Long Rascals Poems
Long Rascals Poems. Below are the most popular long Rascals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rascals poems by poem length and keyword.
Men that win over her little kitten smile
For a man
it has been said
that the best way to a women's heart
is thru her little kitten
from Russia to Hawaii
men have said this from the test of time
over and over
those men succeeding
have been rewarded with a smile
and maybe
even a lasting friendship
befriend a women's little ball of fur
with tenderness and love
a little patience
and a nice touch
and men have entered thru the front door
with some even sneaking into the back door
it can happen
remember this though, little kitties are playful
maybe even a little innocent
but they like to stretch out
and have fun
so be kind and gentle
giving that little kitty some playtime
caressing, massaging, pampering
even bringing kitty a treat now and then
kitties like that
like a toy, to spice things up
however bells and whistles are just fine
and better yet, new tricks
make kitties purr the loudest
also be cognizant that kitties
are turned off with bad odors
and bad tastes
so men should give themselves
a good rinsing
and leave their vices at home
when visiting a women's kitty
it helps, it helps win smiles
remember anything to get past the front door
is a good thing
another thing
to keep pace with little kitties
men need to bring a little stamina
a little extra pep in their step
to keep it up
with the little ball of fur
remember little kitties can be rascals
so men need to prepare for the worst
and hope for the best
what ever you do
remember, please
never call kitty by the wrong name
you might be smitten
with scratches
lastly
a good sign that everything
is going well
is when kitty wants more playtime,
rolls it's eyes
and especially...
kitties incessant
purring
connie pachecho
1/7/17
non contest entry
wow i've never seen such a small city with so many curves and hills
till i moved back down south to the town of coffeeville
alot of you might not have heard of it for it's not a very big city
just a small little spot in yalabusha county,,that's in mississippi
now it's the type of place where everyone really knows your names
and besides maybe a thing or to nothing ever changes
they dont have a Mcdonalds,a walmart,or even a shopping mall
not a movie theater a bowling alley not none of those things at all
but what they do have is hospitality that i can truly say
cause regaurdless of how many time you see a person they'll speak anyway
some will ask u how you are doing some will ask about your kin
you dont even have to know them and they act as if you're friends
and it's hard to do anything without everybody knowing
for some have nothing to do but gossip and you can find that so annoying
but talk about good eating there is food galore
you can buy catfish and chicken at any gas station or corner store
and if that's not what reall pleases you
there is somebody in coffeeville right preparing a cookout or a bar b-que
you can buy bootleg DVDs from just about anybody you wanna
you can always find nick or Bubba hanging out at rascals corner
it does'nt have much but one grocery store
but no ot really shops there any more
on sunday a bunch of guys hang at the under the tree hangout
or you can find some playing dominoes down at rolins house
cause the poolroom only opens during the week
and by nine oclock you're staring at just empty streets
we have two club one for the hip hop and one for the old
it's usally pretty late before both of them close
go to camelot and get the new of the day
and there is not many places where the kids can go and play
but for some reason everyone seems to just hang around
i geuss all and all it's a simple little town
Christmas was coming, I'd begun to fret
Thinking of all the gifts to purchase yet
I spied an advert in a local store
For someone to replace their Santa Claus.
They gave me the position there and then
Eager to set up the grotto again
Got in my Santa outfit, it looked ace
Especially the white beard on my face.
The Grotto was the most magical sight
Christmas songs setting the ambience right
Fairies and elves we're dancing to the tunes
Dressed up in their theatrical costumes.
Suddenly the peace and calm was shattered
Through the entrance rowdy children clattered
Here, there everywhere kids were running wild
There was no controlling of anyone's child.
I could not decide how or where to start
The little terrors kicked up such a farce
A little one came and sat on my knee
Grabbed my hat and put her tongue out at me.
Another child ran up and kicked my shin
Then pulled off the beard and bit on my chin
"No presents for you naughty boy" I said
Looked me in the eye and said “wanna bet."
Parcels were tossed and strewn across the floor
And the mess made of the tree’s an eyesore
With tinsel they tied up fairies and elves
Whatever I tried the rascals rebelled.
For me the farce got beyond way too much
So gave the emergency bell a buzz
Security came and asked "what’s amiss"
"What’s amiss, I've had just enough of this.”
"It's no surprise Santa Claus runs off
Having to deal with the likes of this lot
These so called darlings I fear to be near
Hand me the sack and I’ll flee out of here."
