Long Rocker Poems
Long Rocker Poems. Below are the most popular long Rocker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rocker poems by poem length and keyword.
Beautiful Hungarian Lady
Do you remember that young guy?
You know my love, it's me
A rocker boy from the last desk,
in the classroom
I just watched you, just watched you
You, Eve, the amazing teacher
My love, I still loving you
I can't forget you, even though you far away
Yes, in the time, in the past
and in the real life
You live in Hungary, I live in England
Distance, distance, distance…
It's very bad, I am suffering a lot
Just feel it, my beautiful teacher
Dame, Queen, woman, the perfect
I love you, keep it in mind
I am always waiting for you
Don't be passive, open your heart
Our love is more than…
Our love is more than…
The Taj Mahal
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just pass the flourishing sycamore and maple trees.
Just pass the vast meadow where crickets play and butterflies probe for nectar.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just a few kilometers from me is a blue water pond that is a seasonal home for
a family of trumpeter swans.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Where I'm surrounded by a rustic gothic fence.
And at my feet are glorious variegated annuals and perennials.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come see me in my brilliance where the sun is pouring its heavenly beams upon my ivory body.
Come and see how many seasons has embraced me.
Let your eyes be gifted with the sight of my golden thatched crown, where larks and wren gently nestle.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come inside me.
Enjoy my warmth.
Explore me and all my charm.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come rest your weight on the antique rocker in front of the Rumford fireplace.
Enjoy the port that is half filled inside a lead crystal decanter.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
You will, with great contentment bury yourself in the serenity, and pity many in the world who isn't you.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and listen to the enchanting sounds of my memories.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and hold in perfection the moments you share with me.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
Inspired by a picture. 2017
METAL PITBULL THUG
Intro
Metal Pitbull Thug, I’m a metal head rocker/
Metal Pitbull Thug, I got the Metal game locked up/
Verse One
Metal head rocker, I’m a head banging thug/
A mangy Pitbull in the streets with no love/
I roam by my lonesome, and happy as ever/
An antisocial freak don’t need a friend or a helper/
Bandana around my neck, and paws on the concrete/
Standing tall focus tail straighten behind me/
Looking for a come up, but food is scarce/
So I’m scavenging through other people property with force/
Not knowing what tomorrow bring, living for today/
Pushing through these obstacles blocking my way/
I fight, I struggle, but won’t be defeated/
I just keep pushing and refuse to be weaken/
Believe in myself, because nobody believe me/
Pinching every nickel but the pennies I’m squeezing/
I work my ass off and every year I get snubbed/
Constantly living life as a metal Pitbull thug/
Verse Two
The metal game is in a lockjaw , it’s easy to see/
Nobody in the game rocking metal like me/
I’m the number one request the metal thug they wanna hear/
I rock, I roll, I’m the dog with the vibes/
The dog with the ears and the eyes of a lion/
Like Covid nineteen they wanted me to disappear/
Abracadabra, poof I’m here/
The metal heads love me cause I’m changing the game/
Why these other metal stars still sounding the same/
I’m a metal Pitbull and I’m thugging so they like me/
I just do me and just do it like Nike/
I spit that type of metal that have dudes with their shirt off/
I’m in the club rocking and women take their skirt off/
Throwing panties on stage, that’s how they show me love/
And I show them love back, with kisses and hugs/
Windowpane
Sitting on the rocker above the street
Chair takes its station with the man, old and weary
Placed there in time to look out side
A broken window holds them both fixated on the day
Cracked in several places caused by storms and age
Five or ten passersby stream past in a flash
They can’t see him due to the tinted fractured glass
Events spirit them away in any case, in any event
One cannot be preoccupied in the mundane or number of the day
They seize the moment and shrink in size, meander down
The wharf is a welcome warm distraction with sun and sea
Out of reach, out of sight, at a distance, beyond the old man’s vision
The window glares complete indifference to these matters
Down to the shore men march against the storm
With nowhere else to go they come and go again
Maniacs cry for such lives as theirs
Someone used to bring reports and papers
To forecast disasters and read about times gone by
But no more; that time has passed, eclipsed by history
Old man gets all his news by looking through the window
Through it life stares back through cracks
Rising past the damaged world into the bungalow
It seems like everything is somewhat fractured
Like humans, window and the pane, will crack more over time
Mediators to the universe, a microcosm of themselves
They see all things unfold although distorted
Real things happen every day out there
Old man catalogues them all in a glancing gaze
On his rocking chair beside the window
His glaring friend in pain is there
To share his ways and gather up the moments
The youngish woman danced to a rollicking tune
Up early at quarter till nine, exhausted now
At half past noon
Leaning on her dance partner,
her always close by faithful walker
Her long white hair damp with her dew
of dancing's sweet exertion
Music truly always was her very best
excursion
She lied down on her couch to rest
This 1960's rocker
A power nap, ah, getting old
is such a heavy bummer
Her nap leads to a sparkling beach
And the dreams of endless summer
Waking fresh within an hour the stereo
Sings again
A gift she got in '65, is still a constant friend
Her fall had lead her to some pain,
But that won't stop this lady
She's feeling groovy anyway
She's barely turning eighty
For now, no this isn't me. This is just
for fun....
But I'm still loving dance time
at a younger sixty-one
A sweet Friday night sing along
Enjoying old fun songs we've sung
Rising in dance to yesterday's beat
Then melting in laughter, and taking a seat
I look to my future less two decades away
Hope I'm still dancing on my 80th Birthday
~ Psalm 30:11 ~
King James Version
"Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness;"
She crawled into her father’s lap…not long after her grandma died,
still trying to accept what happened…still a little teary-eyed.
