Long Mabel Poems
Long Mabel Poems. Below are the most popular long Mabel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mabel poems by poem length and keyword.
Cathie finally lets me go out on my own now
As long as I wear a tracking device of some kind
This, of course, is needed in case I wander away
And can't remember where I live!
At times I have even been known to take a bus
And wind up in a city miles away or even in a different province
I often follow good looking ladies
Hoping they'll be nice to me and ask me home for dinner!
So far that hasn't happened although once
I offered to bring a nice lady to MY house for dinner
But I couldn't remember where I lived
Tried walking into a house that looked like mine
The alarms went off and the police took me and my friend
Down to the police station for interrogation!
That was really quite embarrassing!
I've been told in no uncertain terms not to talk to strangers
And in particular, pretty young ladies!
I whined and stomped my feet but Cathie insisted
Or she won't let me go out on my own anymore!
I'm as sharp as I've ever been but I do call her Mabel sometimes!
Hope we defeat those dirty Nazis!
LOL
© Jack Ellison 2014
DICKINSON PHRASIS part 11
Today has been a fair day,
very still very blue.Tonight
the crimson children are
playing in the west.In that
pallid land the simple call
sleep,the wind blows its
gentle measure in my ear.
‘Tomorrow it will be cold’.
How sweet if I could see
you then.I would not repine,
knowing that bird of mine
though flown,learneth beyond
the sea,a melody new for me
and … will return.
Letters of Emily Dickionson ed Mabel Todd 1894
A Phrasis is a structured verse where the poet uses selected prose phrases of another writer’s (out of copyright) prose to compile unique poetry therefrom as a tribute thereto,the word phrasis is Greek for phrase.
Listen to me recite this phrasis trilogy on youtube under my pen name ichcthyschiro
She’d kept the pewter dusted and displayed
since 1959.
A verdigris had leached out of the urn nevertheless
She had been hard on him, had forgiven little,
but felt much closer now.
The television became a corner coffin,
its screen a penumbra she often spoke to.
She had interred it in 1974 after Nixon left office
“Disgraceful.” She had said both to his ashes, and the set.
A part of her husband remained to dwell with her;
the homunculus felt like a much-chewed jaw-bone
rattling in the urn.
She began to dream.
His tweed suit walked from its closest,
to make love to her,
sleeves caressed sensitive pockets.
When she awoke she smelled of mothballs,
Brylcreem and Old Spice.
The television came to life;
the blue monochrome face of Nixon appearing -
he was crying.
his permanent five o’clock shadow damp with tears.
“Sorry Mabel.” He said.
“You should be.” She retorted hotly,
yet her heart skipped a beat as the screen died.
She was troubled.
She broke the glass front of the TV
placing her husband's urn inside.
The urn grew greener as if it were full of Ohio River water.
She saw herself as a young girl swimming;
the river as refreshing as a lime phosphate.
The urn glimmered as new images surfaced,
a tenderness gnawed at her.
Her late spouse teased her with fingers
plucked from her own lap.
He brushed her lips with threads of gray.
Her bitterness
become a speck she kept in a jar of Pond’s facial cream.
“Just in case,” she thought.
Mabel Jones and her four kids, Tyrese, Sheldon, Christopher, and Myriah (each with different fathers) went to church every Sunday, and the kids attended bible school five days a week in the summertime.
As a family, they sat all week long under huge white canvas tents on smouldering hot summer nights for Revivals.
Mable Jones testified the same sorrowful condensed story of her life every Sunday during the time that they set aside for testimony. She danced with the holy ghost, shouted, and spoke in tongues.
She gave up ten percent of her earnings to tithes and few dollars more to the youth group every Sunday.
She beat her children every Monday for the old and the new, just like her mama use to do when she was small.
Ten years ago she traded her crack pipe for a bible, and now she felt self-righteous. Every chance she got she would curse out the degenerates that atrociously hung around the front of her apartment building.
She would intimidate some of them, and they would scatter about only to return after she left. For the most part, the majority of them would stay and match her curse words and threats.
Even when they threatened her, she was not deterred. She was determined to have the mischief stopped. She would call the police and gave them vital information that led to the arrest of some of the riffraff.
De'Aundre self-appointed businessman, that controlled that section of East End. When he got word of Mable Jones interfering with his business, he got two of his soldiers to rough her up.
It was a brutal beating, and she spent weeks in the hospital recuperating.
It was a lesson well learned, and she counted herself lucky that she was still alive.
Now Mable Jones no longer approaches the degenerates in front of her apartment building but hurries past them to get to her apartment.
However every Sunday during the time that was set aside for testimony, she added to her regular testimony her accounts with the devil.
copyright 2013 River Front Tower/Tower of Souls
Call Everyone! It is Your Duty!
Brrrring Brrring Brrring
The shoppers are hoarding! Yells a voice on the phone.
