Long Posh Poems

Long Posh Poems. Below are the most popular long Posh by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Posh poems by poem length and keyword.


Premium Member The Ballad of Daphne and Jack, the Sequel

Gather 'round me, my dears,
I'll continue the tale
Of a princess and her pirate lover.
Of her crown unencumbered,
They pillaged and plundered
As they wandered the seven seas over.

Crimes maritime were elating
And invigorating
'til Jack noticed a bulge in her tummy.
The princess first was offended,
But then she comprehended
He would soon be a dad, she a mommy.

Two months later, one morn, 
Daphne's baby was born,
She said, "Time to rethink our position.
If we stay here, our child
Will grow wicked and wild,
We must provide better, milder conditions."

Jack's crew were confused 
When he told them the news,
All they knew how to do was be pirates.
None of them had a dime,
And all too far past their prime
To go home and move in with their parents.

Jack chuckled and chided, 
Their fears he derided,
And then much to their mirth and enjoyment,
He said, "We'll start a new industry
That sells hospitality
And offers year-round and seasonal employment."

Do you remember the king?
That mean, stingy old thing
Died alone in his big empty palace.
But before his reign ended,
His will was amended,
And Princess Daphne inherited alles.

She thought the place would work well
As a swanky hotel
Or a posh B&B just for pirates.
But Mad Jack and his gang
Were arraigned and then hanged,
They should have kept their retirement more private.

And thus, dear ladies and dudes,
My narration concludes
About Daphne's and Jack's days of glory.
She turned her dad's mausoleum
Into a pirate museum
And made a killing, some say,
Conducting tours every day
For visitors who'd pay
To hear a pirating princess' story.


Accidently In Paris

Accidently in Paris 
 
From the bus station in Paris, I was taking a taxi to a posh
part of Paris, the driver a Moroccan didn`t know the way, but I had a map
he could not read, so I navigated, first left, second right and so one.
We got there after three hours, I tried to pay, but the driver would
not hear of it, made a U. turn and shot at me, he was a lousy shot 
I stood there in the street of houses ready to expel anyone
who didn`t behave rich and since I walk like a penguin was accepted,
They say a blond girl has much fun, but I tell you a bald man has
more fun at Molin Roughs, (wrongly edited.) 
Synchronized dancing and I was thinking when are we going
to eat? Someone a woman I was temporally in love with, arranged
so I could have soup. It was a feathery show, and I sneeze a lot.
© Jan Hansen  Create an image from this poem.

Premium Member Would You Go With Me

Tides will ebb and they will flow
But my love for you will only grow
As steady as, as steady goes
Nothing regarding you is faux

If you went away with me
I'd plan something for every day
Most other folks would think these strange
But I'm not like them anyway

Abandoned houses, bridges too
Old apple orchards long since bloomed
Stately, still with dignity
There's beauty in a tree deplumed

I don't need fancy, posh hotels
Let me sleep beneath the stars
Time with you does not compel
The nights are young, the days are ours 

I love you lots my little dove 
We'd fit together oh so well
Sometimes the hand, sometimes the glove
Stitched perfectly, no seam could tell
Form: Rhyme

May I Love You In My Dreams

May I love you in my dreams as I love you as you are,
As I loved you from distant past so many miles afar.
May I love the hands that touch me, extensions of your being,
As I love thy tender care of my life’s constant overseeing.

May I love the arms that comfort and consoles me,
As they Wrap me in union once of I but now of “we”.
May I love the smell of your hair, your royal crown, and glory,
As In my dreams, it freely flows, and I never have to worry.

May I love your words you speak, on to each I gladly hang,
As in a hypnotic trance, to each abide again and again.
May I kiss your luscious lips, first the bottom than the top,
As in my dreams, I kiss you forever and never have to stop. 

May I lay my head upon your breast, the left one is my best
As when I am tired and weary its’ there I’m calmly at rest.
May I ride your curvy body as if I surf the open sea
As I welcome the all of you that you freely give unto me.