They were on the porch in Grandma’s rocker…when they heard a familiar buzz.
“Daddy, are there hummingbirds in heaven?” She asked, “I’d like to know because…
that was Grandma’s favorite bird…she loved her hummingbirds so…
“Do you think there are there hummingbirds in heaven, Daddy…I’d really like to know?”
Her father started rocking…gently…slowly to and fro…
“Are there hummingbirds in heaven…” he mused…
”Let me tell you what I know…”
“Your Grandma talked a lot about hummingbirds…
from the time I was a little boy
She called them little hearts with wings…
fleeting little moments of joy.”
“A hummingbird doesn’t know all the words.”
Your grandma use to laugh
that’s why they hum instead of sing.”
She believed they are here to teach us how there’s beauty in the tiniest of things.
“Are there hummingbirds in heaven, you ask.”
I believe there are…and here’s the reason why…
hummingbirds are there to teach angels how to fly.”
“And knowing your grandma as we do.” He smiled
“Now that she has her angel wings…
I imagine as they are teaching her how to fly
she’ll be teaching them how to sing.”
She sinks into her threadbare cushion
on the aged-old rocker she huddles in daily
placing her thin-skinned arms
cold to the touch upon the arm rail
darkened from the oil of her skin
Creaks and moans play a tedious rhythmic song
from loosed screws holding the oak rockers
that roll over the rutted floor back and forth
her feet pushing off an upswept floor
as she drifts into her thoughtless doom
It is an everyday sound to her ears
She does not feel its rhythm
or hear the sounds of the day that resonate
from the busy street below
She waits for something she cannot find
day after long day
season to season
year after year
When her heart stops listening to the silence
she watches out the window facing the street
where the sidewalks carry on with life
Her eyes meet unknown faces
that she greets with impenetrable eyes
Her mouth turns down with no utterance of words
In that solitary confinement within
her self-imposed throne
the songbird has lost its song
the sun has faded in its warmth
she sits in a cathedral without god
She has fled with each lonely night
in the darkness that swallowed her dreams
to awaken to one more day at the same window
She has forgotten the sound of her name
There is no one to answer
On the back porch is a glider;
I can sit on it and glide.
It’s just perfect for relaxing
When I want to be outside.
Don’t confuse it with a rocker,
Though they both cause you to move,
Since a rocking chair takes effort,
Like it’s got something to prove
But the glider keeps on going
Once you’ve given it a start.
There are those, though, who still claim
That they can’t tell the two apart.
For to many, like my husband,
Neither one do they prefer.
When they sit down to relax,
They want no movement to occur.
That’s why stores that feature seating
Have assortments to provide
Chairs and couches that just sit there,
Plus the ones that rock and glide.
Last night, my mind started wandering around the hills and hollers of the olden days again. That is not unusual as the older I get, the more time I seem to spend there. Sometimes I wonder if it’s old age that keeps sending me back to those carefree yesterdays or is it my attempt to escape the craziness that has seemed to take over the world today. But that’s another story for another time. Anyway, the last couple of days my arthritis has been acting up. As I sat there in the rocker, fidgeting from one side of my butt to the other, trying to find that sweet spot that would give me the most comfort. I suddenly had a flash from the past. I remember how Mom used to always say how she could feel a change coming in the weather. She’d say she could feel it in her bones. I used to always laugh at her the same way my grandkids now laugh at me. I guess I can officially say that I have become my mother… and I have to say, there ain’t nothing wrong with that.
When I was a child
didn’t want to be like them—
But yet here I am
Sue dated an old bloke called Darren
He said surgery'd made him barren
But one errant sperm
Escaped from his ‘worm’
Now Sue’s had a baby named Sharon!
05~24~17
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
For his sins he surely will pay
Strong little swimmer went astray
There's tears in his eyes
No nights with the guys
And Susan turned out to be gay!
05~25~17
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
Darren went to the doc to get snipped
The doctor was drunk and he slipped
He was seeing double
And that spelled trouble
Poor Darren got his wiener clipped.
05~24~17
WRITTEN BY JAMES ANDERSEN
Darren wasn't really a talker;
He spent all his time in a rocker.
"But don't worry, Dear,"
He'd said without fear,
Knowing that his sperm used a walker.
05~24~17
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Darren told Jane the same story
She gave birth to a son named Rory
He thinks he's slick
he's really a prick
And deserves his own category!
05~25~17
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
Sue told Darren she was on the pill
But she managed to get pregnant still
It would have been better
If he "wrote" a french letter
Now they have a baby boy named Bill!
05~25~17
WRITTEN BY JOSEPH MAY
Young Rick peed on a stick.
The result made him feel sick.
His emotions went wild.
How could he be with child.
Impregnated by his own seed.
05~25~17
WRITTEN BY RICHARD LAMOUREUX
So Darren was over the hill
Said Susie'd no need for the pill
One old guy
One old lie
Easily told for the thrill!
05~25~17
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
Jan that's not what I find
I disagree if you don't mind
Over sixty they droop
When I take a look
His number if you would be so kind?
WRITTEN BY JEAN MURRAY
Poor Darren developed a cough
Sue put him to bed in a trough
While discussing his manhood.
Sue said, this is no good
I'd feel safer if you had it off.
WRITTEN BY JONATHAN FRENCH