Long Player Poems
Long Player Poems. Below are the most popular long Player by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Player poems by poem length and keyword.
A player skating on the ice any day,
may steal the puck and go for a breakaway.
One thing will upset any player the most.
That’s taking a slap shot and hitting the post.
A shot in the goal can be a game winner.
He wants to put the puck past the goaltender.
But one lousy break can haunt just like a ghost.
It frustrates the player when he hits the post.
The offense can set up a play that is fine;
if they steal the puck, and go past the blue line.
Scoring a goal can make any player boast.
But how frustrating when the puck hits the post!
Score a goal, and there are sirens and a light.
To see the puck in the net, what a sweet sight!
But one thing that is hated from coast to coast,
is when the player’s shot bounces off the post.
There's no need to be alarmed, I'll wake up anyway,
perhaps today they won't hassle me, it will be better day;
ship was sinking, englishman said: 'Women and children first,
american said: '---- the women,' 'frenchman said: 'Is zere time?'
I listen to Chopin who designed his notes so beautifully,
the coordination from war-torn Poland categorically;
I ask myself - what did I achieve? No one had a life like me,
I broke hearts, like a cunning bridge player in spades and hearts.
Now time is running out, you wonder what death is like,
the only certainty, they say don't speak ill, but I'll strike,
at the unbelievable, how grotty some were, cast no doubt,
but then that's what this life was apparently just all about.
It's over, the hands are together, so tissue, tissue, tissue,
it's not just me but I bet you guys also had a few issue.
When I take my nephew
to the park to play basketball,
I look around to spot trolls
who litter and destroy.
" Look at those hoodlooms,
how they behave and talk! "
" They are my friends " he
exclaims. " Your friends?
Has your mom met them? "
" Scondrels and slanderers
have the foul smell of rats in a sewer;
they scatter soda cans everywhere
and say words we never dare to say! "
I notice that I have embarassed him:
his bond of friendship seems stronger
than the depictable things he sees;
he'll try to defend them, then he lowers
his head and admits they aren't worthy keeping
if they are always getting in trouble! "
He asks me taking another look at them.
" It's very obvious how pitiful they are
with thin bodies and scruffy appearance...
do they ever go home and eat dinner,
or even take a shower and study hard? "
" No, " he replies with a saddening look.
" Do you consider them friends or worthless boys?"
" They are both, uncle!, I am ashamed of them. "
I wanted you to see what they become
without putting words in your mouth...
their bad upbringing reflects their personality
and their behavior; I must blame their parents
for the freedom they shouldn't have! "
And turning to him with a mellow smile,
" You like to go to college and be a basketball player? "
" Yes, uncle. " he whispered with a glow
that sparked joy in his intelligent eyes.
Written on 10/26/2016
I see her sitting in that room
Staring at the cd player, heart feeling torn
I wish she would just stand up
Shut the door and not give two f***s
She is me, and I am her
16 year's old, head always a blur
She chose the life I would lead
And for that I'm thankful, it made me..me
Being bullied by the people downstairs
All because the singer playing had long hair
They thought my choice was kinda of obsured
But that singer saved my life, not that they cared
That 16 year old girl made a choice
On a Saturday afternoon in the middle of March
£10 in hand and not a penny more
A CD bought that stole her heart
Downstairs they were laughing, making her cry
The music still playing to get her by
I wish she would stand and close the door
So she didn't have to hear their crulty no more
24 years but that day still haunts me
But it made me the women I see before me
I have to free her and let it go
24 years and she has now grown
How do I free her, that is the question
But to answer that, I have a confession
I cannot free her in my mind
Until its the past I can leave behind
So please stand up and close the door
Do not listen to the hate no more
I'm ALWAYS beside her when "that" song plays
I want to show her all will be Okay.
Something's have changed and some the same
The final showdown is the aim
I have to free her for me to be free
The final showdown for the world to see
For now i must leave her in that room
Playing her music, the misery to resume
I'll come back for her, of that I'm certain
And mend the heart that for now feels broken
When I come back i want her to know
That "women" can't hurt her once she's grown
When she's free, the world she can roam
But for now my head, is where she will call home
The final showdown for the world to see
The final showdown for me to be free
The final showdown, it has to be done
The final showdown, the countdowns begun
16 year old me will be free
I am HER, and she is ME
What do you do? Fine - I'll mention other things,
In Jo"burg, the expats were bored - went to
a roundabout and drove around, disgraceful,
don't you play any sport? Not even couch-rugby?
I used to race go-karts, play tennis, chase
the girls, even in winter, oddly in autumn;
I'm a chess player, bunch of nerds, no wonder
sometimes I'm a man of few words, expletives.
And now - I travel, write homily on Koh Samui beach,
with vacant-eyed Nesbo just out of reach,
writing is a lonely job, like waiting to die,
you'll find out - no matter how far you may fly.
Nesbo had just committed another repetitive crime,
while I was still battling with endless rhyme.
Hey! This one is my melodramatic mom’s!
One thing I have realised: No one else in the world can ever be more loving than one’s mom.
I see five roundballers at the court.
I see her dropping dimes,
As she plays at interschool B-ball tournament today.
