Long Maid Poems
Long Maid Poems. Below are the most popular long Maid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Maid poems by poem length and keyword.
MAID OF ORLÉANS
Poem written for and submitted to “Myth and Memory” Poetry Contest, Vanya Evangeline, sponsor.
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A warrior saint came from the plains of rural France,
a beautiful maiden named Joan, dressed in simple clothes,
not of noble lineage, but of modest beginnings
her faith unmatched.
Shielded by heavenly whispers,
she took up a religious cause~
mounted on horseback, brandishing God’s mighty saber,
she fought for her country in the name of the Lord.
Unscathed from battle she emerged,
waving her banner of courage throughout the land,
but treason and betrayal
would one day bring her untimely end.
Alone she stood in the court of politicians,
falsely accused and forsaken; yet,
in the face of pain, Joan’s faith and resolve
would not be contained, her spirit and fortitude remained.
The humble shepherdess warrior, was bound to a stake
her body consumed by fire, her valor inspirational.
This humble warrior saint, later canonized and martyred,
continues to embolden and enthrall.
In early eighteen-forty-four,
In Cornwall’s heart; on Bodmin Moor,
Charlotte Dymond, a young farm maid,
Had her throat slit with a steel blade,
She crossed fast streams and deadly bogs,
Found her way through mists and fogs,
But couldn’t stop that fatal blow,
That stole her life and laid her low,
She walked to meet someone that day,
Just who that was ... no one would say,
Found days later beside a track,
Laid on a cart; her shroud a sack,
The surgeon, Thomas Good, was fetched,
Had in his mind, her white face etched,
Charlotte untouched by fox or crow,
Had she been moved ... he did not know,
No evidence was ever found,
But her young boyfriend had gone to ground,
Fingers so quick to point his way,
Matthew Weeks panicked; ran away,
The hapless cripple, was soon caught,
No other culprit was ever sought,
The judge was just a rubber-stamp,
Bodmin Gaol was dark and damp,
The scaffold built, the crowds arrived,
Matthew swore he had not lied,
The floor gave way, the rope drew tight,
Was justice done ... the verdict right?
My husband... has never minded
eating a vegetable he doesn't like
just so they will eat theirs...
Or eating half smashed, soggy potato chips
out of clammy little hands,
when they've decided they would like to share...
He's fine... letting them play hairdresser...
sitting patiently, while they curl his hair,
He will play Old Maid, pretending to have a sour face...
all the while letting them win
He doesn't mind drinking muddy looking tea
from a tiny little cup, that is too small for his fingers
Or sitting out in the blazing sun
on a hot summer afternoon
watching them stay cool, as they frolic in the sprinklers
He shows excitement
over a Popsicle stick
glued onto cardboard,
and tied with a bow....
exclaiming it to be his favorite birthday gift...
He doesn't mind taking them up and down the aisles of Wal Mart
for an hour, while they decide how to spend their dollar
He would rather spend his day playing hopscotch
than a round of golf
He's their Grandpa.........
Just one more reason why I love him
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"A Good Man" Contest
Sponsor: Lewis Rayne
Dusk, the end of day, the soften bed of moonlight,
brings wild thoughts within its sultry shadows musing.
Belle Lune, fair damsel, bringing love and fright,
release my tongue-tied self, please allow my crooning.
Troubadours have strung the onyx sky with comet
tails glittering white, and bowed each string to unite
the pensive poet's heart and that of his fair coquette;
see them sway, a dance displayed amour in the moonlight.
Shadows deepen, have they left, thought hard, grown contrite
or has the moon, amused, drawn shadows 'round as gowns?
Will he rise at dawn, curtains drawn, write of the night?
The maid, the moon, the well so deep, the heat profound
calls to him in memory, now cooled by harsh light.
For now, there is, but the empty page of daylight.
Two A.M. mother nature's alarm clock goes off
Quickly to the nursery to see that diapers soft
Touch his little bottom that is very clean
This little baby would never be treated mean
Five A.M. to the kitchen to prepare a breakfast feast
Hoping they will enjoy eggs, biscuits, and chopped beef
Six A.M. bath time for the baby boy
He will enjoy playing with his rubber toy
Seven A.M. arrange fresh flowers
Give instructions to the maid, figure hours
She is paid, write her check and letters
While listening to the intercom for any tiny stirs
Time to play with baby and take him for a stroll
Back in time to freshen up for lunch is baked sole
But little baby boy back into his bed
He will need a nap to rest his little head
The house needs some extra touches
For tonight we entertain guests the Cliches
Hope that our homes is a perfect place
Our rooms will enough space
The baby boy is now awake I need to play
With him for heavens sake
Go away cobbwebbs, Go away
For baby boys don't have time to wait
Richard Prichard
Once was wretched
But now owns a golden land
Where diamonds and pearls rock his feet
Like giant balls of sand
He remembered the time he was poor
And how people treated him so
How he waved to the miller’s daughter
Each day
But she won’t say hello
He remember the time
He had no food to eat
Except a morsel of porridge
That fell to his feet!
From the cook’s table
Each time they meet
To engage Richard to brush his teeth
Richard Prichard
Once was wretched
But now he is a rich man
He remember the things his mother use to say
That you will eat from the toils of your hand
And if it fails
Get an education
And never underestimate
The powers of your mind
As time and chance
Is all it takes for you?
