Long Regulars Poems
Long Regulars Poems. Below are the most popular long Regulars by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Regulars poems by poem length and keyword.
Our lament for time well spent…with Farmer's market regulars Pip & Lizzie the pair are a sartorial oracle and festive fillip with follicle flair....was a delight to share forever memories at our locavore lair...
Through the mist of memories we sift
With whiffs of yesteryear cheer sniffed
Rides on sublime tides of time we drift
Rain again regulars refrain visit biffed
Others defending..spending limit thrift
Quiffed punter chunter I've been stiffed
Will harp on gets swift short sharp shrift
After rafter of laughter graft or grift
Miffed by dafter manager’s latest rift
Not the first time we have ever tiffed
One thing that will always give us a lift
Makes our hearts sing on a busy shift
Stops any tizzy thrill of fill of Phil & Lizzie
A heaven sent present our favourite gift..
Valentine opened her bakery doors at four.
Two regulars came in for coffee, no more.
What Valentine Magic to you have in store?
I am baking pink and red cakes to take next door.
A sailor arrived at five, carrying an oak oar.
I just left my sweetie by the southern shore.
Do you have any cupcakes? I will buy four.
Valentine had a better idea in store.
Take her a full sized cake with a chocolate core.
I can write on top of it “Be mine forevermore.”
Sailor passed two men coming from St. Van Moore.
Valentine gave them a smile, for they were not poor.
They bought out most of her goods, that day in the store.
Even the ingredients of flour, sugar, salt, butter and more.
Their plan worked, and they took her to St Van Moore
Where their brother waited for Valentine, whom he did adore.
Leaning On a Stone
I was afraid of gaining weight, so I kept on puffing my cigarettes. Filling my lungs, holding that drag as long as I could. I liked that feeling deep in my chest. When I breathed out through my nose, I looked like a smokey dragon. The long silver hair that framed my face, added to the overall effect.
I wasn’t much for them warning signs on the pack. It’s a free country, ain’t it? So I kept my cigarettes in a silver plated case. Kinda looked good with my sterling Zippo. You wouldn’t often see me without a Matinee cigarette hanging from my lip or between my thumb and forefinger.
I loved me them Matinee Large Regulars. When I got a cold I’d sometimes smoke those Mentholated Cools. They kinda soothed my throat. If the cash was rolling in I’d treat myself to a good cigar. I tried a pipe for a while but it was too much of a ritual for this guy. My pops had that vibe in spades. He looked good with his pipe and fedora.
When I started losing a bunch of weight I was a bit concerned. I thought it couldn’t be the cigarettes, I had cut down to two packs a day. Ya, I did have that persistent cough,
even the mentholated Cools didn’t seem to help.
Now it seems the smoke goes straight through me. Taking a drag is a drag. I look like the skull on the pack now. My silver hair is long gone. This dragon ain’t so fierce anymore. But, if you need a skeleton for your next party, I’m your guy. I look cool leaning against a Tomb Stone. Remember though, I’m partial to Matinee Large Regular.
I live in a quaint building high up on the top floor and from my apartment
window I like to watch the scene below on the wide cobbled square. On a
cold January night the lights of four Cafés are mingling with the twinkling
of the stars in the sky. A sign above each doorway poking out reads Café 1,
Café 2, Café 3, and Café 4. Each serve hot meals at moderate prices, along
with wine and liquor. They are well preserved wooden buildings separated by
alleyways. I find the comings and goings of the different characters entering
intriguing.
There are regulars like an old man. I see him cross the square and disappear
into Café 3. I peaked in the doors once and each Café has a different décor.
There is a young woman who comes, very pretty but alone, is she sad? She
likes Café 2. I Like to watch the sweet lovers that all seem to like Café 1.
Tonight, a man is entering Café 4. He is handsome with dark flowing hair
and my heart flutters. Do I have the courage to leave my window?
________________________
March 06, 2023
Poetry/Prose/Four Cafes
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1529-689-06
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Four Cafes
Sponsor, Julia Ward, Judged 03/15/2023
Fourth Place
It’s a crooked slope
that leads to hell
and I’m riding it
Stance Goofy
Those Regulars
that believe they aren’t,
are way out in front
tripping over themselves
polishing and buffering the way
So I must be putting
the right foot forward
Besides, I also carry a mascot
and fail safe
It’s a goldfish in a bag
who never moves his left fin
He’s showing more zip
in his tail of recent
since I started feeding him
those highly energised
copper and black batteries
He won’t be going down
anytime soon
except maybe with
lead poisoning
I prefer lithium myself
it’s much lighter
and makes my collapse
easier to stomach
* * *
life wearing braces
whilst holding a bag of fish
be happy with me
By
David Kavanagh
A shanty-man from a shanty-town came by shanty-boat to Shanty-Round.
He was the newest man in this Shanty-village, we felt was a town.
His middle was solid and amazingly thick.
And his hairy neck was blistered, and brick-like, this Nick.
His face and hair were golden, and he wore an enormously big gun.
Some thought they were pretty tough, until he entered, so raw and rough.
He came into the popular local shanty-pub yelling for Freddy Lou Stone.
Some of the regulars and my wimpy cousins ran out, scared of his tone.