May I bathe in your waters, the rivers formed from thee,
As aye my bravado's restored by your endless energy,
May I take away your troubles, dread, and sorrow,
As I love you yesterday, today, and tomorrow

May you stay with me in the world of my mind
As I forge landscapes of exotically posh design.
May I love you in my inner hopes and dreams, 
As I pray not my loves' extreme.


~~~07-03-19
Written for a contest that was actually for a males' love poem to a woman. 
I wouldn't mind hearing these words. So there.. You have it!

Down To Bethlehem

It ain’t very often – even if you’re very wise 
That you see a cosmic signpost lighting up the skies. 
So I grabs me two mates, Belteshaz and Shem 
Saddled up the camels and went down to Bethlehem. 

The signpost that I saw was really rather posh 
And Belteshaz, the wisest mate let out a feeble, “Gosh, 
I wonder who had that put there 
It must have cost a bob or two?” 
And someone said, “It is amazin’ the fings wot God can do!” 

It weren’t no ordinary star – its light was far too bright 
I’ad to grab me shades you see, to see its ‘eavenly light. 
All of us, excited, got up there and then 
To saddle up the camels and go down to Bethlehem. 

The message of the star was very plain to see 
‘specially if you’re wise enough, like Belteshaz and me. 
And as you can imagine we were causing quite a stir 
As we set off on our camels 
Taking Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh! 

The message said a king’s been born – Him wot we’e been waitin’ for. 
The Son of God’s been born on Earth – ain’t never ‘appened ‘ere before. 
So ‘urry up you three wise men 
Saddle up the camels and get down to Bethlehem. 

We went first to the palace to see the kingly boy 
But the king – a guy called Herod – didn’t seem so full of joy 
When we told him why we’d come 
‘E seemed a bit surprised when we asked to see his son. 

You’d ‘ave thought, I suppose, if the Son of God was going to live on Earth 
He’d ‘ave the sense to pick a palace as the setting of His birth. 
But when we found the birthplace God picked out for His Son 
We ‘ad to hold our noses cos it stank of cattle dung. 

The boy grew up, the story’s told, and never wore a crown, 
Unless you count a crown of thorns to match his purple gown. 
They ‘ad ‘im executed and laughing watched Him die, 
“E’s gone” they shrieked in ruthless mirth, “to meet ‘is daddy in the sky”. 

Of course it came as some surprise 
Three days later He was seen... alive 
But we didn’t know about that when 
We saddled up the camels and went down to Bethlehem
Form: Ballad


Where is your Moon Under Water


Where do you think is the best place to drink & pints clink with a nod and wink to George Orwell..



Ruse how do you choose your “Moon Under Water”

Tricky like picking between your own son & daughter

Orwell did reckon draft stout must beckon or porter


Not daft posh nosh supper places in Upper Slaughter

Holler for each blue collar scholar as this is their altar

Beacons of blushing bricks laid memory made mortar


Rugs hug stark stony slabs hops grabs beams dark 

Tobacco treacle tones taints paints dreams we hark

Past embers spark cast gleams last wafts drift & lark


Same timeless fickle timber timbre tickles each fitting
 
Eases the blues folks flitting from their pews wits pitting

Shackles & hackles lose cackle crackle in flames spitting

Adored names amuse maraud the muse frames all sitting

Envelops smorgasbord horde games develops unwitting


Sublime times past their prime couldn't be fraughter 

Pub co scams so many go just lambs to the slaughter

An inn to be the hub it oughter in Moon Under Water

No not that taunt of some expat haunt out in Malta

Ingredients nestle don’t wrestle in pestle & mortar

Can’t really falter a dearly loved pub's clearly ripsnorter
Form: Rhyme

Compromise

Life is full of oddities
Which can give it variety
And every now and then
Even cause soe anxiety
He was a man of character.
He trod his own path,
Kept his undies in the fridge
And his coal in the bath.
When she moved in she,d
Found that rather strange
But she hoped in time
She could help him change.
Her background after all
Wasn’t all that posh
She could just about manage
With her weekly strip wash.

And every other month
He’d clear a path from the door
As he shovelled all the coal
Onto to the bathroom floor,
And he very quickly learned
Rinsing the bath was a must
Otherwise her bath water was 
Full of floating coal dust
And so they’d proceded amicably
Until things got a rather strained
