Long Lazing Poems
Long Lazing Poems. Below are the most popular long Lazing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lazing poems by poem length and keyword.
I don't know how to express this,
It's only my point of view.
I may be mistaken
I have made more than a few.
I may lack education,
Although I have always worked.
I have no hesitation,
Unemployment is for jerks.
If you are genuinely needy
Or disabled in any way
It is not that you are greedy,
You require money so you can pay,
For the necessities of life,
To keep a roof over your head.
Financial help is warranted,
When you are unable to get out of bed,
To look for employment.
That you wish that you could do,
Lazing in bed all-day
It cannot benefit you
It would play on your mind
As we all need to work
Unless you are the kind
That does not feel the need
For work, YOU JERK!
Jerk is an appropriate name,
You're all the same,
Why should you work?
When you know all the perks
And the handouts you'll receive
While you have a ball
Doing nothing at all
But deceive.
Help is needed everywhere,
Everyone able should work
Many suffer lives of despair
Please stop behaving like a JERK.
Plump-cheeked and bow-lipped, the stalwart mother sits reading,
corseted in her close-kept role, gathering the feminine
for like to like is drawn, a blossom-pressed, Alice sits lazing.
Straight-laced, as the time, the stripped couch holds her life's calling
falsely framed in pleated revere, smacking of each hidden sin
plump-cheeked and bow-lipped, the stalwart mother sits reading.
Her voice denies the rigid caste of ill thought mothering
a doll's denied its little mother's arms and long lost grin
for like to like is drawn, a blossom-pressed, Alice sits lazing.
All of nature calls to her but Mother seeks quiet's staging
as wilder spirits and untamed flowers wilt beneath her chin.
Plump-cheeked and bow-lipped, the stalwart mother sits reading
There'll be no romp, no rabbit chase, no rash beheading,
just Mother dear and only here within this room again.
Plump-cheeked and bow-lipped, the stalwart mother sits reading
for like to like is drawn, a blossom-pressed, Alice sits lazing.
Painting Alice in Wonderland by George Dunlap Leslie
May is coming to a close;
we’re on the cusp of June.
School is out and children sing
the joys of summer’s tune.
To the park with mitt in hand
to play a game of ball,
young boys head in early morn
to answer summer’s call.
Mornings spent at swimming pool
to take a summer’s dip;
catching rays on poolside lounge
enjoying summer’s trip.
Afternoons passed at the creek
with fishing pole in hand
lazing in the summer sun
a time when life was grand.
I, myself, head to the lake,
guitar and jug of wine;
girlfriend riding by my side
while hoping stars align.
These fond mem’ries fill my mind,
an age when life was slow
carefree times I won’t forget
from summers long ago.
May 12, 2019
An unexpected winfall did come our way,on festive season
able to spoil family and friends,which gave us much pleasure.
A freezing England was not to be had,Egypt bound for the New Year.
Arriving in Sharm New Years Eve,brand new to Egyptian culture
falling to some of the wolves that prey on the vulnerable.
Three days of hell in our first hotel,until were transfered
to what seemed paradise, the restart of our holiday.
The meeting of Kylie,an English business woman,proved our angel
bonded immediately,her third time in Egypt and put on right track.
Inseperable throughout the duration,adventurous,wide knowledged.
Although narrowly avoiding drowning,whilst snorkling ;)
Be it lazing on the beach,or quad biking in the desert
everyday be a pleasure to wake,rising sun,eclipsing the mountains.
Just a touch cold at times,my Skinbob had thermals at hand ;)
A fort night of relaxing, pleasureable heat,woke up in England, 2 feet of snow.
We have found a true friend in Kylie Harry,sheesha and sambukka`s soon. xx
Listen to the roar of the noble beast,
The King needs no introduction.
Whether lazing about or hunting a feast,
He puts on quite a production!
His thunderous roar is his lion’s song,
He is Lord of the African Plaines.
Clever, handsome, sleek, and strong,
You know him by reputation and name.
He sports a great mane, his most prominent feature,
And he wears a fine coat of golden brown.
He’s a mammal and a carnivore by nature,
And when he roars, he’s heard from miles around!
If you were a zebra or antelope or elk,
On a hot sunny day out grazing the grass,
You’d have to beware and look out for yourself,
For a day you spend playing might just be your last!
There’s one King of the Cats, who may be known to you,
He’s a little bit milder, but still wild and not tame.
He lives with his mate Elsie in his home at the zoo,
And if your lucky, you’ll hear him roar, “Webster’s My Name!”
Eerily absent at first
neither dormant nor lurking
Even at maturation and beyond
neither networking nor smirking
In stealthy pursuit, it may produce
a twinge here, a creak there
Nothing serioius
nothing you can't bear...
Suddenly, there's a little more of you around the middle
You linger at the table, lazing and longing the morning away
The grind you'd long ago mastered starts impeding
on your newly precious days
You reach for the caffeine a little too often
and an afternoon nap is no longer foreign
Weekends can't come soon enough
and the bosses all act so young and tough
... Now what are you doing walking with a cane
and when did you come to fear a short drive in the rain
Every youth in a hoodie is a threat to you
~ Terror rules what's left of your brain
An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.
It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.
“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s dirty.
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.
There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”
There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a jury.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.
There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.
.
.
slang: updogged = to continue a conversation trend and maybe improve it.
Younger days, were greener days
Silver memories on the shelf
Yesterdays, in many ways
So wrapped up with myself
Saturdays, were laughing days
When time was still in wealth
Every day, that passed my way
Slipped on by in stealth
Now these days, I hang and graze
No longer pull the plough
So eyes may gaze on coming days
Not yet thrown in the towel
All those days, left in a haze
Wont come back, no how
So I say, come what may
It doesn't matter now
Any day that I can stay
No need to wear a frown
Sunny days or rainy days
Just simply hang around
Lazing days, embracing ways
To lay my trophies down
When my days, all pass away
My poems are where I'll be found
March 15 2016
Daniel Turner
Under the dark blue sky
A pavilion drenched in morning dew
Lighted brightly by the saddened Moon
revealing truth
Drenched in dazzling, tempting lies
In the courtyard are lazing men
Blinded to tomorrow's looming fate
Gambling with broken dreams
And thoughts ,that have started to rot
Blossoming flowers have began to wilt
Her petals dried, littering the yard
Fading fast, blending with the earth
With every passing Minute
Rumbling thunder, frightening flashes
Doomsday looming, apocalyptic scenes
Men stubbornly lingering on to faith
That save none from his fate
Clinging to fairy tales of better ‘morrow
When time is just a counter for the next sorrow
Pilfering deep into their marrow
Till their yesterday, becomes a better Tomorrow
A ripened plum, still warmed to touch
and taste of summer sun.
Half ripe tomatoes, breathed with greenhouse opened door
before the senses gather more when picked,
firm at first, then squelched between the lips
shooting sideways, some dribbled pips.
Cherries, on their wishbone stalks,
give stolen pleasure sweet and brief,
just in reach on shady summer walks where overhanging branch
holds ruby treasures for the cherry thief.
Skylark, a solitary speck in cloudless sky
seen when lying in the meadow flowers,
so high, so hard to see with naked eye,
yet clear to ear while lazing passing hours,
and with closing eyes, as if nearby.
Summer breeze, teasing face with whisps of hair.
Bare arms, bare legs tickled in the waving grass,
seduced by soft caress,
summer's touch of gentle stroking air.
Muscles loose and eyelids rest.
Breath breathes in and breath breathes out,
and, with every parting breath, leaves last remaining care.