Long Party Poems
Long Party Poems. Below are the most popular long Party by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Party poems by poem length and keyword.
Stars like jeans
are made to fade
their blues bleed out
in the wash-up,
in the burn-out,
in their legacies of
spin cycle routines.
But the twinkling glitter
in their burnout flares,
falls like rain
from shooting stars
in shimmering showers,
that cling on tight,
like the curse
of forever chemicals.
No one can ever scrub them clean
from party clothes
washed all alone,
by themeselves,
rinsed and spun,
rinsed and spun,
in washing machine
cycle routines.
So these spun-out,
hang out, party clothes,
are stored shrouded in plastic
to stop the glitter's spread
in the wardrobe,
in the armoire's bottom draws,
to dim the legend’s
endearing stain of
faded fame.
Stars like jeans
are made to fade
the blues bleed out
in the wash-up
in the burn-out,
in their legacies of
spin cycle routines.
Winter nights, the darkness comes quick
Key in door, to an empty house
Jacket falls fast right on the floor
I stare at the stand, at the telephone for sure
There she sits, alone, unmoving
No blinking light
No message at all
From a lovers voice or even a call from the mall
The ritual is the same, night after night
I pick up the phone, yes dial tone is there
I check the wires, all attached with great care
Its not broken, same as this morning
I confess, yes I stare at the phone over there
The phone is a functioning, I am assured
I call the weather line, yes a test but I was bored
They tell me is all sunny up over yonder
So no one calls me, of this I must ponder
I confess yes I stare, at the dark phone sitting there
Maybe the answering system parts are malfunctioning
Maybe she really did some exotic oh calling
Oh what I am saying, she’s out to the ball
While I look at telephone, alone in the hall
I confess yes I stare, I stare and stare
So another night, outside shines the bright city lights
I open the door to the darkness in fright
For oh my god, I see a blinking light
My heart beats in excitement, this is surely the night
I stare at a ringing telephone
Oh my what a delight!!!!!!!!
Click
Wrong number
Now I am distressed, depressed, redressed
I am at my wits end I must confess
Another evening I sit here alone
Just me and my silent old black phone
I stare a that contraption then the abscess of the night
Like all of the nights in 2014
I will sleep in a bed, with no hug or ice-cream
The pleasures of life, belong not to me
Me and my phone will never be set free
So now it’s New Years Eve, party hat and good cheer
I sit alone with my phone, to ring in the New Year
Oh the irony yes I did see
For the phone is as silent as the heart inside me
I stare at the past; I stare at the wall
Where I contemplate tossing the phone, cord and all
Then it rings, and shocks me out of my trance
2015 has arrived with a telephone call!!!!! so happy I dance!!!!
Cause this time she called, god bless romance
Happy New Year
It was quite a party at the old Spooks house,
to a spooktactular Samba they bobbed and bounced.
with skeletons banging their big ox-bone drums,
and the pumpkins all sang as the witches hummed.
Black cats did dine on tuna eyeball stew;
wicked Wilma brought her green bat-wing brew.
In the attic was held a wondrous broom race
and out back was a terrifying zombie maze.
Pirates and scarecrows arrived well dressed;
judges couldn’t decide whose costume was best.
Pumpkin ghouls climbed and played in the trees;
giant spiders spun silk and swung there with ease.
Greedy young goblins stuffed pockets with snacks
as children came by trick-or-treating with sacks.
The ghosts did a tango beneath a bright moon
and everyone knew it would all end too soon.
Just as the moon bid them all nighty-nite,
the sun it ascended giving vampires a fright.
Home they all flew to their dark coffin beds
‘cause you know, sunlight’s fatal to the undead.
Then the party disbanded with bellies all full
as among eerie nimbus pranced Taurus the bull.
Wilma flew off to the Witches Head nebula;
a scarecrow hitched a ride on the broom of Bella.
As little Spooks bedded down for the day,
hungry skeletons finished off the pumpkin flambé.
The bats all fluttered to their bat boxes, high
as grandpa Spook waved saying, “Next year, black tie!”
Blue
Why is it, if people are sad,
we say they are blue,
when blue is such a happy color?
Blue are electric skies of October
that bring cool breezy weather,
and find children joyfully
jumping in piles of dry leaves,
playing tag on the playground,
and munching crisp juicy apples.
Blue are the eyes of the little
blond girl with golden curls
who smiles up at me from
a tea party with her dolls.
Blue is the sparkling ocean
on a hot day in summer,
waves making little slapping noises
as they hit the rocks of the jetty,
calling swimmers to jump in,
skip flat stones across the water,
or search for pieces of beach glass.
