Long Plenty Poems
Long Plenty Poems. Below are the most popular long Plenty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plenty poems by poem length and keyword.
The leaves were turning red and gold;
And frost was in the air.
When they rounded up the Acadians,
From Miquelon and Saint Pierre.
It was a time for groaning;
A cry from Cajun lips.
When they rounded up those Frenchmen;
And loaded them on ships.
So they came to "Louisiane;"
A strange and far-off land.
But thrived mid pines and cypress.
A hardy, cheerful band.
They learned to build the pirogue,
And find odd sorts of meat.
For in the swamps of "Louisiane";
The Cajun had to eat.
They learned to cook the Gumbo;
Which is a special dish;
But key to their survival;
Was a little Red Craw-fish.
The "Mud-bug" some folks call it.
But it's cooked with lots of love.
It's found in shallow water;
Which the South has plenty of.
It is a time for dancing;
It is a time for fun.
When the Cajuns get together;
And the the Red Craw-fish are done.
You boil them in some water;
And throw in lots of spice.
Some corn and some potatoes;
And some ice tea would be nice.
The Cajuns love their Craw-fish
Though it's been 200 hundred years.
Since they left their home in Canada,
And cried those bitter tears.
But the Cajun is resourceful;
Making use of what he can.
He thrived to spite the English;
To prove he was the better man.
A plethora of attention
focused on twentieth anniversary
regarding terrorist attacks
upon American soil nine eleven
two thousand and one,
thus Schwenksville poet
opted for his best métier write.
While riding atop a yak
both feet went wickety wack
trudging beast of burden a throwback
to the brainchild
of John Mauchly and J. Presper Eckert
devised Electronic Numerical
Integrator and Computer
otherwise dubbed ENIAC
cumbersome invention
programing machine no easy knack
also impossible mission or fit in pocket
book versus handy to tote
laptop perfect fit inside day pack.
As an aging long haired
pencil neck geek baby boomer
who reckons himself
as schleppy (snoop doggy dog) self groomer
cannot escape scornful passersby
sneering, snickering and snorting
at me, an utter embarrassment to humanity,
who also sports sophomoric humor.
Unfair for yours truly
to saddle anonymous readers
which travails of mine
analogous overburdening
an old decrepit ass,
hence lumpenproletariat
marxist (brother) fellow,
whose insensitivity
could be interpreted as crass
subsequently aiming figurative sights
upon fresh fields,
where leaves of grass
harvested by me one
Norwegian bachelor farmer wannabe
ofttimes dashes off to Lake Woebegone
to escape madding crowds who harass
him, cuz he accentuates whole foods
with plenty of fiber to avoid
experiencing lower gastrointestinal impasse
acquiring moniker windbag
courtesy humongous formed rectal mass
necessitating the expertise of Nass
(another name for Nishga -
a member of a branch
of Tsimshian people
of British Columbia inhabiting Nass
River basin and/or dialect of Tsimshian
spoken by Nishga)
homeopathic remedies outclass
those of 21st century medicine,
said indigenous people
interpret objection toward their
age old medicinal practice as sass
even consider disagreement violation,
a figurative criminal mind to trespass
and the subject in question
a veritable, (albeit harmless) wiseass.
Who trusts me more than myself?
Who loves me more than myself?
No one, absolutely,no one amongst you all!
Except the one holding my life in his hands.
From far and near,he watches over me,
Whispering faithful love to my soul,
Revealing good hope in the time to come,
And so,I cling on to him.
He loves me more than I love myself;
And feels hurt whenever I hurt myself.
He keeps me safe and sound,
And has put a beautiful song in my heart.
What,to show my gratitude,can I do for him?
Life,dime; silver,gold; and all the unsaid;
They are as uncountable as the sands of the shore,
The wonderful doings of my maker!
I am told he desires a clean and respectful heart,
Repentant and kind soul,a spirit that cares;
He gives plenty for free; in fact, everything for free;
Yet,still,I'm not worthy to look him in the eyes.
I am told he hates sinners,and any bad thing is sin;
Stealing,lying,gossiping,idolatry,adultery; name them all.
So,I try to please him,as a child pleases the father
That he may bless me with life and not perishment.
At four,I didn't know how to talk to him,
I didn't know where he stayed except heaven,
But now, I know most of the things, so I pray,
And in prayer,I communicate with my God.
I pray for myself and for others,
Because out there,someone is praying for me;for you!
So,together,we share the blessings of prayer;
Remember! It's never late too late to join us,to talk to him.
Come,let us go before him,with humble souls,
To bow before him and worship him,
To tell it all to him; the burdens and success,
All that we need and desire, for he is all that we need!
Who,do you trust most around here?
Who do you love so dearly here?
I,love and have all my trust in my father and maker,
Think about this; Where,is your trust,hope and love?