My misty eyes pray for her to win.
Don’t know what is tugging at my heartstrings?
Five years back, I still remember,
My little girl in eighth standard,
Trying hard for her selection.
Little hands didn’t know how to hold the ball.
Apoorva I owe you! You taught her to crawl.
Before dawn at 4:30, to teach her the sport,
You were every day, there at the court.
Wasn’t easy to see this day!
“She doesn’t have that passion!”
“You want her to fulfil your own dreams!”
“Nothing’s beyond studies!”
Such comments were taken more sincerely than my thyroid pills,
As if they were most important part of the drill.
They took the bull by the horn!
Tears still rolling down, emotions over bound!
Team rejoice, frolicking around and she kisses the ground.
She throws a kiss at me – that’s a well-deserved triumph.
She belongs to the court forever now, this love will never lose its charm!
And the court will always welcome her with a warm smile and stretched arms.
Thanks Mom! A good orator, swimmer, tennis player and now a proud basketball player….I owe it all to you. I love you!
A time I still remember- Christmas day
in 'fifty-three; I was age fourteen then,
and I recall those very special hours
at home, so cozy- warm with my loved ones
of many generations, happily
around the sparkling tree with old-time trim
of bubble lights, glass balls, and Christmas songs
playing softly on the record player.
Extended family- my mom and dad,
grandparents; brother, cousins, uncles, aunts-
spent happy hours, and such a blessed time
was shared as peace and love were felt by all.
It was perhaps the only year we were
together in one place for Christmas day.
I keep that time of family delight
in memories that fill my heart- for some
there on that day, so special in my thoughts,
are dearly missed, no longer here with us-
they fly with angel wings, look down from high
above in Christmas past, with joy and love-
as I, once the youngest- now the oldest
generation, carry on that spirit
and make traditions last- to someday be
my children and grandchildren’s Christmas past.
I am black and I have the ability to glorify the King
I am great and in believing in him, I have authority over all things
I am the Father and Mother of past, present and future
Peacemakers, Educators, Scientists, Musicians, Scholars, Kings and Queens
I am John Love the sharpener inventor
I am Mae C. Jemison the astronaut
I am Martin Luther King the peacemaker
I am Toni Morrison a contemporary novelist.
I am Muhammad Ali the boxer
I am Wilma Rudolph the Olympic track and field champion
I am Tiger woods the golfer
I am Lucy Laney the educator.
I am Jack Johnson the heavyweight
I am Rosa Parks the segregation leader
I am Jesse Wilkins the physicist and mathematician
I am Serena Williams a tennis player.
I am Isaac Murphy the great through-bred jockey
I am Bessie Coleman the first licensed African American pilot
I am Chester Burnett the blues singer
I am Eleanor Holmes a politician and civil rights activist.
I am Thomas Dorsey the father of gospel music
I am Chadwick Boseman the famous Black Panther actor
I am Barack Obama the forty-four first
Black Afro-American president, we are the future.
We are the hope for the lost and forgotten generation.
Claire is 21 years of age, a boccia player,
Who was diagnosed with dystonia at 16,
Says “[dystonia] causes muscle contracture
and shortening…abnormal hands,” clean.
“There is no known cause for it…unlucky.
In the…years [just] before my diagnosis
I found it very hard ‘cos I didn’t, [positivity],
have a name to put to it, [my kinesis],
or know what it was but [after diagnosis]
it was a relief that I wasn’t going mad…
I got closure on what it was, [aegis],
and so I was able to adapt” lots, or a tad.
Claire went to Larne Grammar School,
Because she comes from N. Ireland,
And so goes to Ulster University cool,
To the sports institute (SINI), a garland.
She likes music and keeps tortoises,
Along with some other scaled reptiles,
And she won gold for her purposes,
At the 2015 Euros - done the miles.
Smoke Vegas
Ladies and Gentlemen
Hit it again Sam
Tickle that Ivory Joanna
Black velvet tuxedo suit
Tanned Brown Chesterfield Leather Booths
Polished studs out
Crooner poised spitting on the end of a Stainless Microphone
Either hand holding a smoking cigarette
And tumbler of Burbon Whiskey on the rocks
Dames in 1000 Dollar Frocks
Drenched in Diamond's and furs
Mistresses not wife's
Straight City Life
Bright Light's
New York City
Big Apple
No Sleep
Room's upstairs
Illicit affairs
He who dares
Them were the day's
Manhattan to Vegas
Stranger's Broadway Night's
Hollywood Stars
Town Cars
Red Carpets
The Golden age of Song and Stage
Old Blue Eyes
Frank Sinatra
Slow dancing with your Partner
Pressing up close and personal against her
Holding hands
Wishing the music would never stop
Times were simpler way back then
When girls were young ladies
At had to be home by Ten
And Marriage proceeded having babies
And young men wore suits
How i yearn for the crackle of a needle on an old record player
But that was all our yesterday's
And as the story goes
Not this old story again Grandad
Move on those times are gone
Put a C.D on
And don't you know you are not allowed
To smoke indoors
You may survived and fought in World Wars
But we are the snowflake righteous generation
So far above our station
You just can't tell if am talking through
My mouth or my bum