16th December 2020
Fantasy with fictional beings Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Word count = 281
Thinking back, I remember the days when mom and pop would take me and my siblings to my grandma's house. Oh, how I used to love going there every Sunday. She lived in the upstairs of a two-family cobblestone home, in fact, that was where my parents were raised. Dad lived upstairs and mom lived downstairs. Little did they know they would eventually marry and raise seven little rascals, five boys and two girls. We would all cram into the station wagon every Sunday to visit and dine with grammy. Grandma passed away nearly forty years ago, but I have to tell you that I can still smell that delicious sauce cooking for the pasta, ravioli or my favorite- lasagna. When you walked into grandma's kitchen you immediately knew what was on the menu. Grandma's sauce recipe has been handed down to my mother who just about perfected the taste. Years later, mom became the grandmother and mom's kitchen became grandma's kitchen. Mom, may she rest in peace, sadly she has been gone thirty years now. Although grandma and mom have passed away and are no longer with us, grandma's sauce recipe still lives on. Every one of us, all seven, all to this day make grammy's sauce. The only difference for me is that now when my grandchildren come over to visit, they say- "I love the smell of Grandpa's kitchen" Yummy!
the scent of the sauce
grandma and grandpa's kitchens
passed down over years
Motherland:
Fields are won by those who believe in the winning.
I salute you, my motherland.
I bow down to you, my motherland.
After too much sacrifice being as freedom fighters for our homeland,brave warriors are moving forward.
Neither by speech/voice, nor by quarrel/dispute
Victory can only be achieved by good deeds through all aspects.
So recite the phrase
Allah Hu Akbar.Allah is great.
we hold our life in our hands, and we walk forwards full of pride,dignity,respect and honour.we are ready to sacrifice our life for you with a smile on our face.
we are the brave warriors.we have never learnt how to stop.we don’t know how to bow down infront of enemies.
Till our last breath
we will keep on moving forward.
If you have enough courage, try to stop us
we are not scared of threats
our blood just says this
we are brave warriors who can never die.
we annihilate the enemies,
cut all these rascals,
Today with our blood, we will wash your feet.
O motherland.
I salute you, my motherland
Hence I won’t fear when committing myself to good deeds
I shall not fear when I go into combat, and with determination I’ll be victorious
I’ll be victorious, I’ll be victorious, I’ll be victorious.
Meri ma Kehne lagi Tu Meri Jaan hai
Jan Hasb-e- Nisab-e-Musalman hai
Jab Namaz-e-Jehad-Watan ho Ada
Tu Mile Sab ko Pehli Safon mai Khara
Jab Zameen-e-Watan Kar rahi ho wuzoo
Pesh karna Mere Laal Apna Lahoo
Aur Kehna Watan Tu Hamesha Jiye
Winning is about struggle and effort and optimism, and never, ever, ever giving up.
https://youtu.be/7fqa0VSA_w0
Entering the fields of my childhood around two,
overjoyed by the vibrant flowers that gently lulled
and dispersed their gentle aroma into the noon;
I passed under the old balconies with flower-pots painted
in russet as the leaves of late and quite Autumn,
which elated me with their sweet-smelling scent ,
to please my nostrils everywhere I went...
body and spirit in full harmony, never being alone!
Hummingbirds fluttering from tree to tree,
to announce their departure by the dawn's blaze,
still warbling and making me immensely glad;
I hummed that song to ease their misery,
they flew around and landed on my shoulders
to start the making of a lively symphony:
and with no instruments and vocals,
we created a musical masterpiece worthy of praise!
Entering the fields of my childhood,
leaping like frogs chased by cruel rascals,
my escape to freedom from noisy streets and voices
of mothers calling out to their mischievous children,
to hurry home before their dad imposed discipline;
jolly and care-free I explored that unknown world...
solitude was the source of joy for a prodigious child,
no genius ever became great without the urge of the wild!
Pondering over my advancing age, and recalling that child run
towards the lilies' fields made golden by the scorching sun,
I wish to become little and start running again,
until I run out of breath and take a brief rest; and should the storm
pelt on the rose-bushes, and their buds fell off,
I would pick them all with the swiftest care and hold them
in my wet palms, and ever preserve them in this memory...
to enter the fields of my childhood and vanish into their immensity!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Scoundrels of the Senate,
once more your faces rise
paid to nod yes or nay,
lame ducks waddling through power’s haze.
Canker-ridden minds,
incorrigible rapscallions,
political impostors drifting far
from the raw cries of the street.
Maggots feasting on hollow honor,
damp squibs in temples built for trust
dishonorable “honorables,”
rotund circles of rascals
fit only for the gallows’ rope.
They clamp greedy hands on bloated figures
while the masses groan in penury and dust.