Blue is hyacinths that perfume the air,
and iris and forget-me-nots
in the garden in spring, and
elderberries and blueberries
and blueberry jam for your toast.
In the marsh a great blue heron
steps majestically toward dinner.
There are blue frogs, blue mussels,
blue claw crabs, blue butterflies.
All are delights of nature.
How can we call blue a sad color
with such a myriad of happy blues?
On a bitterly cold Winter’s Eve, on
my way to a birthday party,
I passed a group of people singing
in aid of charity,
Their music was great, and the fire
invitingly warm, so I stopped for
a while,
Then I popped a donation and waved
them goodbye,
With only about a few feet from my
destination, I thought I heard a
whining sound, or maybe it was
more like a child's cry.
Anxiously, my eyes darted round
and round,
Then I saw a broken box on the
ground,
Luckily, the street lights were
working, and there it was, a coat
of wet black hair, trembling with
half-closed eyes not more than a
few months old,
My heart sank, then it whispered,
you can’t leave it there,
So I inched closer and noticed it
was almost frozen but a cute little
dear.
Now matured in strength and height,
he enjoys walking with me in the
cool morning air,
In his company, I feel at ease, and
his presence fills my heart with
cheer,
Be it night or day, rain or shine,
through the woods we roam,
His playful spirit and lovely sparkling
eyes could melt a heart made of
stone.
His wagging tail has a rhythmic beat,
He makes me breathless and keeps
me on my feet,
He jumps and leaps with joy,
As he plays with a piece of wood, a
newfound toy,
With eyes of untold wisdom, he’s an
attentive listener in whom I confide,
In my trials and triumphs, he has
been a comfort by my side.
So here’s to a once nameless,
abandoned pup, Fluke, my cherished
companion and a rare treasure,
May our friendship continue with
many more days of joyful
adventures.
By zyrool
The Teddy Bear was invented in honor,
Of Teddy Roosevelt.
Because he wouldn't shoot a tied up bear,
Or even harm it's pelt.
If you wonder how this came about,
The story goes like this;
He was on a hunting party,
With the governor of Onward, Miss.
Others were able to score their bears,
But Teddy not a one.
An aide went out and captured one,
And said, "Sir get your gun."
I've captured you a little bear,
And tied him to a tree.
He said, "I can't shoot a tied up bear!
Now you go set him free!"
The news went out both far and wide,
How Ted wouldn't shoot a helpless bear.
Some laughed but one shop owner said,
"Now there's a man who cares."
He and his wife made candy and toys,
And they made a cute stuffed bear.
They got his permission to use his name,
And called it The Teddy Bear.
(or, "Your Old Stomping Ground")
There’s a secretary that I know
whose husband recently died
But life somehow continues as before
She has to keep replicating the myth
that everything’s all right –
A savant of the copy machines
A mannequin in a megastore
There’s a child that I know
who goes to school with bruises
Just a shell of a thing bearing signs
of a nightly artillery attack
When did we start sending
our kids to the frontlines,
And when in the name of Christ
are we calling them back?
You just pretend
Things aren’t crazy
The bandleader’s not deaf
And the King is not a clown
So you defend
The last vestiges of confidence
And stick your flag in the last square
Of your old stomping ground
There’s a family that I know
they only speak in whispers
Afraid to raise their voices
for fear of an alcoholic’s rage
I wonder how they’ll fare
twenty years from now:
Will they ever rise up from their manacles
or their transparent cage?
And there’s a young man that I know
Has his whole life ahead of him
Still stuck on the diving board
over a pool of unemployment
Just wait a while, just wade awhile
Cling to your inflated promises
While you’re stuck in this limbo, might as well
Drown in your enjoyments
You just pretend
It’s getting late now
And the party’s letting out
The stragglers and the drunkards head
for another port of call.
Yet suspect the hosts, the powers that be,
in their senility, misplaced our keys
So we derelicts wander directionless
Like half-ghosts bumping into walls
But we just pretend…
All parents are devastated
by the death of their youngest;
did strange behavior or premonition
pique their curiosity at all?
They got out of hand at the neighbor's party too wild and intense,
and without supervision, they binged and laughed hysterically;
blasting music, making obscene gestures, dancing madly and cursing loudly,
and they felt too powerful with those drinks in their irresponsible hands!
Actions aren't justified when they are premeditated so perfectly,
killers make plans to murder someone, then claim insanity;
kids tell their parent lies to do things that are harmful and shameful,
down the road across Lisa's house, four kids barely seventeen drove into a light pole!