Call everyone! Tell them! Call everybody!
Who is this? I ask.
Silence
“Is it Judy?”
No answer.
Hazel?
Nothing.
Mabel?
Yes!
Who is hoarding and what are they hoarding?
EVERYBODY! She yelled.
Could you be more specific?
“I don’t know their names, but the stores are out of Kool-aid.”
“I don’t drink Kool-aid”, I tell her.
“What about apple juice? Do you drink apple juice?”
Sometimes.
Call the others she says. Warn everyone. It is our duty.
Tell them to get to the stores and buy everything.
Isn’t that hoarding? I ask her.
Not if they did it first, she says.
After she hangs up I realize
the only person I know named Mable died three years ago.
Brrrring Brrring Brrring
The shoppers are hoarding! Yells a voice on the phone.
Call everyone! Tell them! Call everybody!
Who is this? I ask.
Silence
“Is it Judy?”
No answer.
Hazel?
Nothing.
Mabel?
Yes!
Who is hoarding and what are they hoarding?
EVERYBODY! She yelled.
Could you be more specific?
“I don’t know their names, but the stores are out of Kool-aid.”
“I don’t drink Kool-aid”, I tell her.
“What about apple juice? Do you drink apple juice?”
Sometimes.
Call the others she says. Warn everyone. It is our duty.
Tell them to get to the stores and buy everything.
Isn’t that hoarding? I ask her.
Not if they did it first, she says.
After she hangs up I realize
the only person I know named Mable died three years ago.
My dearest Mabel
was the human personification
of what her first name stood for:
"Beautiful" and "Lovable"
She was a nurturing mother
grandmother, teacher and woman of God
She was the perfect help mate
for my great grandfather
She was to him
what Eve was to Adam
what Sarah was to Abraham
what Rebekah was to Isaac
and what Ruth was to Boaz
She was the embodiment
of the virtuous women characterized
by King Solomon in Proverbs 31
and the Apostle Paul in Titus 2
Today, we honor you
as Acklins's favorite daughter
and our family's brightest star
Until that Glad Reunion Day
we bid you a sweet and pleasant sleep
Those BURMA SHAVE signs used to give us kids something to do,
As down the highways and byways in our 1935 Dodge we flew!
The chef-d'oeuvre from the quills of very creative poets flowed,
Nailed to fence posts for our cultural enlightenment along the road!
Take note of this sign young reader as you pass this way!
In just a little while you too will be hoary and gray!
And like your Pa with steady hand be true and brave,
As you wield that straight razor usin' BURMA SHAVE!
She told her beau, "You remind me of a thug,
With that scraggly stubble sproutin' on yer mug!
If its my hugs and kisses that you crave,
Best ya start usin' BURMA SHAVE!"
The feller tried over and over to get a job,
But potential bosses thought him a slob!
Never apply for work looking like a knave!
Use gobs of BURMA SHAVE when you shave!
With her feller Mabel had a beef.
Claude's stubble caused her grief!
Said she, "Yer wreckin' our romance!
Ever thought of usin' BURMA SHAVE by chance?"
If on your mug you are well endowed
With stubble of which you're not proud
In the mornin' after yer kisser you scrub,
Liberally slather with BURMA SHAVE, old Bub!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
(Foreword: don’t know the score elsewhere, but the UK has a rule of six... which is the number of people who can gather as a group. Unless they’ve changed it... again).
My sister, my brother, my father, my mother
Came round Christmas Eve and we chose to stay in
We sat round the table with old auntie Mabel
She’s slightly unstable but always brings gin.
About half past seven to Jesus in heaven
We said a wee prayer then we drank until late
But thanks to the drinking, we weren’t really thinking
And some bloody fool lit a fire in the grate
With much drunken banter we talked about Santa
At midnight we all heard a sound on the roof
But with no sin in me, I called up the chimney
Don’t send Rudolph down or he’ll get a burnt hoof
Then out from the ashes poor Santa Claus dashes
And patted the burns where the fire had licked
Then there was a din and the door was kicked in
The cop said that’s seven and you lot are nicked
Mabel Vera Cone
1893-1911
No one knew I existed.
No one knew I died.
No one, not even my family,
Knew I lived in the back,
Out back, way behind the small white house
On shady Canobie Street.
No one cared one iota.
No one wondered where I was
Or where I was going.
If loneliness were a flower,
I would be the faded one,
Growing and struggling reluctantly
Amidst the devouring weeds,
Out back, way beyond and hidden there,
Amidst the consuming burdock
And the golden creeping jenny there.
When I died that day,
The last Saturday in moody June,
I was alone and afraid.
No one knew I existed.
No one, not even my family,
Knew I was dying.
Dying in the darkness,
Dying of inescapable isolation,
The disease of misery and melancholia,
Out back, way beyond and hidden there,
Behind the small white house,
On shady Canobie Street.