, when the sun is high.
I pull my robe around me tightly, and sit down on the stoop.
Birds are chirping, and soon, I see that neighbors are beginning to embrace the
day.
House by house, there is evidence that awakening has occurred.
A car is cruising by our house. The occupants, wearing their
Sunday best, and on their way to an early service to praise the Lord.
While some are sitting in pews, singing Alleluia,
A man down the street is starting his lawnmower.
Not mindful that the Sabbath is a day of rest,
Or that he may wake a late sleeper.
Inside my house, I hear the sounds of water running and dishes rattling.
Then someone calling my name. In a moment he appears
Carrying two steaming mugs of black coffee, one for him, and another for me.
He's come to see what this new day has offered, and sits down beside me.
We sit together quietly, and soak up the morning sun.
It wraps its warmth around us, like the bedcovers we had abandoned.
No words are needed to enjoy this moment.
However, toast and jam, and bacon await us. So we turn and go inside.
Winning the Lottery
Yes, I dream of winning the Lottery,
Hitting the jackpot on a Saturday night.
Oh, it’s so wonderful to imagine,
So, I cross my fingers and hold them tight.
Our George bemoans his bad luck,
All these years, not even a Tenner.
He told me that a couple from up Orkney,
Won Five million, Mr and Mrs Jenner.
Now I don’t want a fortune,
Just to be comfortable, would be nice.
I could buy me a shiny new sports job,
Without thinking about it twice.
A holiday to the Island of Barbados,
Under tropical skies, that sounds grand.
Or perhaps a Mediterranean cruise,
Lazing on deck, getting tanned.
I would have to update my wardrobe,
With a suit from Ralph Lauren.
A few shirts with the label of Versace,
Oh, and Designer shoes by Donna Karan.
We may have to move from the terrace,
Buy a cottage in the countryside.
Or better still a bungalow by the sea,
With a Veranda, to sit watching the tide.
I could afford to have Guitar lessons,
Learn to play blues like Jimmy Page.
Imagine that, me becoming a rock star,
With adoring groupies at front of stage.
Now, I won’t see our Emily go short,
and I’ll give a bit to John and Jilly.
I’d better return Danny’s Lawnmower,
and give that borrowed Twenty back to Billy.
I could retire and take it easy,
No more working long shifts over-night,
Slaving for that Miserly McGregor,
He’s loaded but so flaming tight.
In truth, I’d leave without notice,
And tell him just where to stick it.
My wife say’s stop daydreaming Jim
You’ve never even bought a ticket.
I threw my coat into the back seat because it felt like summer.
Forty-seven degrees! A heat wave after the below nine’s we had been having.
Let’s go swimming! I yelled to my husband who was still curled up in a blanket.
Shivering, because he claimed it was still winter. It’s forty-seven! I screamed.
I ran back outside to see if the yellow daffodils were up yet. They weren’t.
Then I got out my tiller, but alas, the ground was still frosty and hard.
Maybe I can mow? I thought. Then I remembered I gave my lawnmower away.
I called the gardeners. How soon do you think you can come? I asked them.
They thought it was hilarious that I was asking. In a month or two, they said.
I am ready for spring now! I thought. So I took out my paints and began to create.
I made roses lilies, geraniums, tulips, a giant rainbow, faeries, two dragons.
If spring cannot come to me, at least I can come to spring. Right?
My life began to stutter, when I began to clutter,
The Garage has taken on the appearance of an electronic graveyard,
No more room now for the car and finding the lawnmower
Yet another chore.
The smell of petrolium products now replaced with with that of rotting Cardboard and damp clothes.
My life began to stutter when I began to clutter.
Competing with the wife for space now getting up my nose,
With fewer places to hide,
A beer fridge now out of the question
And a place to drink it hard to find,
Parties for one the new norm.
My life began to stutter when I began to clutter,.
No more need to set the table just for two,
My appetite long gone before the stove top can be cleared,
Spring cleaning only done when we are short on coins.
My Life began to stutter when I bagan to clutter.
Saying yes to friends in the process of decluttering adding to my clutter,
My only solace that we have nowhere now for the in-laws to stay.
I sit in my one clutteress chair as I go through the list of friends who are Showing signs of clutter with lives about to stutter,
Who can help me declutter so my wife has more room for her clutter.
Maybe tomorrow I say as I lift the garage doors
I do not want my neighbors to see this hovel
But one runs over to see if it is a garage sale
Before I can close it.
She points to something she wants.
I give it to her.
Another runs over to ask to borrow my lawnmower.
That frees up a space I could use to sort, out of the sun,
so I tell her, "Keep it as long as you like."
Some teenagers walk by and laugh, pointing.
I want to stick out my tongue, but that would be childish, right?
I do it any way.
They laugh harder.
My husband comes out. "Find any mice yet?"
This really makes me want to clean this mess.
I remember last summer when a bag started moving
And a fountain of mice rose to the top and flowed out
Running in all directions.
I close the garage.
Maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe not.
Night Noises
By: Tom Wright
1/8/99
Reverberations,
of a summer's night.
A lawnmower overhead,
or that of an ultra light?
Booming bass woofers,
from a cruising car.
