Long Married man Poems
Long Married man Poems. Below are the most popular long Married man by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Married man poems by poem length and keyword.
I am at her beck and call
There for her every need
The shoulder she cries on
When lovers give her grief
I'm the holder of the jar
To the secrets that she keeps
She's a woman in love
But she's not in love with me
I'm the one in whom she trusts
The comfort that she seeks
I'm there when she rings me up
To bend my ear but not my knee
Conversation deep but not enough
For her my heart to see
She's a woman in love
But she's not in love with me
Wish I could let her know
The other secret her jar keeps
That's the love I've yet to show
As the friend she has in me
I'll keep holding out the hope
That one day she will see
She's a woman in love
That is in love with me
Disclaimer: I'm a happily married man
with a wife that is happily married most of the time!
I am cracked, dropped, thrown, hurt and broken into pieces.
But whatcha mad at me fa?
I don’t understand.
Look... You called him over and over, nine times in a row, I had nothing to do with him not answering you or calling you back.
You got mad because he blocked you.
You sent that video to yo friend and she uploaded it to social media.
So whatcha mad at me fa?
You were looking and snooping through his phone and read text messages and saw some ssh you didn’t wanna see, now your insecurity level is in the triple digits.
You took those nude photos and sent it to him and he showed all his homies.
So whatcha mad at me fa?
You answered him at 2 in da morning and let him talk that crap in yo ear.
You lowered your standards and accepted less than you deserve.
You chose to mess with a married man and be a side piece.
You knew he couldn't be with you on holidays.
So whatcha mad at me fa?
You allowed him to control your mood and attitude
You gave him the power to detect how yo day was going to go
You listened to that lie and believed it.
You thought money could buy you love.
You, You, YOU!
But cha’ wanna get mad at me.
You wanna call me stupid and throw me up against the wall and pitch me out the window and crack me in the head with a hammer and try and flush me down the toilet and hurt me in whatever way possible and fa what? You already showed me that you can’t live without me, so please treat me with care and love me like I love you.
Love Always,
Your Cell Phone
Boy I swear, sometimes these cellphones can't catch a break, lol.
If any one wants to know what happened betweened
me and PoetrySoup... I say Its nobody's buisness but between me and
the companie.. The Poets here are great.. and welcome me back with open arms.
But it seems like thier is a few of the newer poets. Wants answers that is none of
their buisness.. and even acussed me. of being to forward with the Ladies.. on this
sight.. everybody know I am a married Man.. and a third of my poems are about my
wife.. so this acusser... May ask all the qestions she wants. I am still the same Jack..
and I will refuse to change my poetry.. or comment.. because I like to be true full..
Your friend in Poetry.. JackReed3...
Form:
(no matter extreme global
warming more dire,
then cursing me smoldering
infernal languishing spitfire.)
Shade did adolescent
facade drifts asunder
asper...a major emotional blunder
shielding sensitive myopic eyes
against quashed
then young life, never
ordinarily gathering rose buds,
now I always wonder.
No, never so much
as a feeble arc
unable to issue even a light bark
unresponsive as a
cold bunsen burner,
nor can Clark
Kent marshal superman,
thus vital willpower
bleak and dark
within thine body electric
as mine life
journey doth embark
completing protracted orbit
whar raging self against time
strikes into metaphorical abysmal pit
continuing charade of
existence or quit
before chronological demise
decrees death to be writ
once flickering enthusiastic
willpower to be alive
snuffed livingsocial esprit de corps
elan forcibly crushed,
sans kamikaze nose dive,
when psychological arc
tangentially crossed figurative bee hive
aswarm with countless
invisible poisonous stingers
pierced late mine boyhood
asper razor sharp cutting knives
brandished by figures
shrouded within dark hood
whar bent gnarled fingers
grabbed and wood
not let go stranglehold
of thine curse canst atone
weak prepubescent unlovely skeletal bone
sinister voices still faintly heard,
within me noggin drone
like angry thundering birds
as anorexic starved
flesh didst groan,
now that fragile adolescent
boy within me revisits
haunting this middle aged
married man, whose moan
more nsync with countless
stifled mailer daemons
entombed akin to rigor mortis,
viz complex Oedipus prone
a wander lost young lad,
who left every mouldering stone
unturned - fearing unleashing
def finning tone
even to this very dusky moment
of my damned charade
fresh with painted fore
sight groping blindly
within outer limits
of the twilight zone.
