Long Scanty Poems
Long Scanty Poems. Below are the most popular long Scanty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scanty poems by poem length and keyword.
SHE'S MY CHOICE AND MY CROSS.
You told me beauty is merely skin deep
Wasn't that the reason I wooed her in the first place
Said it doesn't cook afang soup
I've not forgotten my way to mama put
You said she doesn't respect my mother
Excuse me don't make that sound like murder
Forget graduate Tinuke
I prefer beautiful unschooled Amanda
Even though she can't prepare amala
You said she's not intelligent
She does what I like and she's so efficient
Who said she's not sound
Have you heard her bedroom sound
She is not of classy source
But she's sassy and I dey enjoy her ponmo sauce
That she is mentally scanty is mere rumour
Even if she is, I enjoy the momentary humour
Who even needs that educated feminist
I have had enough troubles with chemistry
She can't speak fluently in the crowd
You need to see her in bed so succulent and loud
If you say she's crude and lousy
Excuse me sister , crude oil get value pass kerosene
Say my wife no go school
But she sabi hold spoon
Asking who will help my kids with their assignment
How that one take be your concernment
When we have kids we'll make arrangement
You dey tell me say I no get sense
Sister, you no dey see well go wear your contact lens
You claim she's using juju on me
But I'm enjoying the fufu she gives to me
You claim she's full of violence
You're wrong she doesn't just like pretence
Though she slapped me once in the open
It was because I burnt the food in the oven
That won't make our love to be broken
Now she's fat and won't hit the gym
It's OK Yoruba men don't like them slim
She's daft and can't stand a mental debate
Who even likes a wife that argues
If she ties wrapper round her chest
She doesn't want men to covet
If she was born of parents of colourful poverty
I've acquired the asset and the liability
Right now she's my sole property
Say all you want about her
She's my choice and my cross
(FM CONCEPTUAL ???)
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
Above my hearth rests a muzzle loader I know not how old.
Ah, could it speak, what adventurous tales to be told!
Oft I've caressed it and pondered time and again,
About where it was made and who its owners might have been!
Lewis and Clark may have used it in their daring odyssey,
To carry out Jefferson's dream and quest for Manifest Destiny!
Could it have been shouldered by Dan'l Boone, that hardy pioneer,
In his exploration of Kentucky to expand the western frontier?
Could it have reposed above the hearth of a humble cabin abode,
Ever ready to keep at bay whatever peril may have bode?
I'm sure it was used by a father with all his skill and ardor,
To provide provender for his family's ever scanty larder!
Perhaps it was fired by a Yank or Reb clashing upon the field of strife,
Brother against brother, bent on sending the other to eternal life!
Mayhaps a grizzled mountain man of the Rocky Mountain west,
Toted it in his quest for beaver fur of which he was obsessed!
Maybe it was aboard a Conestoga wagon pulled by plodding teams,
And carried by a man heading west to fulfill his family's dreams!
I suppose I could attach to it any fanciful tale I might choose,
But about its ancient and mysterious past I much prefer to muse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Twenty fifth of December, three thousand and four
and already I'm down in the dumps
we're round at the neighbour's via tubes that save labour
propelled by some hydraulic pumps.
We've exchanged all our presents and got them unwrapped
once again I've got self-cleaning socks
the wife's Kevlar panties, though they are quite scanty
are going straight back in the box.
I'm constantly goaded to eat nuts they've downloaded
they'll try any tactic to feed ya
but the problem, I quibble is that some have been nibbled
as they're passed around on social media.
We're looking for doorways or just any more ways
to find a quick route to get out
and escape if we're able, being chased round the table
by genetically modified sprouts.
They've offered a glass of Martian Pinot noir
and they tell me it's alcohol free
so there goes my boozing and afternoon snoozing
and waking up just after tea.
Grandma kids are teasing, cryogenic freezing
means she won't wake up until noon
to find grapes in her hair and a plum, God knows where
and they've blocked up her nose with some spoons.
Don't know why they have bothered with plates that can hover
it seems so bone idle to me
they could have just handed the pudding that's landed
on the light fitting just above me.
The custard's abundant but the jug is redundant
administered now by syringe
and so is the Brandy which, though is quite handy
prevents us from having a binge.
When later we get back from fresh air and jet packs
remembering when we could walk
I'll look back fondly then to those Christmases when
we just used a knife and a fork.
November 16th 2015
For Contest 'A futuristic Christmas', sponsor Mystic Rose
Wending my way down a country road in my air-conditioned car,
In yon vale a weathered church steeple beckoned me from afar.
'Twas Sunday morning and the clarion peal of its bell caught my ear.
There stood a simple House of God with a graveyard in the rear.
My faithfulness in matters religious had never been that good,
Since attending Church and Sunday School in my childhood.
But something ethereal drew me to that bucolic setting so serene;
I craved deliverance from my stressful and very hectic routine.
I unobtrusively entered the sanctuary and sat in the very last pew.
An elderly pastor ministered to his flock, who numbered a scanty few.
The ancient hymns they sang evoked fond memories as a lad;
My eyes grew misty as I recalled singing them with Mom and Dad.
The pastor preached a simple sermon based on John Three-sixteen,
That would have stirred the soul of a reigning king or queen!
I left that modest but sacred place with renewed hope in my heart,
Inspired by those timeless truths that old pastor did impart.
