Long Pass up Poems
Long Pass up Poems. Below are the most popular long Pass up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pass up poems by poem length and keyword.
~
Dressed in almond taffeta,
a salted evening throw
With satin slipper grenadine,
where crystal glasses flow
I dreamt of Tawny Evermore,
her hair a fired flame
And songs now sung and played for her,
shall never be the same
Her cape of velvet after sheen,
upon a braided stair
Past portraits painted long ago,
by artists everywhere
Along a paisley corridor,
its walls adorned in gold
Another haven brings its scene,
as moments do unfold
Upon the sill, a vase it sits,
chrysanthemums in bloom
Their fragrance sends a subtle hint,
about the waiting room
When there within the vestibule,
his hair a darkened weave
With pearly whites so blinding that,
the night could never leave
His name Lord Count de Bullvereen,
the second in a line
So called to pass up brandy for
a large carafe of wine
Reflections of a shining soul
alone for one to choose
Unlike the mirror image found
the polish of his shoes
When down the stair, she did ascend,
perfection in her grace
Such beauty, he had never seen,
euphoric was her face
He took her hand, and with a bow
so gently left a kiss
Upon his own left pinkie for,
on hers he came to miss
She chuckled quite a quiet laugh,
though everyone could hear
As well, the footman with a smile
now standing very near
The count, he turned a shade of red,
as anger soon was spawn
Then grabbed his hat and walking stick,
abruptly he was gone
The footman and Miss Evermore
then grinned and with a shrug
Snuck off into another room
where they then shared a hug
It seems these two were something real,
though silent due to class
But that's okay, their fun was had,
each day that came to pass
He told her this, between a kiss
that her, he did adore
And like her name, Miss Tawny, he
would love her "Evermore"
And one more thing, before I go
that maybe you can't see
The footman, quite the handsome bloke,
the truth is, he is me
~
In my youth, I made
A bubble gum ball . . .
That over time just got bigger and bigger, usually.
It was sticky icky, just like me.
It splattered perfectly onto the wall . . .
The bubble gum wall!
That over time became a work of Art.
Always getting bigger, usually.
Also, a great filler for holes, I’m told.
It also sticks great on bark, and behold,
The bubble gum tree!
Every childhood should have one.
That tree on the walk to school,
Or in the park next to the playground,
Or next to the community pool.
So everyone can share.
But, if you left your ball at home,
Already passed the wall, missed the tree,
There was always that spot under your desk,
Or perhaps that forgotten tuck behind the ear.
Of course, the cute girl two rows up,
Blew the most wonderful, beautiful bubbles.
And when they’d pop, everyone in class knew.
She’d just smile with sticky all over her face.
I, and every other pubescent male, just wanted to pick it off.
No, lick it off would be more correct.
And chew her gum gum ‘til the end of time.
Though, she, and many of the girls, had their own, very own
Bubble gum box.
I prefer freshly wrapped store-bought gum.
All those artificial flavors and “natural” sugars,
They’re the best! Yum!
Mom always bought us Dental Gum.
She claimed it was good for our teeth.
Though, it’s practically impossible to blow bubbles.
But I was never one to pass up a freebee,
Especially when I was broke, which was most of the time.
In my youth,
I always had gum in my mouth.
And I never needed money to buy my own.
If my pockets were empty (which was most of the time) . . .
There was always the ball, the wall, the tree, or the desk.
A quick check behind the ear, just in case I forgot.
If it got stuck in my hair, then probably not.
I don’t have a box, that’s for girls.
I have something better. . .
A bubble gum world!
Some fellers like to sit around and sip bourbon on the rocks.
I prefer to sit around admiring my collection of old clocks.
At last count I reckon they number about seventy-five or so.
Much to my spouse's chagrin the number continues to grow!
I just can't pass up a bargain at the local antique store.
I suppose I'm like that old horse heading for the barn door.
When I spot a lonely beauty displayed there by its self,
I feel sorry for it and take it home to display upon my shelf!
My lair looks like a museum with clocks of every pedigree.
There are wall, mantel and cuckoo clocks staring back at me!
There's a grandfather clock standing against the far wall.