It was her kitchen, her family, and my newly-married man, and I aimed to please her by properly being fed.
With a smile and a swish, “We have butterscotch pudding pie for dessert!” My brand spanking new mother-in-law said.
Her excitement had no knowledge of the instant memory of horribleness that leaped instantly to my own quickly confused head.
I tried to take an invisible pretend bite while the family all watched, eagerly waiting but my traitorous mouth played dead.
Tears filled my eyes, as I was unnaturally smothered with the sad, angry hurt of my long-ago favorite butterscotch pie.
The feelings came so damned fast, I could not stop them at all or even slow them down, and they surrounded me, and made me cry.
When I was eleven, my family of origin was in the kitchen, laughing, and playing, and goofing around.
When the phone rang, I was asked to get it, because it was wire-attached to the wall, and I was the closest to the retched sound.
I had never heard my mother wail or keen until that day, certainly never heard her yell, “DICK!” or fall without any game to play.
Our big Dad jumped up faster than we had ever seen, grabbed rag-doll Mom before she hit the kitchen counter in a not so great way.
We all turned pure white, which was odd because we were usually pink. Fascinated, yet, hungry, I took my first bite, and heard the words “Mom is dead, and Dad’s dead too.”
We kids started shaking, sad and scared. Grandma and Grandpa were our king and queen. When things calmed down in a second or two that damned butterscotch pie tasted like glue.
Everyone wailed wild-eyed, faces red. The cousins came, and we huddled together and cried and screamed how great it was sob, sob, that they both went to heaven.
Yes, I know that was many years ago but when my feelings took my body over loud and clear, they clamped my mouth tightly shut, because I was back to 11.
I’ve been married for some twenty years
And sometimes I make my wife cry.
Now I have a mantra when I bring her to tears;
“I’m wrong; I’m scum; I deserve to die.”
It doesn’t matter if I am right or wrong;
I don’t even need to know why.
When it goes too far, I sing my song;
“I’m wrong; I’m scum; I deserve to die.”
It’s not that I don’t argue or plead my case;
It’s not that I’m a wimpy guy,
But when she starts to wear that hurt face;
“I’m wrong; I’m scum; I deserve to die.”
It’s my way of ending a useless fight,
To achieve that, there’s nothing I won’t try.
Never go to bed being angry at night;
“I’m wrong; I’m scum; I deserve to die”.
So, if you want some advice from a happily married man,
The next time you make your lover cry
Look her in the eye and say, while holding her hand,
“I’m wrong; I’m scum; I deserve to die.”
By hook and crook
I passed two days of lockdown.
On 3rd day i made up my mind
Not to take task at home in hand.
I left kitchen and home on her behalf.
But 12 hours of day
I couldn't spend without work.
So i decided to play an adventure game
My soulmate was competent in the game.
First of all i made a cloth ball with my hands
We shall try to catch it on both end.
She and i entered into the hall
To play game with hands made ball.
The rules of game were decided first
Hold catch 2 points and dropped catch 3 points
We started it only for fun
But regret, we forgot it very soon.
I threw the ball
She caught and scored two points .
She tried to dodge me
But i caught and started with same points.
The game was going on
Throw and catch
Catch and throw the ball.
Clapped at every point
We were the players
We were the spectators
Enjoying game at both ends.
But my fate never liked my happiness
I was just behind her on points table
It my turn to throw the ball
I held it as rugby player hold ball.