She’d tripped on a lump of coal,
One ankle being badly sprained.
But, theres always compromise
If you’re willing and you”re able
And he started storing the coal
Under their kitchen table.

He found it rather strange
That she now bathed every day
But finally accepted that 
It was her own peculiar way
And he so very quickly went,
And changed his own attitude
When night after night, after night
She eagerly displayed her gratitude.
Thus they progressd to 
A happy happy life
And very soon after he
Took her to be his wife.
The moral of this little tale
You can walk your own path
But if you want to please your bird
Dont keep your coal in the bath.
Form: Rhyme

A Dilema Can You Help

I am invited to a posh do
But I don’t want to go
I don’t have any shoes
There’s not many people know

Shoes and me, do not mix
My only pair is ten years old
And now I am in a fix

They were bought for a wedding
But I was ill and never went
But now my shoes will not fit
On the new splint they have sent.

It is a Lords and Ladies do
My title I do have
But shoes, no I don’t 
And now I’m feeling bad.

I wear trainers everywhere
They fit on all my splints
I can’t do any dancing
Not even a short stint.

What do I do girls, should I even go? 
Or get out of it again 
That’s what I really need to know


I do not dress up ever
Because I have no shoes
But tiara and trainers
Is a look no-one wants to use.

I even got married in trainers, all covered in silk
Its not pity from you, that I am trying to milk.

Just what would you girls do?
If invited to posh do’s,
But looking in your wardrobe
You find you don’t have any shoes.
Form: Rhyme

travel to Porto

On the way to Porto for a week's holiday, we drove through a pine forest a man planted forest the way each 
stood at a respectful distance from each other
A year later in high summer, the forest took fire and
when flames met on the road, cars were trapped and many people, and families, died in the horrific hell-fire.
Our hotel was situated at a height, we had asked for a downtown hotel, my wife said it was my fault since I had tried to speak Portuguese- not far from a disused water tower, it's gated surrounding full of rats where every night hideous screams were heard in the ongoing war of rodents fighting cats 
we decided to walk into the center, but with her hips and my feet, we soon tired and hailed a taxi.
Porto, the old part, is a marvel with shops from a time long passed yet still open for business and lovely old churches, not to forget the railway station, its waiting hall a work of art in its own right. 
Back at the hotel, for a change of dress and rest, there was a commotion outside a dead obscenely rat that was to be removed by the unwilling staff at the hotel 
in the evening we dined at a posh restaurant we will normally not visit because it is too expensive, but the food was superb as was the wine, which I drank too much of and in a festive mood offered to sing until my
wife explained in Porto they are not into Fado! 
The next day, we went to where tourists go to bars
along the river, it was packed, I hated it and wanted to 
go home but endured to me wife was tired too and
we took a taxi to our hotel.
The next day she met a friend she had not seen since she left Congo and the two women had much to catch up on
and I was free to read the papers
© Jan Hansen  Create an image from this poem.

small forest

small forest
The small forest or the woods by the white road
made of crushed sea-shells, was a place of enchantment 
Squirrels played here and had no fear of lone dreamers
stumbling over oak roots.
I used to walk there when cows had
 been milked, fed
and the mucking out was done,
 fresh strew strewn
in stalls, and the barn had contented animals
I could do so many things in the forest, be an Indian or
take out my pocket phonographic book, 
the milkmaid
gave me and masturbated.
especially drawn to pictures of cunnilingus women
seemed to enjoy this form of sex, I was horrified when 
told this was not a manly act, ye the pleasured faces 
stayed on my mind.
A year later,  I drove to the forest
 it was a private estate
high walls and posh villas, but the squirrels had gone
I laughed out laud
The  good people in the villas will never know my secrets
here, where I dedicated and trained for a hearty sex life to come.

An edited version of my book: The Collected Work, of
Poetry, Vignettes, Humor and Political Statements
© Jan Hansen  Create an image from this poem.

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