Long Rag Poems
Long Rag Poems. Below are the most popular long Rag by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rag poems by poem length and keyword.
His Raggedy Ann
He called her his Raggedy Ann for her long red locks and skinny frame,
and when he beat her, she'd collapse like a rag doll to the floor.
Using cruel tactics, he distanced her from family and her few friends.
She was but a concubine to gratify his desires, to cook and to clean.
Accustomed to abuse since childhood, she knew no other way,
but still she dreamed through her woes of a Raggedy Andy who could love her.
The day she fought back was when he punched her belly; she lost her baby.
No longer limp, she has become a skeleton buried in a woods far far away.
Oct. 25, 2017 for the ' 6 TO 8' Contest of nette onclaud
The growin seasons over
The weathers getting colder
Makes one think of hot tea and soup
Takes the chill out of the bones
Makes a home feel like home
Chase it down with something eighty proof
You might call it a stew
That's entirely up to you
But it's broth not a sauce
It's good ol' whatcha got
From the garden's in the pot
Soup
When you're hibernatin like a bear
Cabin feverish pullin out your hair
You should do somthing that you know you should
Put some water on a simmer
It's always a winner
And sure as shootin's gonna be good
Take some thyme and mint
And experiment
Cause it's all that you tossed
In it's good ol' whatcha got
From the garden's in the pot
Soup
(Instrumental: The Dirty Dish Rag)
So don't be so shocked
It's good ol' whatcha got
From the garden's in the pot
Soup
Soup de Jour & The Dirty Dish Rag: lyrics written for The Denim Dirt Farmers' CD "Vegetable Soup"
"Headline news! The rag trade is torn to pieces!
Dolls are strewn across the streets with skirts lifted high.
Headline news! Markets are buzzing with voracious bees;
Stinging for honey, for money to burn. Sly.
May I escort you sir to higher gains? Just feed the slot
Machine coffers with offers of fine dining and lustful desires.
Become bloated and coated, botched and scotched
And drink embers mellow as you repast by the fire!
Suits you sir! That suit should fake them and shake them,
For you look a right toff and in those two tone brogues
None can guess and think anything less of you and your suit
That is pin striped and blue. Welcome to 'Cafe Rogues'.
Are you a gambler sir? Do you place your bets well?
Do you prefer evens or odds or don't you give a sod?
There are no consciences here sir! We'll take your money
And spend it on honey and fine clothes by God!
Paper!paper! Read all about it, headline news!
Dolls are found in alleyways torn to shreds!
Escorts are fattened calves ready for the slaughter!
Suited toff is found dying in Savile Row gutter!
Gambling money spinner wins. Camera closes the shutter.
In a dark corner of the attic I found her,
among the filigree cobwebs, soot and dust on a shelve;
a forgotten and tattered rag doll.
I caressed her soft limbs and gave her a kiss . . .
taking her to my room, I gave her a bath,
and washed her dress and placed her in the sun.
She was old and withered, shabby, and raggedy,
but I loved her with all of my little girl heart.
________________________
October 24, 2017
Poetry/Verse/Rag Doll
Copyright Protected 2017, ID 17- 9522-00-0
All Rights Reserved.
Written for the contest, 6 to 8
sponsor, Nette Onclaud
Second Place
I see you as you enter the room and wonder if you’ll talk to me.
I am always waiting for you to come and place me on your knee.
My eyes are always open seeing all that I can see.
I see your pains your hurts and happiness and all that you can be.
I was there when he died, and I was there when you cried.
I am the one who listens when in me you confide.
Forever waiting and forever hoping that again you’ll pick me up,
I am a friend that will love you always, like a warm and tender pup.
Time may have taken its toll on what I look like today.
But deep inside I will always be the one who knows what to say.
To me you are that Rag Doll who is always there.
You know just what to say and you really seem to care.
Like the rag doll even though time may make you feel always waiting.
Just know that being there for me is a love that is never fading.
Outside, the sound of two children at play,
she pushed a pram, he kicked a yellow ball,
a van approached, he scuttled out the way
'scrap iron!' came the monotonic call.
My childhood, I remember on this street
the rag 'n bone man, cart pulled by a horse
my football clattered, bounced between its feet
like pinballs on their strange erratic course.
The old man took scrap iron, steel and lead,
would sharpen household blades and garden shears,
take them back to his workshop in his shed,
flat cap on head, pencil behind his ear.
