Long Quite common Poems
Long Quite common Poems. Below are the most popular long Quite common by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quite common poems by poem length and keyword.
Why does our nose smell and our feet run?
Methinks the answer could be kinky
If Mother Nature chose the other way round
It sure would be messy and stinky
Here's something you should never ever do
Don't make fun of a paleontologist
Bet you're wondering why, you bright people
Coz surely you'll get Jurasskicked
What did the banana say to the doctor?
“I'm not peeling well today”
Did you hear about the Italian chef that died?
Apparently he pasta way!
Two drunks in a bar, one says to the other
“Isn't that Hortense over there?”
The other says she looks pretty calm to me
Saw her knickers, try not to stare
When a midget fortune teller escapes from jail
It's called a small medium at large
Was laughing so hard, nearly soiled my knickers
That surely gave me a good charge
The difference between pea soup and roast beef
Obviously you can't pee soup
But roasting beef is really quite common
Now hang in there until the next group
© Jack Ellison 2015
Just received a message of love
From a dear sweet soul on the Soup
It blew me away, brought a tear to my eye
To feel such love, whatta a hoot
These friendships here are quite common
The Soup is a place of goodwill
Where all can express our deepest feelings
Where our dreams are all fulfilled
The day I joined, I had no idea
What was in store for this old codger
What a super delight it's turned out to be
Each day it's a real heart stopper
In my retirement years, it's a real blessing
To have such a great group of friends
To connect and know that love is waiting
What a great way my hours to spend
All I can say is, “Long live the Soup!”
May it flourish for many years to come
To know there are so many adorable people
It's the greatest feeling, bar none
© Jack Ellison 2013
What is love? What is love? ‘Tis a word often heard.
“Unconditional love” oftentimes is absurd
because there are many who seem so capricious.
Tossed around is the word when their love’s fictitious!
What is love? What is love? It’s a feeling and some
may feel it, while some others - to love they are numb.
Some say it and mean it; with actions they show it.
Those numb to it though cannot know it or grow it.
Love with passion or romance can fool us the most.
It’s more like a sickness that’s been misdiagnosed.
It’s all about pheromones or how someone looks.
It gets exaggerated in poetry books.
Love of country, of God; love of family too.
These all are quite common, but are they really true?
I think most sincerely that examples abound,
and those with Agape in this world I have found.
Love for friends and dear ones though imperfect it be
is both practiced and felt by good folks constantly.
One cannot deny the remarkable joy
of holding one’s own newly born daughter or boy.
What is love? What is love? Its proof lies with those
who bring light to our lives. In their actions love shows.
As God’s children, our potential we must believe.
Loving others as ourselves, great peace we’ll receive!
Feb. 7, 2021 for the Unseeking Seeker's What Is Love Poetry Contest
III.
Scott bought the farm and some dairy cows,
and set about building himself up.
He soon made a name for quality milk,
local wholesalers could not get enough!
One summer day he took to the plow,
preparing and old field to grow hay.
The plow hit something, twisting it hard,
just badly enough to ruin his day.
He grumbled loud, went back to look,
and saw there, to his great surprise,
a hole in the ground, empty and long.
A new cavern there before his eyes!
Now caves were quite common where he lived,
several were open to tourists for show.
The thought of building up just such a place
made the dollar signs in his head grow.
The next day he returned with lanterns and lines,
carefully descending into the dim.
When he touched bottom and lighted it up,
what he saw laying close by shocked him.
Two skeletons lay just five feet away,
it was a miracle he hadn’t crushed one.
Both looked human and one of the dead
lay with the moldering remains of a gun.
The other was huge, at least eight feet,
and the bones too thick, impossibly large.
The skull was giant, the teeth oversized,
Scott found the sight of it quite bizarre.
In the middle of the great ribs did lay
two balls, the kind from old muskets.
And near the spine was the rusty head
of an aged and battered hatchet.
Turning to the other, Scott Bairns saw
they were the bones of a normal man.
The ribs were broken, every one,
so were both of the man’s hands.
And on the stock of the old gun,
Scott found an old, tin name plate.
He bent down low to read it clearly,
‘Amos Bairns’ in the metal was scraped!
Scott flinched back, remembering tales
told in childhood long, long ago,
Campfire stories of bigfoots run wild,
to his mind they all started to flow.
And now when he stared at either of them,
both the large and the small skeletons,
he realized the truth behind all the myths,
he was staring down onto his kin!
Scott hurried out, and filled in the hole,
then gave the field over to brambles and berries.
He never plowed there, or spoke of it at all,
for some truths are better left buried...
CIPA or Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis
is a genetic disorder very rarely found among us.
They afflicted with this disorder have a damaged gene
and as a result, sufferers never experience the sensation of pain.
Many may assume that this would be a good thing
but they who are afflicted encounter much suffering.
