Long Ole Poems
Long Ole Poems. Below are the most popular long Ole by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ole poems by poem length and keyword.
Ya'll know the story.
All the women who helped make the blanket all be came pregnant
all except for the guy's wife who originally wish to be pregnant.
The guys father came to him and told him
he should look to the market for some financial stability
maybe that would calm her nerves against financial instability.
He looked to him and laughed.
Well March of the following year a fella came to
the guy needing help. He had sps ankle and his wheat
needed ah-thrashing: he was under contract
and the bread company in town needed the bread before
the first week in March in order to meet the easter flour season.
The fella told the guy he could stay at his place for three to four days
with his wife and they could do the work together. It was only five days of work but he needed the help to comply with his contract. He would pay the two
Twenty gold coins and when the money from the Wheat company came:
he would pay them a greater sum!
Well they made a deal and they were off to thrash the wheat. They finished the work in four days
working day and night. When they came back home they were tired and happy to be home.
They made a night of there first day home and went to sleep.
Weeks went by and in Mid March the guy with the broken ankle came by to pay them. He gave them the check and the golden coins. The wife offered him some tea, he accepted and she went in the kitchen to retrieve it. The fellas were talking when the woman called out to her husband.
She said she needed help and felt light headed.
they took the woman to the hospital and found she was pregnant.
They were so excited that they would be parents by Christmas!
When they got back people from all around
came by to wish them luck.
Op.39 #15
Johann Brahmns
Farewell old pard, I write this letter to you. Well, I guess I’ll saddle up and ride out with my new pard, he’s only a colt at three.
He’s a real beauty, a real eye pleaser and sure of foot with a cutting pedigree.
I’ll go on out to the rough country where the sky is blue, relive the
old times and try to work the rope a bit, so I won’t be thinking of you.
We were pards for many a year and we both tote the scars to show
and that cold back you had fairly tossed me hard every morning before you’d make up your mind to go.
But we never shared a cross word that ever meant much among friends,
Though, you did take a few hard comments when you got ornery now and then.
We purt- near worked in all kinds of weather, rain, snow and even a blizzard or two.
We shared our misery out on the plains when the cold winds off the mountain blew.
We’ve covered a lot of country, any closer, I don’t guess any pards could be
and though you weren’t much to look at, it never meant much to me.
You loved your job and worked it well with light rains and leg ques.
And there were times when you led the way, and I took my ques from you.
You were not a natural cutter, but you weren’t scared of bulls, cows or steer
and you worked the tight spots eagerly, never showing the jitters of fear.
We were pards, alright, never just a way to get the job done nor pleasure for me,
You loved it too, riding the open range with only the basics that kept us wild and free.
Why did you go and leave me, you just laid down in your stall and I was left alone.
I tell my stories and old pard, I tell yours too, since you’ve checked out and gone.
I look back through the years as I sit here looking over the grass growing high on the range.
How love for a horse can feel so right is hard for this cowboy to explain.
I can’t help but riminess’ and wonder, were there times you just didn’t feel quite well?
You always took to the saddle and in my selfish way, I never cared to ask, and you didn’t tell
We’d ride out and pretty- soon, you seemed glad you came along and there were
times we trailed in late, long after the sun had gone.
But now I look back on the past and sentimental thoughts tears my eyes and burden me.
Good-by old pard from your old friend, you were the best any pard could be.
much of the same
but why complain
at least I know
whats going on
what is this
I must have missed
let me check to
see whats wrong
a simple thing
that aint strange
let me swibb the
goffle goofy gone
it's all right
know need to fright
I fixed what was wrong
----------------------------------
she took sum thyme
to try to find
that little twang
that was missing
we celebrated
her success
i fell in love
when we started kissing
do we get alone
to get it wrong
so we can
find away to be together?
------------------------------------
got a thang for the
lady
Some say it's crazy
I just know aint knowthing wrong
Sing ah-far-le dew
she wink's
and i wink too
tell me what's
ah fella to do
but groove along
is it a smile
that causes the sincation
or a kiss that
makes sense of
why we are dating
aint know jive
talking in this song
love it when we groovin
we start to dance
yeah we're groovin
Baby beleive
aint nothing wrong
fable
Farmer Brown never works on Sunday,
for Sunday is special and they go to church.
Two horses in his barn know of kindness
for of kindness, the Browns talk a lot.
Each Sunday one of their two horses,
one horse drives their wagon to church.
The kids are nice kids, Mrs. Brown is joyful, too
joyful and compassionate like Jesus.
This Sunday, the oldest horse stayed back
stayed back with a weak leg to rest.
Looking out the barn, Ole Pokey saw the sheep,
wild and wooly sheep had broke through the gate.
Knowing how important the sheep are …
the sheep are the Brown’s livelihood,
Old Pokey wakes the lazy dog with a start
with a start to start rounding up sheep.