I know the scars caused by time and space in us are plenty,
We bleed as though we have been attacked by tigers or bears;
More than the pains of our physique mental aches are many,
Who will help us? To cure ourselves we need to share our cares...!
Noise does not heal us; shouting and yelling is of no use,
Do birds whose wings get cut blame others for their misery?
Midst earthquakes and tsunamis does the earth its patience lose?
Come, let us sit together and dress up each injury...!
Let us listen to our breath and heartbeats and the blood flow,
Just as the cloth hears the thread that stitches, let's hear our veins;
"CARESS THE BROKEN HEART WITH THREADS OF MUTED SOUND" so slow,
Let our murmurs of love, like the best of herbs, cure our pains...!!!
Pitching a leg across the nether
Of a pretty appaloosa or possibly
A chestnut bay who needs to know
That she’s being ridden by someone
Who will take her through the paces,
Strides both gentle and regulated
By a walk, a canter, a gallop, a sprint
Where she feels all her steps
Light, loose and limber as liquid love
That rains down from a heart who
Gives this mare the greatest rides
Through meadows, across hills
Into the kindness of life filled with
Delights, pleasures, sweetest bliss
Brought to life on the back end
Of a horse who listens to the kindness
Whispered through laughter, light
Chortles felt by the spirit who believes
“cowgirl up” brings plenty of dreams
To life on the back of a mount who needs
Only to be ridden without restriction
By a rider who knows the key to any heart
Is found at the end of a set of reins
Where equine love trots into command
Poetry In Motion Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
December 23, 2022
If I knew one thing as I was growing up,
it was wrapped in two words: 'Love and Security'.
I never felt threatened or exhibited fear of others.
There was a psychologically protected shield around me.
I longed for one, but never had a bicycle growing up, but
Love, food, clothing, and shelter were never at risk.
I felt protected by my parents, their friends, and mine.
There were also at least two things that flowed like water
gushing steadily along The Mississippi with 'a no-quit spirit'.
There was the ever-present sound of blues and Motown music.
And secondly, the county was dry but always filled with 'moonshine';
And there was always plenty of legal alcohol just across the county line.
Being taught The Lord's Prayer and the 10 Commandments in
public school was normal and no less important than reading,
writing, and arithmetic. The waistline of most was firmly fitted
by the Bible belt, and the fear of and respect for God was
genuine and real.
There were two other things of a different sort but very much American.
Baseball was the greatest sport in my community and the love of my life.
There were all kinds of foods and pies but none were better than Mama's apple pies.
In one-hundred years, might things be as bad
as people guess? I’d like to think at last
that peace prevails. Instead of being sad -
that people share! All fear is in the past!
Perhaps we’ll be invaded by a race
of aliens who teach us how to love -
and how all poverty we can erase.
Far more advanced, they will have plenty of
good things beyond our own technology
to help us meet our needs and cure disease.
Who knows? Perhaps my great-grandchildren see
a “brave new world,” where all live life with ease.
And if I’m lucky, I will not be dead
if miracles invade our world instead!
June 4, 2018 for Brian Davey's In 100 Years Poetry Contest
As sure as seventeen is the square root of two hundred eighty-nine,
I want to share a New Year’s resolution of mine.
I am now deep in debt, and it is not a bit funny.
I want to land a job that will make me lots of money.
Debt collectors call me on the phone every day.
They say I am behind, and they demand that I pay.
I find it awfully difficult to stay afloat.
There are plenty of friends of mine in the same boat.
Landing a new job will be a process of trial and error.
Just the thought of the hunting shakes me with terror.
I know I will be in for one hell of a time.
If that does not work, I can always resort to crime.
Winner
If I win the lottery,
it would be because “He” wanted me to do so.
It would only take one ticket.
Okay then… if I play, and if I win…
But wait…
I am a winner.
I have food on the table and plenty to eat.
I have shelter, a roof for myself and my kids.
I have enough, of everything that is truly “needed”.
There is even bounty, beyond my cup…
more than I need.
Which HE has given…
allowing me…
to share…
His grace, His kindness.
He has shown me…
what it is to be loved,
that I might share it as well.
That is winning…
that can not be measured,
in a ticket,
a promise of something…
I already have,
and share as often as I can.
Thankful and humble…
Amen.
If time was currency would we be rich
Could we become outrageously spendthrift
Should we be gladly generous of heart
Tossing our dosh away, alike a dart.
Would friends surround us, if they had no time
Their currency gone on fine food and wine
At first class restaurants, only the best
Enjoying life's luxuries to excess.
Expecting handouts, on us to depend
Knowing that we'd plenty of time to spend
With currency growing fast, day by day
False friends will never, ever go away.
Good friends will share with you what’er they have
There’s no wondering or thinking of that
For whatever reason one's down on luck
They'd share their currency, no ifs or buts.