Long Relatives Poems
Long Relatives Poems. Below are the most popular long Relatives by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Relatives poems by poem length and keyword.
The cemetery was fresh and vivid green
when we took our bikes down the paths of it -
past stones and trees and mausoleums and grass as far as we could see,
carefree on that muggy summer afternoon,
perspiration glistening on our arms and on our faces
as we sought to stay on the shady side of each well-traveled lane.
Instinctively we followed Dale, our older red-haired fun-loving brother,
turning here and there; it didn’t matter. We had no destination,
no gravesites of friends or relatives to visit.
Sometimes we would spot an interesting tombstone,
jump off our bikes and take a closer look at it.
We were just kids, out of school for summer with no real obligations.
Our lives were a clean slate, not like the worn and broken headstones
we spotted sometimes on the cemetery’s edge, the older area’s grave stones
whose names were hard to read and dates went as far back as the 1800’s.
Those were emblems of an ancient past for us.
It was 1965! We were the modern generation and the future loomed
as large for us
as those many squared city blocks the cemetery measured.
Flash forward two decades to 1984. I was married with two small kids
and back in my hometown; things around me seeming so much smaller,
and the future loomed not quite so large ahead of me this time.
Most of my sisters were married but leading separate lives in different states.
We all had pressing obligations, so our reunion could not be a long one.
No longer were my sisters and I carefree, and we were not riding bikes.
We rode in cars that followed one another in a line;
the cemetery was cold and dismal grey that December day
as we gathered around the unearthed sod,
staring, unbelieving, into the giant hole that was to be the final resting place
for the brother whom we’d once followed so gleefully
along the shady paths of vivid green
The world could use more people like Nicholas Winton
Living to the age of one-hundred-six is amazing, but what he did to save hundreds of children from certain death will leave you stunned
A kind compassionate man from England and a stockbroker by trade
As Hitler and his war machine just before the start of world war two were about to start their raids
In Prague a large group of families had gathered in a large campo Winton with the aid of refugee workers was able to get six hundred children to foster families in Great Britain, truly a champ
Not only did he get them out but raised the money to make it happen
To accomplish such a feat a holiday should be named after him to salute what he had done
We should raise our glasses to the people that go out of their way to perform good deeds
We are only as good as our weakest link, let us all reach out to the people in need
I am sure that hundreds of relatives of the children Nicholas saved will do their part to make our world better
Let,'s all make the effort, we can all do it together
How many Friends Have You Now?
How many friends have you now?
How many write you everyday
Say they are sorry and their nation will pay?
How many have apologised?
How many have realised?
How their relatives have taken part?
Shot your countryman in the heart?
Raped your women and tortured your men?
How many are distressed?
How many digress and never mention
The killing brought by their country’s intervention?
Called you a bandelaro to your face
Said that they want to extinguish your race?
How many have visited with flowers?
Cried with you for hours?
How many begged your forgiveness?
Showed their true friendship, through their stress?
How many have knocked your door?
None, as I can see
None smatree (Russian for see)
None held your hand
Begged they didn’t understand
Many apologised and relished victory in their eyes
Saw an easy win,
gloated through the Crimea sin.
Friends have borders too
These are no friends of you.
David Cox 11/06/23
Miss All That (MAT) came in all prissy; serious cooks laughed a scoff.
Dare this woman think she’d make the finals in the ultimate cook off?
Something wrong with her we decided; her waist was too thin for sure.
We are serious chefs, burly with shaved heads who create chili pure.
Slimy's secret ingredient gives you flatulence and burps galore.
Many cream their britches before they reach the bathroom door.
Believe it or not, more people ate his chili than the chili of others.
He has thousands of relatives, I think fourteen younger brothers.
What do you call that crap? Asked a newcomer named Surly Sue.
We did not warn her in time, and she was now headed toward the loo.
Slimy slipped his secret ingredient into the donut she had been eating.
She did not make it for customers were taking up all the toilet seating.
Mother Russia in the form of Rotund Roth began his concoction.
Kremlin always bought his chili to make money at their biggest auction.
You sign up to stand in the bread lines waiting for two slivers of toast.
Best quality is chili's persuasive ability to bend wills of man and ghost.
I pulled out all the stops this year, introducing the Super Power Slide.
Gives you a kick in the salivating glands that makes you want to hide.
You turn invisible so no one can see your flatulence propelling you.
Around the room twice, before letting you fly out the window too.
Miss All That asked about six thousand questions to every single cook.