As the family returned from their worship
worship of Almighty God, they found
their horse limping, but pacing the open corral
corralling the sheep back inside.
Children, this story I tell to show you
to show you that kindness to animals pays.
Old Pokey was hurting but that didn’t matter,
what mattered was a love for his master.
Get off that ole red wagon;
Get off that ole red wagon;
Girl, git off that ole red wagon;
But down that bottle,
Don’t want just ice water;
And yet still don’t want no alcohol;
Get off that ole red wagon
Now why you wanna do that to me;
The times I wanna get next to you you flee;
You are one of the very few girls whom comes down with a flu;
Every single time I trying to git next to you;
Get off that ole red wagon;
Get off that ole red wagon;
Girl, git off that ole red wagon;
But down that bottle,
Don’t want just ice water;
And yet still don’t want no alcohol;
So girl get off that ole red wagon;
Why you wanna do that to me;
But down that bottle so you can be free;
9/7/76
Written words by James Edward Lee
Arranged music by Alton Adkins 1976©
Sly red fox sneaking around
The master's great estate
Watching and waiting for one
To open the gate to the crate
That housed a hen that was a ten
She was fat and sleek with plenty to eat
Rested, refreshed with leisure complete
That sly ole fox found a spot
Hidden from view so he thought
He watched as the master
Opened the crate door letting
The fat hen come out and explore
So that's how to get at that hen
I'll dress up and just pretend
That I am the master of the estate
Then I'll just open the gate
I'll get that hen that is a ten
And for lunch I'll invite her in
But in the pot of stew she will go
She'll make dumplings for me to show
Sometimes things won't do
Sometimes you be blue any ole poem
You dance you cheer you take up at this forum
Not a color of the rainbow
You choose
Not a color in a box
No need for chocolates or chalk
In boxes of waxed sticks called Crayola Crayons
Not caught in boredoms
and any will do
any one shoe any one knows
any one show
anything goes
Anyone cares and anyone shares today
just right now right away
What about tomorrows
Reject those sorrows
Somethings move not caught up in boredoms
Somethings you will lose
But inside these walls you shall find
The color of our skins not yours nor mine
The true color of your essence in your soul
Any will do
Let it be shown
Frazzle, dazzle, withered and torn
ANY OLD POEM
written word by James Edward Lee Sr.
02/03/15
Late last night, home, sitting by myself...
The house quiet with only the ticks from the clock to be heard
Starring at nothing, into space...stuck
Suddenly, from the corner of my eye...
A picture of me and my family that rests upon the bookshelf...captures me
Mom, dad, myself, and all of my other six siblings...
Gathered around the dining room table, laughing, enjoying ourselves...
Having fun while we celebrate our Christmas dinner.
It brought back some great memories...as I sat thinking to myself
My dad, his face, looking so proud and joyful.
My mom, well, she was mom...
The beautiful loving soul that she always was....
Smiling, looking about with pure love in her eyes
Me, I was young...I was also oblivious
Oblivious of the fact, that one day in my late fifties...
I would looking at this old photo teary-eyed and saying to myself...
Ahh...the good ole days
When he was born his Daddy knew he would need
certain things to maintain and operate
the place within a means that was suitable for
people to remain within a said budget they would create.
We piled fourty seven dump truck loads of
sawdust and ash into a
ten watery pits.
we sprayed them down
(Added sawdust, wood ash, and algae aluminum oxide from the pond)
might they rot to form a Peat Bog
might we use in distant future as a heating source.
I wished him to rehearse the script to explanation might he
understand that telling someone what it is might
allow someone to help him harvest using more modern tools
if they were available against his knowing.
That someone could inform him to save
him from wasting his time in chore:
where he might buy or borrow or lease
the machine to made his choring easier
and not needing him to labor.
Might nature have no secrets
to tell you of my graceful love
Before another winters lessons
were we need to be brave and faithful
not helpless and lonely
your beautiful words
that spring shall replace winter
no coats to wear
no brisk mean winds to fear
might we smile
in preparedness we smile
that we have done our chores
The Mill wheel wouldn't turn until the Spring.
When winter’s ice stops up the water’s flow,
as small town folk expect, the Mill shuts down.
The Mill shuts down, yet people mill around.
Some weekend nights we'd see the miller’s son
and his young cronies heading down that road.
It happened quite often and we guessed why;
but knowing wouldn't throttle tittle-tat.
Whispers ran through the town from door to door
and farther still they traveled phone to phone.
From where we talked, such weekend visits spoke
of poker, gambling, maybe beer and girls.
Such gossip served to freeze up logic’s course.
Such gossip thawed the warmer days of March;
electric poles appear around the site.
Ice melts, revealing secrets - wheel creaks.
The secret is… they’ve modernized the mill
surprising us all who had run our tongues.
Its mighty wheel will creak now all year round,
all year round, just like the gossip mill.