Made of solid oak and rising nearly seven feet tall!
Nigh on forty years ago my interest in old clocks began.
Some are from Germany, England and a few from Japan.
Do they all chime and clang at once you may rightly ask?
No - to keep them all wound would be an onerous task!
The chimes, bongs and cuckoos the old clocks emit,
Could drive one insane I would readily admit!
'Twould be lonely around here, tho', sans those friendly faces,
And their graceful, sweeping hands and elegant wooden cases!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The 27 Club:
the strangest sort of pub.
Seems everything is cubes.
(except the ladies’ boobs)
Those lovely duck fat fries
are the exact same size.
The burgers are all square,
with centers nice and rare.
It’s rational to try
their 3.14 pie;
sliced in a perfect third,
the blueberry’s preferred.
The sassy gal with hips
brings twenty-seven chips.
I like to watch her make
a large vanilla shake
with cherries on the top.
Oh man, it’s hard to stop!
You’ll slurp her with a straw
and then you’ll slap your ma.
And you’d have to be daft
to pass up on their draft
with IPAs on tap:
no ordinary crap.
The cover is absurd
unless you know the word.
But speak up and be clear;
no twenty-somethings here.
----------
for the The 27 Club Poetry Contest
sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
written on 8/27/2022
When the wolf applied nicely
If he could come in,
The pigs replied thricely he shouldn't.
Then they scratched at the hairs
On their chinny chin chins,
And tightly bolted the door so he wouldn't.
But wolves, when out shopping,
Are not easily put off,
Even faced with the risks they are takin'.
This one ignored the wheezing,
And the nagging, rasping cough,
In his lust for ham, pork chops, and bacon.
First, he blew down the straw house,
Then the one made of sticks,
But by the third he was straining and grasping.
It was a veritable fortress
Of well-mortared bricks,
And emphysema left him panting and gasping.
With one last mournful howl,
The wolf knew he was done
And lay down in the driveway, embarrassed.
The pigs regained their composure
And called 911,
But when the cops came, the wolf claimed he was harassed.
The argument raged
For an hour or more
'til the cops gave them all a citation.
Still gasping for breath
As he slunk from the door,
The wolf was stopped by a squealed invitation.
"Wolfie, oh, Wolfie, please won't you come in?
We'd so like to have you for lunch."
And he would have gone on and ignored the appeal,
If he only knew that "ragout de loup" (pr. rah-goo duh loo)
Was the entrée, but he had no hunch,
And he was not one to pass up a free meal.
When a wolf's sick and hungry,
He might let down his guard
And do dumb things a wolf shouldn't ought to.
But for pigs, it's expedient
To get the final ingredient
Required for a tasty "wolf stew".
The wolf's huffing and puffing
Couldn't even come close
To the pigs' stratagems and devices.
After seven martinis,
It still hadn't dawned on the dope
That intelligence wasn't one of his vices.
If he'd had more brains than brawn,
This poor wolf might have known
That the pigs never meant to surrender.
They'd no more need to fear or hate him,
They knew the booze would marinate him,
So when they served him up and ate him,
He'd be quite succulent and tender.
If this tale has a moral, I'd like to propose
That "three heads are better than one" be selected.
In this case, not the one who worked the hardest,
But the ones who worked the smartest,
And as the little piggies guessed,
The wolf was the perfect luncheon guest.
Of course, their table manners weren't the best,
So they still made pigs of themselves, as expected.
It is everybody's duty
To see all the hidden beauty
That shines bright if you just look
Everyone is a big open book
That is full of different chapters
Some have pain--others laughter
So please read someone before
You thin they're a snooze and bore
Or ugly not worth your time
It would be a shameful crime
If you pass up a masterpiece
Because your eyes do not see
A best seller, you just judge
Take a moment--do not smudge
The pages of someone else
Putting them high on a shelf
You might be missing something great
Come on, do not hesistate
You could lose out on a friend
If you skip right to the end
Not learning what's at the start
Take my word--give it a shot
Auntie
In her lofty ways, she was always
the best example of
the stars out-shining the moon.
Her ways of doing things always
correct and proper
she was a student of the Queen.