Myopic spendthrifts,
architects of the nation’s ragged ruin,
yet too blind to guide even the clueless.
They imposed taxes by military decree,
deaf to pleas, blind to rightful protest.
tyrants unleashed marching killers
on the bloodied streets of Lagos.
Their swollen gains are carved
from the pain of millions unemployed
the beggars, the homeless,
the hungering, the slowly dying.
Profligate band of quipsters,
queasy brains feigning wisdom,
bootleg scoundrels play-acting at parliament,
benighted, unskilled,
insane in their stolen robes.
Go now, you dunces
"Senators are no thieves" they say,
"legislators are honorable men"
So they proclaim.
but their reputation lies muddied and devoured.
ask the people they know too well.
Your names are etched forever on the web,
insignia of corruption plain for all to see.
Your pride has faded into ash.
Honor, once cheap to sell,
now demands a price too steep to pay
not with money, which you banter away.
Glory in your fleeting pomp,
your mansions that will outlive your names,
your coffins on wheels they call cars,
your billions hidden in Zurich vaults.
Tremble at the thought of facing the people,
and dread the final mockery of Truth.
When your time collapses,
history will laugh at your reign of folly.
The tears of the masses will find you,
and in regret’s cold light,
sufferers will remember the avoidable pain
their poverty born of your pride,
your betrayal of the true master: The People.
Welcome to your coming misery.
The masses will stand and watch you fall,
rascal usurpers of seats of honor.
Do not dare call them fools.
"Everyman has his fault . . . " Shakespeare
_______________
We all must walk with humility through our life,
So tread carefully amongst the saints and sinners;
Evildoers and lowlifes can stab you with a knife,
This world is full of scoundrels and also winners.
So tread carefully amongst the saints and sinners,
Saints have missions to rescue us from darkness;
This world is full of scoundrels and also winners,
The words of sinners hurt us with their starkness.
Saints have missions to rescue us from darkness,
But I have respect for people who are devout;
The words of sinners hurt us with their starkness,
Those bad eggs and wrongdoers leave me in doubt.
But I have respect for people who are devout,
I don't claim to be spotless, but I am still good;
Those bad eggs and wrongdoers leave me in doubt,
Oh, those rascals with their wretched falsehood.
I don't claim to be spotless but I am still good,
Evildoers and lowlifes can stab you with their knife;
Oh, those rascals with their wretched falsehood,
We all must walk with humility through our life.
_________________________
October 26, 2016
Pantoum (with Quote)
For the contest, Saint and Sinners
sponsor, Silent One
Third Place
Darest V.C.,
The voodoo was the ill-omen,
Like the Mills bomb of the uniformed;
The voodoo was under-stated:
Youngsters danced by your stygian microcosm;
The voodoo was our ill-omen,
A crypt in this forest of pantology!
Darest V.C.,
The tear-gas tattle in the tavern;
The uniformed patrol perverting the road;
The pestilence of beating rods;
The petrifying forcing of the lasses
In vaults inside the vault;
Are these the few marks
Of the venality in the Ichor?
Darest V.C.,
Of course, not these alone!
Many are limping: few are walking,
And some of the walkers are limping
In their inside –
Of course, not these alone!
We all saw the fallen logs,
These logs – darest V.C.,
Should have been the ready trees
In the forest of their ancestors;
Of course, not these alone!
Many of the stars were lost
By the reposition of your sky,
And we like one long wood
Are the fallen logs of the Ichor!
Then – darest V.C.,
At your kindly instance
Some logs were towed to the ready rascals
Of the regius horse-pital;
Of course, not these alone!
Blood of gods gushed freely
From these blessed horizons of your rod.
Form:
The young generation shouts
“we don’t have a navel because we are descended from above.”
We have no way to measure their eccentric conduct
with an ordinary scale, they drink water from a toilet bowl,
they step on a wall to urinate face down and nibble their own flesh burnt under the scorching sun,
they shout mother down
who watches them worrisomely with great care;
they set against their father who reproves their mischievous behavior.
However, the sisters of those audacious rascals have navels,
they wear sleeveless slip-ons because they cannot afford
neither sleeves nor shoulder straps,
their lower garments are time worn jeans
the miners discarded,
its lower parts are gone above the knees
and holes here and there.
They stroll the shopping mall licking ice cream
swaying from left to right and right to left
exposing their navels. The rascals wowed
peeping at their navels, they jump out from the alleys
and admire their sisters’ graceful walking figure;
then, they say “if I have a navel,
I should have a home to return like the others,”
though they always assert uglier is fairer
and crooked is straight.
I suppose probably they have a body temperature
like all others, you and me.