Long Might Poems
Long Might Poems. Below are the most popular long Might by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Might poems by poem length and keyword.
"Angie" likes to brag, telling us all,
“I’ve got my guy Under my Thumb.”
The Rolling Stones might call her a “Honky Tonk Woman,”
but you sure can’t say she is dumb.
Her man is a wealthy gambler.
He gets a thrill watching ”Tumblin’ Dice.”
"You Can’t Always Get What You Want,"
but his Angie baby gets everything nice.
"Wild Horses” can’t keep that man of hers
from giving her the most expensive things.
He brings her flowers and chocolates
and buys her big, fancy, high-priced rings.
He loves his convertible that’s hot red, but
if she said to "Paint It Black", he’d do it anyway.
Yesterday I heard her casually tell him,
“Honey, don’t forget. I need my new 'Ruby Tuesday'.”
This revolutionary fella followed by
Adams family patriarch,giving rise
twin heir (plain lee gifted "Renaissance
Man") Jeff force'n without hemming
and hawing, subsequently conceding
nexus (nor horse drawn Lexus) of Colonial
power to Madison, thence Monroe
buttoned up as suitable candidate after
which younger Adams elected.
Thirty four followed Jackson's club
trumpeting (some Obama nib bully)
bushwhacking their way predicated
on faulty Algorithm, charming
charismatically with hint of Clint
like glint in eyes, blinding populace,
sans ray gun (Reagan), Car Tour ring
with peanut gallery in tow, affording
(unpopularly pardoning unfashionably),
a Jerry rigged nixed son, followed
by John's son tainted by stain of Vietnam,
but with said Southeast Asian debacle,
one ken heady (sporting thick styled hair)
inherited an internecine conflict, essentially
precipitated, when Eisenhower hardened
political stance against any allies of the
Soviet Union, (sans The Viet Cong), and
pledged his firm support to Diem
and South Vietnam.
Now with preceding administration, one
harried true man unleashed advent of atomic
spectra upon Hiroshima, and Nagasaki, this
purported preemptive measure scary ruse
felt to thwart exaggerated Japanese government
threat (military intelligence) scheming to
wreak untold havoc upon American troops
within the Pacific theater of World War II.
The former horrific decision controversial,
then and to this day Hoover expert historian,
diverge, asper corroborating the necessity
to usher in the Cold War, yet majority foreign
policy wonks might grudgingly attest that
said thirty first commander in chief did maintain
a Cool Edge throughout onset when doomsday
clock began countdown to Armageddon,
an unimaginably blaring, deafening, earsplitting...
cacophony distant rumbles heard, nonetheless,
no Hard dinning ghoulish nightmare (potentially
obliterating all life on planet Earth) haunted
Wilson, nor Taft, only gunboat diplomacy
mere child's play exhorted, less catastrophic
comparison, when Teddy Roosevelt wielded
"big stick schtick" namesake corollary to the
Monroe Doctrine in 1904...ad nauseum.
November days soothing mellow and bright
dazzling Fall colour is no more in sight
marvel at the magic of sunset light
world emerge fascinating in twilight
chilly winter might bring glistening white
snow on tree-branches, icy frosty night
watching ivory snow fall - my delight
embellished cottages fairyland quite
engrossing Nature inspires me to write
November 4, 2022
She barged through the doors of the bank with her gun
And shot the security guard just for fun
She fired her gun and yelled “Down on the floor,
I’ve shot me one man, I could shoot a few more!”
One customer, Jenna, said, “Hold up, you cretin,
You half witted loser, it’s jail you’ll be gettin,
You charge in this bank with that soppy old pistol
I think I might kick your ass from here to Bristol.”
The robber, fired two bullets into the ceiling
And said, “I shall shoot anybody not kneeling.”
Jenna said, “I’m gonna laugh as you fry.”
The robber said, “You’d better reach for the sky.”
Armed police turned up; one lady arrested
Based on the ‘facts’ that another attested
The robber’s at home playing video games
And Jenna’s in jail for calling her names
And all the police wonder what to expect
Now that they’ve lost any public respect
At lunch break they wonder how low they could stoop
When they’re as inviting as watered down soup.
[What a coincidence; a poem about someone called Jenna enduring an injustice. Pure chance… honest, Guvnor!]
Red Ribbon Week and I have a new novelty junk for kids’ kit.
Pencils, suckers, bookmarks, red ribbons; the kids will have a fit.
There is a plethora of choices of novelties this week.
but I know better than to give them a choice or a peek.