Death from hypothermia among CIPA patients is quite common
because they never know when their body temperature is low or rising.
Some CIPA patients have had to remove all of their teeth
to prevent them from chewing on their lips whenever they eat.
There isn't any cure or treatment presently
for the few afflicted with this rare genetic disease.
I guess with so few afflicted, it's not a medical priority,
but maybe this disorder can be used positively.
Many bed ridden terminal patients suffer needlessly
with agonizing pain until they're deceased.
In my opinion, they ought to have the right to be
euthanized and put out of their misery,
but that isn't ethical among the medical community.
This is where I believe CIPA would come in very handy.
If research can figure out how to damage this otherwise healthy gene
responsible for allowing us to feel the sensation of pain,
perhaps it could be injected as a serum possibly
and relieve the chronic pain from dying patients permanently.
The patient would have a leisurely, peaceful exit completely pain free
and ethics wouldn't be violated within the medical community.
All terminal patients in chronic pain could all die humanely...
...but then I'm not a professional. This is just my theory.
Said his lover to the horny toad:
"Buster, you can hit the road!
A 'horny' Romeo you ain't,
And here's the basis of my complaint!
I don't know why they call you 'horny'!
'Tis a gross misnomer and is so very corny!
When it comes to romance you are dead!
You're about as sensual as a loaf of moldy bread!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
For those not acquainted with horny toads. They are a species that sport horns on
their heads, therefore, called horned or horny toads and are quite common here in
Colorado. I have no personal knowledge of a "horny" toad's sexual activities but
apparently the little lady toadette in this poem is upset about it!
Just received a message of love
From a dear sweet soul in the Soup
It blew me away brought a tear to my eye
To feel such love whatta a hoot
These friendships here are quite common
The Soup is a place of goodwill
Where all can express our deepest feelings
Where our dreams are all fulfilled
A little voice inside keeps saying
“write something different”
Different to what may I ask?
I have surely written about every subject
There is to write about
No no! I can't write about THAT!
I'd get censored and my lifetime membership
Would be revoked
Anyway, writing that stuff is only to get attention
It's called “sensationalism”
The world press is particularly guilty of it
I understand they're in the business to sell papers
And add mucho dollars to their respective bank accounts
BUT a little discretion at times would certainly be in order
I'm not referring to any one particular article or story
Just expressing my thinking
Perhaps if events weren't sensationalized as much
The lunatic fringe would be more concerned with other things
Such as what they have to be thankful for
Instead of complaining about what others have and they don't
Am I dreaming???
Just received a message of love
From a dear sweet soul on the Soup
It blew me away brought a tear to my eye
To feel such love whatta a hoot
These friendships here are quite common
The Soup is a place of goodwill
Where all can express our deepest feelings
Where our dreams are all fulfilled
The day I joined, I had no idea
What was in store for this old codger
What a super delight it's turned out to be
Each day it's a real heart stopper
In my retirement years it's a real blessing
To have such a great group of friends
To connect and know that love is waiting
What a great way my hours to spend
All I can say is “long live the Soup!”
May it flourish for many years to come
To know there are so many adorable people
It's the greatest feeling bar none
Anastasia: a crazy name for an Irish woman,
but actually, quite common
in the long-buried book of Celtic Memories.
When she in a reverie came to me
- her 80 year old hair
flying on countless dove-gray moonbeams,
I sensed a pitter-pattering of soft rain
redolent of the green hills
of Connemara falling into my mind.
“I am not dead, and you are not dead.”
She said.
I should have been afraid
but fear takes much more energy
than I had at that moment.
I heard myself ask:
“Then you are alive”?
The soft rain continued to speak
in its gently lyrical brogue.
"The living have no beginning or end,"
she whispered over the raindrops,
"and the dead never were."
I thought about this for a while
as I watched her fly a slow silver sky
over her shoulders.
Then I, in much joy,
thanked her for being forever
my crazily named
aunt Anastasia.
I was getting really restless,
The proverbial ANTS IN THE PANTS.
Feeling SORRY for myself;
My LIFE had no romance.
I went to see my doctor,
But he didn’t have a CLUE.
If there’s no OPERATION for it,
He doesn’t know what to do.
My days were a SEQUENCE of TRIVIAL PURSUITS;
Likewise my evenings and nights.
Always too timid to take a RISK,
How could I put things to rights?
And so I took a TICKET TO RIDE,
To visit a therapist.
And he was very quick to SPOT IT,
The condition my doctor had missed.
He judged my case to PERFECTION.
He hit the nail right on the head.
It seems I’m addicted to board games,
An illness quite common he said.
It seems I don’t have a MONOPOLY,
And he told me just what I should do.
I have to get out more, with lots of fresh air.
From now on board games are TABOO.