I wanted to say "Here lady" and hand her my dilapidated cook book.
But instead, I fell into niceness mode and helped her like the others.
Her chili was named the best; for she slept with all of Slimy's brothers.
We have a wide, extended and expanding family
that seems to grow a little larger every day.
Family members who share our DNA.
and other members who through shared love
have become family along the way.
Because when it come to family…
at least the family we like to think of…
we love the family members who we’ve given the gift of life
as well as those who’ve given us the gift of love.
If this is the way we all thought about everyone…
not just our children…our relatives…our friends
imagine how far across the world
our family would extend.
Yes, imagine how wide a circle our family would encompass
If our family included along the way…
with all the members who do
all those who do not share our DNA.
To all the lonely people out there feeling deserted,
to those whose joys were cut short,
to the unloved, unsought, unknown.
to those who wait in vain for love,
longing for relief from their pains,
to those who had to walk alone
on these dreary paths of life,
to the castaways, reviled and shamed by men,
to those judged and misjudged,
unable to voice the conscience's truth,
to you never given a second chance,
to all accused with no guilts and those admitting wrongs
now banished and abandoned to die,
to those whose friends are now accusers,
and those from whom family withdraws,
to you whose friends have become foes,
and relatives have turned into strangers,
treading the lonely path without a happy wish,
To you I say,
quit your inner pain,
come to the banquet of friends alike with love,
for we are many so despised,
It is but a phase,
a passing phase in time,
leave em all to time,
who dresses all aright.
Today I am going to imagine getting into the brain of a hard head.
Someone who never changes their mind or entertains a new thought.
This is fiction so be kind to me.
This is what I have imagined they think:
My mind is made up; it is hardening as I speak.
Soon there will not be any “maybe” or “ifs” left.
I am rapidly closing, hard and fast; tightly shutting down.
I refuse to allow any information, facts or reverse thoughts to enter my brain.
I am proud of my enthusiastic unwillingness to hear or see.
I will not abide any new material or information in.
My mind is made up, loud and clear; pleasing me greatly.
Why don't I have any friends?
Why don't the relatives return my phone calls?
Why is everyone so mean to me?
At night, death's dark whisper resounds
Chasing dreams, with bloody sweat unbound
Awakened by fear, his heart does pound
Beholding death's spirit, all around
By day, sleep flees, a rare reprieve
For he has slain it, with restless grief
A little slumber, a shout of doom
Forever haunted, a troubled tomb
Through "Baba Gbonka's" dark, deceitful gate
He sought wealth's shortcut, a fatal weight
Riches accrued, but health did flee
Mansions built, yet comfortless, he'll be
Luxury furniture, a hollow pride
Restricted to a mat, where he must reside
Strangers receive his charitable hand
But relatives, a forbidden land
Conditioned to spend, with daily strife
No peace, until his target meets life
Marriage yes, but children, a denied bliss
What's affluence without peace, but an empty kiss?
Who shall inherit all his earthly gain?
To what account, when his soul's laid to rest in pain?
The scripture says, "Godliness with contentment's the gain"
A truth he forgot, in wealth's vain, hallow reign
As a daytime vampire, you achieved great popularity.
Your acting skills have displayed your awesome versatility.
Each afternoon, I ran home from school to see you on TV.
The producer of the show would also bring forth a movie.
In your same role, you would wreak havoc in the community.
In Collinsport, Maine, you were pursuing a girl named Maggie.
She would resemble Josette, whom you were supposed to marry.
Such an unfortunate vampire; we saw you playing the part
of a night creature we would love to pound a stake in your heart!
At first, we all thought you were evil, but you were very good.
You assumed the person of a descendent of Collinwood.
When you were freed from your chained coffin in a mausoleum,
you dwelled among your living relatives as a conundrum.
You would go after the throats of your American cousins.
Who would need Count Dracula when we’ve got Barnabas Collins?
Each day, we would see you get into a new predicament.
For several years, you provided us with great entertainment.
My blue hair women paintings are surprisingly fun,
But the most interesting are my blue black haired combo.
I know this because I am staring at them now.
Pony-tailed, hatted, hanging, one doing the mambo.
I always thought the pink hairs would be the most “ut”.
My pink cats and dragons have them completely topped.
If I counted all the flowers and hearts on my walk.
I would laugh at my ludicrous self, that I could have never stopped.
Painting has been a most enjoyable hobby to me.
It has kept me out of relatives’ squabbles galore.
Entertaining me in every which way and wild.
Keeping me away from cleaning which I truly abhor.