So, I make an executive decision, quick like long-haul truckers.
Kindergarten through second grade gets the red suckers.
Third and fourth grades get the ribbons with shiny letters.
Fifth grade gets the pencils to fight over with their betters.
6th grade might get the bookmarks; they are drug-free but tough.
And maybe a sucker too; it simply depends on if we have enough.
You Reached Down
When my arms where getting tired
And the water was coming
Over my head about to drown
While all smiles had turned to frown
You reached down
And gave me your hand
And said my child come with me
I am preparing a wonderful land
Where the Godly will be as
Numerous as the grains of sand
My child I will wipe away those tears
And always be near
So there is nothing to fear
I am now with you
Listen to me as I guide
And I will comfort you in these wicked times
You say My Child
Go out and shine like a light
So all can see the one with all might
Is coming to gather his children
Bringing them home to unite
God is almighty Who governs graciously
indeed blessing lives tremendously
sufficing with peace-contentment blissfully...
We thank Him for granting our desires according to His best wisely.
God is eternal Who gives everlasting life's preciousness
truly securing hearts from deceitfulness
assuring heaven through trust in Jesus Christ's sacrifice-completeness...
We praise Him, worshipping in the beauty of His holiness.
God is omniscient Who ushers along His direction
always teaching souls to follow biblical instruction
subduing foolish counsels midst truth-admonition…
We submit to Him our decisions He approves by His Word’s function.
God is merciful Who disciplines by righteous chastising
just in reproving stubbornness, not pleasing
smiting perversions, unbelief, idolatry-bracing...
We entrust to Him our steps while obedience exercising.
God is omnipotent Who empowers through His might, readily constant
verily upholding faith to become fruitfully jubilant
strengthening reaching-out pursuits, lovingly triumphant...
We yield to Him Who makes us spiritually vigilant.
God is tenacious Who asserts holy commandment
and in driving zeal to accomplish by divine engagement
enabling persistence against failures’ detriment…
We honour Him for fixing our duties around His commitment.
God is compassionate Who props service with authority
likewise meeting needs from His provision-bounty
propelling dedication to advance His kingdom’s priority…
We glorify Him, our King*in His supreme sovereignty.
*Psalm 47:7 For God is the King of all the earth: sing ye praises with understanding.
January 2, 2020
Honorable Mention, "STRAND SELECT P any form,any theme" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 2/15/2020.
Caedmon’s Face
by Michael R. Burch
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Caedmon’s ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
***
He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike—as father unto son.
But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known;
his father’s face becomes his own.
***
He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker’s might, man’s lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth
suspended under heaven’s roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:
his face was Poetry’s, from youth.
“Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon’s verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker’s ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, oldest English poem, England, Christian, spiritual, angel, poets, poetry, Whitby, Bede, Carroll, Stoker
Q: What kind of boat might a former governor of Texas have used to help illegals get across the Rio Grande?
A: A Rick Perry ferry.
Q: What did the official Vatican CPA discuss with a former Pontiff?
A: Pope Francis' finances.
Q: What is the shudder you feel when you think you've seen a ghost?
A: A phantasm spasm.
Q: What is the best prescription for the nightly news blahs?
A: The David Muir cure.
Q: Who is a columnist who writes about fashion shows?
A: A couture reviewer.
Q: What do you call a really careless guy who accidentally shoots himself?
A: A ballistic statistic.
Q: What do you call a large reptilian predator's temporary replacement?
A: An ad hoc croc.
Q: What is an opera extravaganza in Milan, Italy?
A: A La Scala gala.
Q: How would a waitress explain to a customer why his ham and eggs are green?
A: With a Dr. Seuss excuse.
Q: What was everyone asking when Franz Joseph hadn't been seen for a few days?
A: Where was Papa Haydn hidin'?
Form:
My id! it is complicated
Psychologically with a high IQ
Highly educated - I walk
My path is quite an endeavor
Compositions quite contrare
I am an artist - I express
My intellect flows when I talk
Communications levels reflect same
Yet in my mind - I can not reach you
If I could - I'd tell it on the mountain
Echoing each erroneous speech
Thus then you I might reach
With theory of repetition Ah!
Indeed ! I see ! You hear
No one listens - redundance sets in
It perturbs me so - feelings within
My peers , they do part
They are far , far away
So each new born given day
I am with you ! I am doomed!
Likewise I am sure I see
It's obnoxiously getting to me
That your id , your IQ
Reflects in the beligarent you
No one's really listening but the birds
They tweet! It becomes me......