Threw it hard towards her
Unfortunately she missed the ball
It made her face an extra ball.
The game was finished without declaration
No one defeated, no one was win.
One side the flooded Ganges
Other hand the hungry lioness
Childhood song i understood this day.
Hurt lady at home
Corona warrior was on road
To catch culprit of lockdown
Difficult to select
Either stayed in or out in lockdown.
I stood unmoved till conscious back
Hurriedly i took towel to use as mask
Opened the doors and ran out.
'Stay in', ordered a cop to me
But who had time to listen it.
A ball from my doors targeted me
But this time luck saved me.
Married man knew married man very well
So he helped me to save from hell.
He said me politely,
'stand under margosa tree in isolation '
I followed his instructions with deep breath
But it was damn evening
When honest man asked me,
'Choose home or quarantine of 14 days'
There was no option
So defeated soldier turned back to home.
She was sitting in sofa as queen
Watched as tigress looked lamb in grass green.
She turned on the TV at high volume
Highlights of WWE was going on tv screen
Punches after punches listened neighbours
With wrecked smile on lips
They asked me next day
' who won the match yesterday?
Loves power pleasure and pain
a light in the darkness.
Do you know her name?
Poetry.
I am a happily married man,
but Poetry is my mistress,
I write everything in her name.
If you have not seen me in a while,
it is Poetry to whom you must blame.
Poetry is my mistress
my wife will have to make do.
When I am not reading and writing
I showed my wife some affection to.
Poetry plays her part in my life,
saying the most beautiful
things about my wife.
Poetry is a woman,
wearing her words
like an erotic fragrance.
Wearing and sharing like clothes,
her moods, feelings and emotions.
She and my wife have my total devotion.
My love for them run the depths,
of the deepest ocean.
Saying what needs to be said
we hear what needs to be heard
giving voice to the spoken word,
Poetry.
We share the love
of a surprising little girl.
Epiphany (Clarity of thought)
Not, of what poetry is,
But of what poetry can be.
An invitation for those
who heard the calling.
A song of how
the mighty have fallen.
A story of heroes,
how the many moved as one.
How a battle was won,
when we counted on one.
Poetry is nether foul nor fair.
Love is never lost
she is always there,
Poetry.
Francis Thomas Avallone was born in 1939.
This Philadelphian’s lifetime was destined to shine.
At the age of twelve, he appeared on television.
Skilled with a trumpet, he would make a huge impression.
He became popular with classmate Bobby Rydell.
As a teenage idol, his career started quite well.
Many hit recordings went up Billboard’s charts quite high.
The songs included “Venus”, “Dede Dinah”, and “Why?”
Frankie made some film appearances many would know.
There was some co-starring with Annette Funicello.
In 1962 occurred Frankie’s wedding day,
he would marry a beauty pageant winner named Kay.
This happily married man became a father of eight.
Up to today, Mr. Avalon’s life is still great.
She said that she read my poems,
And most she liked very much;
Some of them left her laughing,
And some, her heart, they touched.
She sent me several emails
Confessing she was all alone,
And asked me if I would consider
Writing to her a new love poem.
Now I am a married man,
And remain very happily so,
But I love a poetic challenge
And decided to give it a go.
I thought about it for several days;
Rhymed a faux love in many ways;
A piece that I, myself, admired;
Passionately penning carnal desires.
I sent her the love poem secretly,
Not sharing it with my wife;
Although no feelings were attached,
It’s something she might not like.
My email was returned on the next day
With just a short reply;
“I hate to inform you, she passed away,
My beautiful sister has died.”
“I know you are a stranger she met,
Through a poetry site,
She was hoping a love poem she might get,
Before dying of cancer last night.”
“I took the liberty to read your prose
As she took in her last breath;
I thank you, stranger, for putting a smile
On my sister in her time of death.”
And now, that poem means more to me
Than any other I have penned;
To think that I brought happiness
To a stranger at her end.