I've heard profound oratory in majestic cathedrals o'er this sphere,
But never a more soul-searching sermon will I ever hear,
Than from that humble pastor imparting that message of old,
For the ears and souls of his faithful, God-fearing fold.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
.
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The chill of winter bites deep into the skin,
And the world stays inert in muffled din.
In the freezing blustery winter days,
Life poses threat to beasts in many ways.
I, this little squirrel inside a tree’s narrow hollow,
Am in hibernation to guard myself from nagging snow.
Feeding on the scanty store of nuts gathered,
Wondering if my life will be sheltered or shattered.
Eagerly I await winter to have a natural ending,
As the cycle of seasons keep changing.
Hope the world will soon be up and awake,
And life, in all possibility, a renewed turn take.
As no season can pause for long or linger on,
Winter will soon fade away and be gone.
Once more spring will be back in all its cheer
And my loneliness and frustration will disappear.
The valleys and planes, now sleeping so silent,
Will wake up as the sun from his hide out comes radiant.
I wish to see birds once again soaring into the sky,
And their lively twitter and chatter rising high!
Oh! Come spring, the season of sunshine and mirth
When the earth will show visible signs of rebirth
Let me, from tree-to-tree scamper and scurry
With my other friends, free of all worry!
Jan.21.2023
~ Placed First~
Winter Is Not Forever Poetry Contest
Sponsor. B.J. Legros Kelley
A HOT NIGHT
Last Friday our temperature rose
To 39 degrees,
I could not sleep,
My husband likes aircon,
I like fans,
At this stage neither of us,
Had any plans,
Began to count sheep,
Off came my nightie,
The throw-over dropped on
The wooden floor,
Our back stable door
Open, no security problem here,
We have nothing to fear!
But mosquitoes galore,
Sprayed peaceful sleep around
The room,
However benign, still has a
Strange fume,
Windows open throughout
The house,
This estate is so quiet, we
Would hear a mouse!
Got up to get more iced water,
No dressing gown
Just my panties,
This place is in the country
Out of town,
Went back to bed,
Picked up a book,
Read a while
Switched off the side lamp and
Then tried to sleep,
By now wide awake,
Even counting sheep,
No longer helped,
Hey Sweetheart, I said
To Hubby, feel like
A cold shower,
Mmmmm says he,
Didn’t even look
At the hour!
Dropped my scanty
Pantie off,
Climbed in and soaked,
And played and played
And played, went back to
Bed, cuddled and both
Slept like a log,
Even the dog,
Crept out of the room,
Just Hubby and I all alone,
Was no work the next day,
It was Saturday,
Slept in and played some more,
John Lennon and Yoko Omo
Had nothing on us,
Glad we moved here,
Feels ever more sensuous
Than before,
Was served breakfast
In bed,
Bacon and eggs, fresh farm
Butter, and home-made bread!
Spindly stretching brambles rebel from main form
Amused bending stems eject spikes of rhino horn
Thorns barely a repellent for birds resourceful
Tweezer glowing twilight globe, a bitter morsel
Fresh field alien green cone births berry's infant
Chantilly lace pale pink petticoat wraps nymphet
Confetti celebratory moult bulges her fertility
Eighty protruding bulbs shiver in vulnerability
Stern season carousel chastens scanty branches
Snow swallow, boggy terrain new tepid attaches
Saw edge foliage unfold, twitching fox ears
Clusters encombour limbs, absinthe adheres
Florid flocks tossle, augment midnight family babble
Morning dew melt sapor stains fingers which dabble
Outcast tongue teaser, lumpy rubber cleaved
Mauve motivate jaunty juice, mouth received
9th August 2022
Written for Contest:
Thoughts on Blackberries
Sponsor:
Matt Caliri
'Twas the night before Christmas
when I and my groom
finally found a motel
but with just one room.
My groom was in the bathroom -
leaving me alone-
so that he could douse himself
with some cheap cologne.
I - in my red negligee -
thought of bump and grind,
visions of his sugar plums
dancing in my mind.
Then a noise I heard outside
gave me such a fright!
who was out there in the snow
on our special night?
Opening our small room’s door,
I felt like a goof.
It was just an icicle
falling off the roof.
Then I felt a sudden breeze.
One unlucky bride!
As the door behind me shut,
I was locked outside.
When upon my motel door
I began to pound,
it was clear that my dear groom
did not hear a sound.
Right before my startled eyes,
what should then appear?
Someone dressed as Santa Claus,
filling me with fear!
His eyes, though not so cheery,
lit up, seeing me
as he crossed the street and came
stumbling drunkenly.
I stood helpless, trembling in
scanty siren red
when an icicle fell down
clunking my poor head.
I revived in the ER,
thong still on my rump!
Underneath my bandage was
an enormous lump.
Thankfully my groom was there,
smelling of Old Spice.
But we’d have no chance to give
gifts naughty and nice.
At our room I later saw
Santa Claus was there -
that same guy who’d seen me in
sexy underwear.
Having seen my accident
he’d informed my groom
right before he then collapsed
stone drunk in our room.
Santa on our honeymoon
with cheeks rosy red,
(but not one “Merry Christmas”),
stole our wedding bed.
12/8/12
Now used for Joseph May's
The Night Before Christmas Poetry Contest