Place setting and
the china on the table all had to
be per the law.
And no PHD could outwit her with
her twelfth-grade education.
She though dignified and learned
always quoted un-biblical quotes
from other bibles.
"Cleanliness is next to Godliness ".
I would say well didn't
God make dirt too!?
Don't be asinine she would say-
Seemed as if the emphasis
would be on the "ass"
I would laugh... and when
she thought
I was not looking
she would laugh too.
Auntie could hardly
pass up a good humorous
exchange no matter how
ostentatious or outrageous.
Her well-groomed and well
manicured demeanor
was not just for Sundays.
She served her God faithfully
in words and in deeds every day.
I have never known her
to beg or borrow.
Never seen her complain as
"Arthur" took his toll on her knees.
She was faithful to the end
and though she had no
children of her own,
she was nurturer of all us
children whom were
blessed enough to be
corrected by her or to
eat a slice of her lemon
meringue pie.
Anytime I think of her
I remember the sweetest
music coming from
the piano that displayed
her mood with music-
Her piano voiced her
thoughts in pitch and
range; as she became
one with the keys and chords.
There was no room for "I can't"--
and no excuse not trying.
She finally gave up on me
playing the piano -
That ruler had taken
its toll on my knuckles
and even if you failed at any
attempt to do things as right
as she wanted:
After a hardy reprimanding
Auntie was sure to have my favorite
food and clean bed waiting for me.
I loved her so much that
every now and then
I must write about this amazing
Sister to my mother.
Her name...
Rosella Faye Graham Derrickson Myers ...
And yes, she would say her whole ''title"
if you were to ask her, her name.
Her spirit lives on...
In all the lives that she has touched.
You are an old soul in a fast paced world,
as time goes on your wisdom unfurls.
Each line on your face marks experiences gleaned,
your knowledge helps navigate futures unseen.
Your memories are golden and held in your mind,
with simple conversation a treasure to find.
Your crown a straw hat, your throne an old chair,
the Kingdom you rule is the time that we share.
The stories you tell are hard to believe,
born in the good old days, in values conceived.
Your life is a legend in a young boy's eyes,
the memories live on long after you die.
Advice to the young, don't pass up the chance,
to spend time with someone whose years are advanced.
10/17/18
Over burning canefields black soot ash
on an east wind past my balustrade blows,
and big white pelicans the riverine splash
their dive pouch longbills in the shallows.
Windsurfers, sailboats, and rowers in row
pass up and down in their wake across,
and fishermen in the Cod Hole below
sit reeling in their boats off Mykonos.
Beyond my Grecian villa walls of stone
a great bridge does cross the river’s divide,
and the Maroochy water’s gentle groan
concentrates my mind ‘twixt moon and tide.
When the sun is low and the moon high
fly a plague of bats just passing through -
sipping a wee tincture of scotch in my dry
puffing a wee willem on the avenue.
Girl, like The Iliad it’s all Greek to me
and soon a new life and bridge to cross,
but before the two of us become three
I write my postcard from Mykonos.
Beyond my Grecian villa walls of stone
a great bridge does cross the river’s divide,
and the Maroochy water’s gentle groan
concentrates my mind ‘twixt moon and tide
Written: October 1999
narrative
Logan squirms in his seat starting home for the day
he cannot ride like the other small kids.
One leg is shorter, but all is well.
He begs from the back of his big brother's bike -
please, just one more time, Lucas don't quit now
one more lap 'tween the lake and the trees;
this is better than candy.
Turning back, bro is brief -
you know I'm getting too old for this
but all is well, just one more round,
better hang on tight, Lo.
Go faster, Bubba, they're calling us names
straight ahead, we can pass up those guys -
and prove we're not wimps.
All is fading fast.
Rounding the next bend one tyke takes a tumble.
Shrewdly, big brother, Luke, pretends to fall too;
No real harm done, all is well.
More fun than winning - ending in hullabaloo
with ev'ryone on the ground.
Without a word, we all head for the lake -
past time for a break and time to cool off.
Then as they arrive home, mom overhears...
One thing about you, Luke, you know when to fake.
And, Logan, you know there are more ways to win
than just beating someone.
All is well.