To leave all that behind
Richard Prichard
Once was wretched
Was charged with stealing a pie
And the penalty under the law says that Richard must die
But the maid who made the allegation had told a lie
She couldn’t recognize the thief when he ran by
Richard Prichard was taken to Cornwall
Before the magistrate at Canterbury Street
The magistrate told Richard to stand up
And to be on his feet
He called Richard a thief and wretch in open court
He commanded the jailer to take him back to prison
On the spot
The magistrate took a bribe
And let Anthony go
After he had sold a bag of sand for salt
But pretended he didn’t know
$50,000 he took
Set a guilty man free without looking at his book
Her Mam did for the rich Wool toffs,
days chocka block with chores.
Her fella was a plazzy gent—
A few jars opened doors.
A proper jarg johnny he used;
he thought hi’self real cool.
In the shade of the Whalley Abbey,
the banks of Otterspool.
She was sacked off by the Big House;
for bloating like a toad.
The sconner did like a runner;
she was proper devoed.
Eleanor Rigby was nineteen
when the Great War broke out.
She worked at t’ alehouse in The Lanes;
crashed with this divvy lout.
This RC priest offered her a job
as the scullery maid.
Her threads were mostly ant wacky;
skint from the tuppence paid.
He made her attend Sunday church
and to learn the new hymn.
She had managed to scrounge a pair
of boss new trabs from him.
The scran for tea was abar sound—
she shared with a few birds.
They rolled own ciggies from backy
and shared one another’s thirds.
The declaration of the war,
surely did her head in.
A baltic day in thirty-nine,
at t’ ozzy, she didn’t win.
At St Peter’s Church in Woolton,
Eleanor was laid t’ rest;
one of the many lonely people …
A scouser—one o’ the best.
My husband often says to me “I wish I’d married a woman”.
I am usually sitting spread legged in a chair, scratching at the time.
Or I am pointedly not picking up a huge mess for two weeks.
I always roll my eyes, knowing what he really means.
He means “I wish we had married a cook, cleaner and maid.”
I am none of those things. Sure, I used to pretend to be.
Since this incarnation God poured my soul into a female body.
Not my idea, believe me! I resented this from childhood.
When Danny H always got by with yelling out the answers.
Without raising his hand, but if I did it, I got lambasted by the teacher.
I knew better than to point this out after the sixth or seventh time.
She was a mean woman, and partial to boy bodies, not girl bodies.
Then menstruation happened, which was more horrifying.
Boys never have to deal with all this blood and inconvenience.
Being a girl was not my goal in this lifetime believe me.
I feel we are neither male nor female, rather spirits who rent.
Some lifetimes we rent female, other times we rent male.
How I got this wrong this time, I do not know but….
I hate cooking, cleaning, vacuuming, dusting, and doing the dishes.
Luckily, my husband knows this. He is doing the laundry now.
He is also buying the groceries and running the dishwasher.
I think it is fair. I am thirty years ahead of him.
I used to do all the housework and the yardwork.
He would work his measly forty hours and rest.
I am resting now. It is my turn since we did not “marry a woman”.
In days of yore a lady's heart was won
Through chivalry and deeds of derring-do.
If swain proved false, she'd bid the knave be gone,
Adjust her cap and look for someone new.
By age fifteen a maid was in her prime,
Her window for a spouse a narrow slit.
She could not pule and pine for love sublime,
And oft as not would take what she could get.
When knight set out to win his lady fair,
Through joust or other mortal combat act,
He knew that love for him she would forswear
Lest he prevailed with manly parts intact.
Today true love is not so much a chore,
And less dramatic than in days of yore.
Donning rubber gloves, the wife does washing of clothes and dishes...
(plus cutlery, pots pans, et cetera) in the kitchenette sink.
She started what would immediately become
a first and last generation tradition
(the spouse as washer woman
and scullery maid)
soon after we moved here
eight years ago come July 1st, 2025.
I trumpet her pioneer spirit
to apply elbow grease
(to tackle tough
heavily stained articles of clothing
(after her weary cowboy husband
comes back home on the range
after a hot day rustling cattle)
think underwear of mine -
whereat even bleach
falls short of removing
stubborn noticeable discoloration)
such gusto similarly applied
to glassware or cookware caked
with crusty hardened food.
After washing wearable goods,
she squeezes the excess water
from saturated item(s)
and drapes still moderately wet garment
over drying racks
despite the availability
of clothes washers and dryers
here on the premises
of Highland Manor Apartments.
Though she continues to threaten
with colorful epithets
never to wash my clothes ever again,
her words ring hollow
when some time elapses
and... guess what?
yepper, her hands slide down
into the behavioral sink
and I make sure
to acknowledge gratitude,
yet admit to falling short
of filling in the blank
(with a select response),
when she asks me
what will I give her in return.
Earlier in our
almost thirty year marriage,
we (I more so than the wife)
used to be conditional
and if asked a favor,
the immediate response
from yours truly (me)
just so happened to be
what do I get in return?
That Pavlovian feedback loop
occurred way before
my libido took a kamikaze dive,
into a suicide mission
a strong suspicion arises
(but I dare not utter
a premature ejaculation)
videlicet that being adverse effects
linkedin with one or more
of the nine prescription medications
ingested for mental health issues
such as anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
and palmar hyperhidrosis
could be the only logical explanation,
and interestingly enough,
I breathe a sigh of relief
cuz all to often sexual fantasies
ofttimes filled every waking
and sleeping hour of mine.