With all his best intentions this pair's job
would never earn a living year on year
it seemed to me pin money, a few bob,
the greater need his cigarettes, or beer.
Did he consider packing it all in
his future at that age counted in days
four legged partner old and tired like him
so close that time when they would part the ways?
On the school building, sunset washed the wall,
their passing shadows cast answered it all.
For contest 'eight word challenge', sponsor Robert Haigh
14th march 2018
I remember when I was a little girl
And the Rag and Bone man came round
On his cart pulled by a horse
All manner of things could be found
A washing machine with a broken ringer
And a bicycle without a wheel
He used to give my grandma two pence
For a bag of meat bones leftover from a meal
The bones were used for knife handles
And the grease extracted used to make soap
We’d give them to him in a potato sack
Tied around the top with a piece of rope
I remember one day the ragman
Knelt down on the ground
Searching between the paving stones
Where horseshoe nails could be found
Over his tired shoulders
He would carry a small bag
It would contain bones and various metals
Plus numerous pieces of coloured rag
One of the ragmen who came to our street
His name was Henry Moon
If we gave him something for his cart
We were rewarded with a goldfish or a balloon
It was a hard life being a ragman
People now wouldn’t see the sense
In working from early morning till night
For the measly sum of six pence
You still see rag and bone men about
No longer with a horse-drawn cart
Driving around in short wheel-base lorries
They have scrap collecting down to a fine art
They still pick up broken washing machines
And bicycles without a wheel
But some people still prefer to fly-tip
Dumping unwanted items in a field
We live in a throwaway society
No longer reliant on Mr Rag and Bone
It’s easy to get rid of scrap items
We just need to pick up the phone
I am a rag doll
Pliable, and gullible.
I believe you
So tell me your truth and your lies.
I will not discriminate
Move me into places you want me to go.
I am flexible, and there will be no argument
I will listen to your tales, and believe wholeheartedly.
There will be no laughter.
I will attempt a smile.
It may not happen
You see someone else broke me.
They pulled off a leg,
and they punctured my eyes.
I cannot see now, but I can feel.
I will lie with you quietly,
and if you could but
rub my back
I would believe
you loved me
and that
would
be
enough
Written July 16, 2019 Contest: Move Me Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
__________________ RAG BAGGER
What is a blowboat
which way does the warm wind blow
Im lashed to the mast
GINSU - KNIFE EASTPORT , MAINE USA
Ginsu Knife was the name of my sailboat that I sailed for years
here on the Maine coast and into the Bay of Fundy, Canada.
That boat could slice and dice the strong currents and cut
through the Downeast fog like a hot knife through butter.
After my wife died and it was just me and my daughter , age 9, I was
after something that we could do together.
I looked at airplanes and boats. Im a pilot and had a grass airstrip in
the back field, but I lived on the coast.
I ended up with a sailboat , though I did not know how to sail.
Well , we learned to sail and did lots of it, plus it was a good weekender
with cozy bunks and and a nice little stove.
Best decision I ever made.
Daughter went on to being an ocean exploration team leader and sailing
coach at a summer camp.
Yes , she is quite salty. As is her daughter.
Family tradition.
Sometime after midnight, it had rained
Putting out summer’s sultry heat
The sky had its face washed clean
And wiped the grime off Earth’s soiled feet
The dawn is quietly breaking
Night lights still glimmer here and there
The blue firmament remains cloudless
And cool is the mild blowing air
The sleeping town is slowly waking up
And at this transitional point
I look out into the street
To see a sight that shall never disappoint
Along the road moves one, ragged and withered
His discolored white hair left unkempt
With hunch back and drooping shoulders
The marks Time has left of the hard years spent
Though age has drained his life sap away
He has a firm resolve never to beg
His frail body supported on a stick
Serves as a veritable third leg
With his staff, he perseveringly stirs
Every heap of abandoned rubbish
Indiscriminately piled on either side of the road
Hunting for trinkets lying hidden in the trash
A rag picker with a sack on his back
Picking up today’s treasure
From yesterday’s discarded trash
Things, for him ‘priceless’ beyond measure
With complaints none
He faces life and its trials
Never losing the glitter in his eyes
Though a loner in life’s dark isles
I ask myself, why every day
I routinely look for this man who limps along
And I get a quick answer
‘He helps you turn your sobs into a song’