Freddy and Nicky were adopted fraternal twins, who had since birth, frankly never met.
Each chopped wood for a living, married young, had two kids, and had a bulldog for a pet.
They sat in that bar laughing at story upon joke, until a quarter until three.
Two shanty men from shanty towns and the bartender, little old story-telling me.
Oh to be so close to the Spirit in spending some time at His Home
How one would endear it rather than being in those days we roam
There being so much warmth inside praying one day you'll come by
For many there are tears cried, such a longing one should not deny
So many people to pray for my time there passes by pretty quickly
Yet in opening up that door it is always the same people that I see
New faces are few and in between as the regulars sit in their pews
Not knowing what I even mean, having never heard His good news
A 19 year old Seminarian spoke today as a tear ran down our face
So young in finding His Way as his spirit was filled with Gods Grace
But so many the devil will sour and in your heart place such deceit
It all not lasting but even an hour as we filtered back into the street
But the joy is still there and can remain throughout the whole week
For now you are aware as to all the things that you presently seek
He is the Light that will let you see the err in judgments you made
Perhaps you just don't agree as so it was for you today that I prayed
Acts 2:47
Praising God, and having favour with all the people.
And the Lord added to the church daily such as should be saved.
They’re closing the downtown
Legion soon, taxes are too high,
what with gentrification and
only a few of the regulars are vets.
The younger associates, whose
parents or grandparents served,
can drive to the new place out
on the Watson Parkway.
But most of the old ones don’t drive
anymore and it’s a long bus ride.
Not that it matters, the associates
are just there for cheap beer and
don’t want to hear rambling stories
from senile old vets and anyway.
it’s now one hundred years since
the “war to end all wars” ended.
Christ, even Wicki notes that
the phrase “originally idealistic
is now used sardonically.”
Yet I’m glad to give my toonie
to the shivering cadets
outside the Farmer’s market
and double pin the plastic poppy
to my coat, hoping that it will
last till November Eleven.
To show for a brief while that
I remember.
Saloon
Squeezed between office buildings
On lower Broadway
Desolate and out of the way
Faint neon sign marks the place
For the downtown art scene.
Poetry readings on Sunday afternoons
Only the regulars show up
Invited or not
Some mount the stage and
Recite a piece or two
To scattered applause.
The beat goes on
Summer nights fly by
No Sunday readings now
It’s Saturday and it’s a different place.
Crowd mingles
Three deep at the bar
A/C working on overtime while
Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On plays
Jazzy and soulful
A monster hit
To no one’s surprise.
A hangout for anyone
Bodies waiting to meet
An Agent.
Or maybe a Publisher.
Or a Rep.
Anybody. Somebody. Anyone know somebody important?
Naw, this ain’t the place
This is St. Adrian’s
A place for
Artists.
Writers.
Sculptors.
Working class dreamers.
Pretenders and losers.
Wannabes.
Lost children and
Casual loners on the prowl.
Carol, alone in a corner booth
Glass of white wine in her hands
On the rocks of course
Smiles at everyone like a Mona Lisa.
Jack Micheline
Bronx’ original Beat
Wrote River of Red Wine in ‘58
Manuscript under his arm
Waits for someone
To buy him a drink
Elaine, beautiful in a peasant blouse
Scent of musk oil like a halo
Motions
To the young men
Who watch her hands
Move like deadly weapons
Stan’s a photographer. Sleepy, one night
Left his equipment in a car
Morning arrives and
Broken windshield screams
You’ve been robbed.
Junior, a sculptor, needs rent money for a walkup in the East Village
Otherwise he’ll live on someone’s couch
Gil does commercials
Until he finds an old lady
Then Hollywood here he comes
And Glenn is a writer with lots of ideas
But no paper and no place to go.
No one asked what I did for money
Or where I lived.
I was accepted with a simple sitdownhaveadrink.
Sometimes there’d be ten of us
Squeezed in a booth or
Around a table
Talking and talking.
Any topic not important
Just to meet and forget for awhile
The nagging loneliness and rejection.
It’s well past midnight
Chairs scrape the floor and there’s an echo in the walls
Left behind are empty glasses and stale beer
As the place begins to empty out.
We leave
Hitting the still streets
Looking for a cab
Or the nearest subway
But before we do
We promise to meet again.
1968
By Franklin Price
11/13/2018
The year was nineteen sixty eight, fifty years have passed since then
When I got to Vietnam, we still were there to win
Then Chinese New Year happened, Tet Offensive was its name
The regulars and Vietcong came in force to change the game
We beat them back but was for naught, back home the people spoke
The unrest and the riots were far from any joke
The people turned against the war, and were marching to the beat
The casualties began to mount, in Vietnam and on our streets
Draft cards and our precious flag were burning every day
Soldiers being spat upon when they came home to stay
Radicals ran rampant. It wasn't looking very good.
MLK and RFK were shot down where they stood
Solidarity Day, in middle June, sought freedom, jobs and peace
Thousands marched on Washington to have discrimination cease
Was also an election year and the parties were beset
The National Guard was called out. How much worse off could we get?
Near the ending of December, Apollo eight was such a boon
It left the earth and returned again, sending three men 'round the moon
I came home in January, returning on a Freedom Jet
I look back and I ask myself, “Have we gotten better yet?”