Their blood is still there, and thousands of flowers can't cover those stains,
unconsolable mothers kneel by their angels' beautiful pictures;
friends sob and hold back their tears, fearing they would be next!
Why trust kids fully, when a cautious word can definetly put some sense into them?
All parents are devastated by the death and tormented by the demise of their youngest:
when agony rips apart their wailing chest for not having done enough;
and to carry that guilt inside is a costly price: to have seen a young life wasted and lost!
Let's learn from these tragedies, and do more to prevent more fatalities!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Bear, are you there? Can you hear me? I have to talk tomorrow at your celebration thingy, and I can’t figure out what to say. Can you sit with me for a minute?
Sure seester. (Plops on the couch in my head).
Ok. What’s the first thing you want me to say?
"Tell them I’m pretty."
Bear! Stop. They know you are pretty.
"Tell them again. Tell them I’m still pretty. Prettier than I ever was."
Ok Bear. Marcos said to tell you he is pretty. Prettier than he ever was.
"You’re pretty too seester."
Thanks Blooder. I know.
I hear a choir of laughter. Who’s with him I wonder?
He hears my thoughts. "Grandma, Grandpa, (both sides) Uncle Ray, Auntie Julie, Auntie Yolie x 2, Uncle Henry, Chuey, Isie, Leo, Cody, Canela, Rowdy, Luna, Sir Henry, Sukai. They are all here."
Where’s here Bear?
"Everywhere, he answers, and nowhere all at once.
I was in your coffee this morning. And I watched you make the bed. I was the birds outside eating the seeds you left, and the deer who came by for water. I was the wind that blew the decorations down, and the actual ghost that tugged on your arm the other night."
Jesus Bear.
"Nope, not Jesus, but that dude’s cool. He’s here too."
"Ok Ok, he continues, Here’s what you can tell them. Tell them I love them. Tell them I wish I could have stayed, but I’m not sorry I didn’t. I know that hurts. Sorry. I’m sorry about a lot, but it’s hard to dwell on the sorry where I am. Tell them, I’m happy I got to live. Happy I got to love. I still love though. Just bigger. Wider. Farther.
You’ll understand someday."
I stop him. I’m not used to you being the wiser one brother.
"Well get used to it seester. I know everything now. I am everything. Remember that."
Bear, I wanna go to the beach again brother. Just us.
"Here he says", puts a clear image of the two of us in my head. Sitting by the waves. I have my hand on his crossed knee. He smiles, you know the smile.
"We are here seester."
Thanks brother. This is nice.
"Thanks for my party", he says.
You’re welcome blooder.
Thanks for the dog, I say.
"You’re welcome. "
I love you brother.
"I love you too seester."
QUESTIONS OF BALANCE: A JEREMIAD
Why is it at 70 politicians are still underage
To assume political offices
And at 30 youths are overage to begin a professional career?
What divine strength hath a leader at 75
When a mandatory retirement awaits civil servants at 65?
Why should the government empowers the youths with $75 in 2 years
And expects them all to have own businesses
But civil servants who earn over $300 per month in 30 years
Are finding it difficult to own a garden or a store?
How is it our politicians could expend billions
To defect, campaign and give kickbacks
But would wait until the World Bank borrows them some millions
To provide a borewell drinking water?
How can they say the national treasury has collapsed to employment
Yet billions are looted and millions wasted on foreign fantasies?
Why should the achievement of our political endorsement
Be signed to MOUs as though we lack understanding?
Why should our lawmakers make laws that hound the masses
And not against their own chronic excesses and excuses?
Why should the wealthy politician vote a project for the poor
Assigned the execution of the project to himself and loot the funds?
Why do our lawmakers never make laws to free the masses
From poverty and political swindlers?
Why should the agency that fights corruption be corrupt?
Why should gluttons preside over the meager meals of the masses?
Why should the leader not serve today and the servant lead tomorrow?
Why should professional bandits be our bankers?
Why should 5% of public servants consume 60% of the nation’s wealth?
Why should a politician be a party leader, counsellor, chairman, governor, senator… still desperate to lead
And all behind his trails are poverty and anguish?
Why should a politician with obscene wealth hidden somewhere
Tell his people that their poverty and problem is Hausa, Igbo, Christian, Muslim, APC, PDP…?
And why is our nation over-laboured by multiplets of cultural, social
Political, religious questions awaiting caesarean responses?
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind
The answer is blowing in the wind!