With It's ground shaking sound,
I wonder, can it be far?
A barking dog,
Probably something up a tree.
A neighborhood cat perhaps,
should I go see?
An ambulance,
screaming, from down the block.
As I count twelve strikes,
on our grandfather clock.
A backfiring car I hear,
or maybe a gun.
I've only two hours,
before the rising sun.
From the lack of sleep,
I'm a nervous wreck.
Shall I go to work?
awh what the heck.
*Image of The Old Shed by Pixabay.
Still Here
He was the tourist trade foremost embellisher,
his Aloha shirts receptive then, and
now respecting a closet.
Regale lava-covered isles, swathed in white flags,
succumbed to skyscrapers,
and tremendous crowds.
His chord, an isolated tool, tranced the sways,
encased uke leans on clutter,
a harmonica tags the bestilled.
A kid drilled, backs out a Chevy, to looks of relief.
Rusty toolbox by a heap,
chanced ferns sprouting rights.
On a mat with a bloody nose head back, learns to block,
gloves on a wall...glad to know how to defend,
and glad to have the seldom use of it.
Handheld twirling blade lawnmower, a sickle, and rake.
An old tool shed, shelved three wood handles
minus their mettle, as well as their mentor.
You paid a buck for our house...realtor extraordinaire,
and mom's limited knowledge about land, you
left her the trust and deeds~you both left me.
It has been beyond years, young that you were, a period
I furthered. Gone too soon, yet there's so much
of you still here, that it dawns~you've never left.
*For my dad, Joe; 1931-1989.
2023 January 20
*HM*
You Select
~Brian Strand: Judged 2023 January 21
GOODBYE WINTER
For winter, time is almost up
I take a sip from my coffee cup
The grass has grown very long
Neglecting it for weeks turned out so wrong
Mowing the grass is definitely a plan
And eventually it will look spick and span
Or I could just call a lawnmower man
I’ll hand over the responsibility
Then I can relax and have a shandy
Half lemonade and half beer, that’s how you make it
There’s no need to stir or shake it
I’m happy spring is almost here
It is my favourite time of year
Spring is the time for planting and sowing
Time to watch the vegies growing
All the flowers start blooming too
Spring is the time for everything new
All of the sights and sounds it brings
The sun is shining and the birds will sing.
The happy sound of the coffeemaker.
Or of a welcomed friend’s voice!
Using a real phone, not texting,
You sense her in real time, a true joy
Maybe it is his sensual deep voice?Hmm?
That hungry baritone, whose voice moves
clouds.
Or a toddler’s feet, prancing on the rainy
soggy, ground.
Be so glad you can hear the rain melting
snowflakes on rocks.
Or the street, maybe the loud noise of a
lawnmower, by a fit young teen wearing
emblazoned baseball socks.
How about the music of the late and great!
Steven Sondheim, the brillant song writer
for “West Side Story?”
His lyrics make me feel like I am touching
the magic underbelly of heaven in all my
earthly glory.
Here is something, no poet should ever miss.
Have a poetry lover read to you, one of your
poems aloud, it’s like a hug and a kiss.
I had no idea whatsoever the power my
poems held.
I can tell you, I honestly cried when to
this auditory treasure, I fell.
For me by my poems, I am so very
unimpressed.
Till they were read to me, and my soul
and emotions were undressed.
1/1/2022
The Charcoal Man; Part Two
She went as silent as a night with petrified crickets. It blinked. Then before any of us could comprehend what was going on it swiftly grabbed her by the arm and pulled. She dropped the chalk from the other hand, her tense body hitting the board.
The sound was as harsh as getting a dozen rocks stuck inbetween a lawnmower blade. The pressure from the pulling seemed to have stopped. ''Is the worst over?'' I thought to myself. I must've thought too soon, because as she turned towards us blood poured accross the room like a Jackson Pollick. She mustered up what seemed like a faint squeak saying; ''Help me.''
Right as she finished her sentence we all saw two hands this time emerge from the doorway and grabbed her by both sides of the waist and propelled the woman out of this realm. Ripping her in half from the velocity. We all saw an ominous new world before us through this doorway.
The thing didn't stop there though, it slowly brought back it's bloody hands and opened them up to reveal the entire class. The thing had no face, no nose, no muscles. Yet, just decapitated a grown woman like a pretzel. It's teeth were enormous, it's smile becoming greater with each child it saw before itself with its red glowing eyes.
Cohen and i tried to nope it out of there, but it snapped its fingers and the door locked. ''Bro we're screwed, I don't wanna die in front of you after a scream like that!'' Said Cohen.
We're not gunna die alongside that deadbeat teacher i'll tell you that much, I said. So without saying a word I bolted for the windows and went straight through, like a hollywood movie smashing sugar glass. Cohen ran too but decided to grab the chalk first before jumping awkwardly over the hole i had just made in the window.
As soon as he did i heard another *SNAP*. In an instant the windows had cast iron bars to block the others students off. The glass mustn't have been sugar glass however, because a shard went straight through my calf and I could barely move...
The horrors we saw next as the chalk board opened completely and the Charcoal Man emerged, will haunt us for the rest of our lives. We had never seen a classroom re-painted entirely red in that of thirty seconds.